“That I know of the letter and its contents?” the old man asked, the smug expression still on his face. “Oh, but Torrik, in this town, I represent the Church and its interests. Unfortunately, that sometimes means doing things which I would rather not—things such as checking outgoing and incoming letters for any signs of those who follow the darkness.”
And there, Torrik saw his chance, his opportunity. “Oh, not that, Bishop,” he said. “I completely understand—after all, privacy is important but so, too, is safety. I am only surprised to learn that Brother Ulem is the one who sent the letter I received.”
“Oh?” Deckard asked, his eyes narrowing. “You mean to say that you did not know?
“I had no idea,” Torrik answered honestly. “From the letter’s contents, it seemed the author—whoever he or she was—was saying that the town needed a light merchant. My family and I were about to leave the town we were visiting anyway, so we thought we would come by and have a look.” He leaned forward. “I don’t mind telling you, Bishop, that I was somewhat excited at the prospect of doing some business—the last few places we’ve visited haven’t done as well as I would have hoped, and my family and I could use the coin.”
“I see,” the bishop said. “And the last, the part about carrying the light? What do you suppose that meant?”
Torrik shrugged. “I can’t really say, Bishop. Though, I suppose it’s true enough. After all, as a light merchant, my family and I do carry lights—lots of them. I had wondered if, perhaps, the letter’s author wasn’t a light seller as well…but if what you’re telling me is true, apparently that wasn’t the case.”
“And the ‘troubles’ Ulem referenced? Are you aware of what he meant?”
Torrik shook his head slowly. “I can’t say as I am, sir. The only trouble I’ve had is that business hasn’t been as good as I had hoped. But, then,” he said, glancing at his wife and son where they sat quietly beside him, “it rarely is.”
“Now, that is surprising,” the older man said.
“Surprising, Bishop?”
“Yes. You see, there have been some disappearances of late in town. Nothing particularly unusual, mind you, but enough to get people talking—not that it takes much, of course. One or two of the town’s citizens have given themselves to the dark. In fact, my predecessor did as well…” He sighed, as if distraught. “A most grievous affair, I assure you. Bishop Aberdine was a good man, and we will all suffer for the loss of his wisdom. As for the other disappearances,”—he shrugged—“nothing more than one might expect of the poor and the destitute, the homeless who go and seek their fortunes in other towns and other places. Yet, the commoners have latched on to the idea that there is something, dare I say, nefarious going on. Why, I can’t imagine you could go to any pub or tavern in the town without hearing farmers and tradesmen whispering about nightlings and the gods alone know what else. Odd, don’t you think, that you wouldn’t know?”
Torrik shrugged again. “Not so very odd, Bishop. As I believe I’ve mentioned, my family and I only arrived in town a couple of days ago. Since then, I’ve been busy trying to track down Brother Ulem and sell as many lights as I c—” He went silent at a loud crash from outside.
Torrik jumped up, hurrying to the door and throwing it open, and saw in the distance that the shed in which he had stored all of his materials—lanterns and torches, wicks and cotton and oil—was ablaze, engulfed in flames that popped and grew as the flammable items within fed the fire. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as his wife came to stand beside him.
“Amedan be good, what’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” Torrik said, his voice low. And then he saw movement, a shadow stepping away from the burning shed and stalking toward them. After a few minutes, the figure resolved itself into Brother Orren, the man whom the bishop had ostensibly sent to retrieve lanterns for Torrik and his family.
“Oh my, but that is unfortunate.” Torrik glanced back to see the bishop standing behind him, and despite the man’s words, he thought he could see something like amusement or dark satisfaction in the man’s eyes. “Brother Orren, what has happened?” Deckard asked, but Torrik thought the man knew well enough and that whatever had happened had been the plan all along.
“Some of the lamp oil was spilled when I entered,” the robed man answered, staring at Torrik. “I lit a lantern, to better see, and the spilled oil caught. I barely escaped.”
“My, my,” Deckard said, “but Torrik, you should really be more careful. Thank Amedan that Brother Orren discovered the danger before your wife or, Amedan forbid, your son did.”
Torrik was barely listening. Instead, he was staring at the burning building, knowing it for what it truly was; a sign they were in terrible danger. He had not spilled any oil—there was no question of that. After all, careless light merchants did not stay in business long. The bishop, of course, knew he had not. It was the reason, no doubt, why he had sent the man out to the shed instead of letting Torrik go himself. Which also left no doubt that the Bishop and those men with him were responsible for the lights on the property going out as well. By removing all of their light sources—save for the single lantern now sitting on the dining room table—the bishop and his men had effectively trapped Torrik and his family here. At least, that was, until daybreak. Which meant that whatever the man had planned, he intended for it to happen before the morning came.
Torrik watched the shed burn and, with it, the hope that he and his family might make it out of the night without violence. They were trapped, the darkness pressing in all around them now, and while Bishop Deckard and his followers might somehow travel in the night unopposed, Torrik and his family could not. “I suppose we should be thankful, Brother Orren,” Deckard went on, “that you made it out of such danger alive. Come,” he said, putting a hand on the robed man’s shoulder, “come inside out of the dark and have something to eat. I’m sure you are quite hungry.”
Playing the kind host, as if my family and I are no longer here, Torrik thought. And, perhaps to his mind at least, we’re not. And if he did think that, was he so wrong, really? After all, they had only the one lantern left now, and to travel in the darkness with only a single light to hold its creatures at bay was not just foolish—it was practically suicide. Torrik shared a troubled glance with his wife, then followed the priests inside, closing the door behind him.
He watched the men sit once more, Brother Orren grabbing a piece of meat and beginning to eat without a word of thanks. Then, Torrik glanced at his son where he still sat at the end of the table, eyeing the priests with unmistakable fear on his face. He knows something, Torrik thought, has some inkling of the trouble we’re in. But how much? Amedan be good and keep the worst of it from him. He is just a boy.
Torrik took his wife’s hand, and they went back to sit at the other end of the table with their son. Deckard did not speak for some time while Orren ate, apparently content to take his time now that the matter of the lanterns had been dealt with, and Torrik and his family were left with no options.
“Tell me, Torrik,” the bishop finally asked, “do you enjoy being a merchant?” Rubbing it in, eager to twist the blade now that it had found its mark and watch his victim squirm.
“I enjoy it well enough, Bishop.” Torrik said in a lifeless voice.
“I see,” the older man said, nodding affably. “But, then, you haven’t always been a merchant, have you?”
Torrik turned, meeting the man’s eyes. “Sir?”
“Forgive me, but, as we discussed, it is my job to see to the welfare of those souls within the town of Entin. As such, I could do nothing else but check on the man to whom the letter Ulem wrote was addressed. It took some time, but I was surprised—and more than a little impressed—to discover that you were once an agent for the Church.”
The words were said casually, matter-of-factly, but they fell on the room with the power of a lightning strike, and Torrik’s eyes went wide. No one, no one save for Ulem, the priest w
ho had recruited him, and the Chosen themselves knew of Torrik’s true identity. Ulem would not have spoken of it to a man he believed to be in league with the forces of the Night, Torrik’s recruiter had died years ago, and that meant that there was only one other option. How far did the conspiracy reach? He’d wondered at that, as Ulem had admitted himself, but he did not have to wonder now. How far? To the very top, to the Chosen themselves.
“That was…a long time ago, Bishop.” Torrik answered. “Before my wife…and my son. I am just a merchant now, nothing more.”
“Indeed?” the old man asked, smiling. “And nothing else? Do you mean to say you do not miss it? It must have been exciting, I suppose, and more than a little rewarding too, yes? Defeating the enemies of Amedan, sniffing them out in the darkness wherever they hid.”
“It was…difficult. Sir.”
“Ah, I imagine. And dangerous too, no doubt. After all,” he said, raising his hands to his sides, palms up, as he glanced around, grinning at the other gathered priests, as if he had just shared some joke, “I doubt those men and women you sought, that you hunted, could have been very appreciative of the attention.” He gave a small chuckle. “For I know that if I were a servant of the darkness, why, I imagine I would do just about anything to keep that knowledge secret, to silence even so much as a whisper of it. Wouldn’t you?”
Torrik met the man’s eyes, but as he did he watched the others, waiting for the slightest movement, ready to draw his blade at a moment’s notice. “I’ve never thought about it, Bishop,” he said. “After all, I don’t serve the darkness.”
“Yes, of course,” the bishop said, grinning, enjoying the moment. “But if you did?”
“I have a family, Bishop Deckard,” Torrik said. “My first and only thought is keeping them safe, protecting them.”
“Quite,” the older man said, sounding bored, displeased with Torrik’s lack of reaction. “Well,” he continued, glancing around at his companions, “I suppose we have bothered these fine people long enough, gentlemen, and we have much to be about.”
He stood from his chair, and Torrik and his family rose too. Deckard walked to them and bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady,” he said to Elayna, “for the meal.”
“Of course.”
He studied her for a moment, then sighed, glancing back at Torrik. “You have a nice family. I would look after them.”
“I intend to.”
“Yes, of course you do. Well, you all be careful tonight.” He glanced at the lantern sitting on the table, “One lantern is little protection against the horrors the dark holds.” With one final gloating look at the three of them, the bishop turned and started for the door, his priests following after. Torrik watched them, torn with indecision. How many of those who had disappeared, he wondered, had Deckard met with before hand? For whatever else he was, it was clear that the older man enjoyed toying with his victims first. Had Ulem listened to just such talk, before what had befallen him? Had Aberdine? Had Deckard, perhaps, sat and talked in veiled words, all the while rejoicing at the fate he knew awaited them? Torrik thought that he probably had.
And if Torrik let them leave, if he let them disappear into the darkness, then there was no telling from where they might come, no telling what shape the attack might take. He was thinking this as he watched the priests start for the door, was thinking that he must act. There was a small chance of success with so many, but small was better than none.
He was still weighing his options when Alesh stepped forward. “You’ll be back,” he said, locking Deckard with his gaze. “You and the other bad men.”
A flicker of doubt crossed the bishop’s face, but it was gone in a second as he schooled his features with the skill and efficiency of a man who’d had much practice at it. Deckard glanced at his comrades, all of whom were studying Alesh with open hostility now, then he knelt, giving Torrik’s son a smile. “Yes, I think I would like that. Though, I’m afraid it might be a while. Perhaps once my brothers and I have dealt with a few small issues that have arisen. A week, maybe two—”
“Tonight,” Alesh interrupted, his words filled with cold certainty. “You’ll be back tonight.”
The smile remained fixed on the bishop’s face, but anger danced in his eyes, anger and some small bit of the truth of the man, the truth he tried so hard to hide. There was a pregnant silence, and one of the priests went so far as to take a step toward Alesh before Deckard held up a hand, stopping him. “As I said, a clever lad, and an imaginative one too,” the bishop said, giving the boy a cold smile.
He reached out to pat Alesh’s head, and when his hand touched Torrik’s son, several things happened at once. Alesh seemed to glow with a bright, golden light as if he were lit with some internal fire, and Deckard screamed, jerking his hand away and stumbling backward. The retired spy had time to register that the skin of the bishop’s palm and fingers was cracked and red, as if badly burned. He shared a quick glance with his wife, then turned back to see the bishop staring at the boy in shock.
“I-it can’t be,” he said, cradling his hand against him. “Y-you…” He trailed off, and his lip began to curl into a snarl, and Torrik saw the older man reach a decision, saw him opening his mouth to speak.
Torrik’s dagger took the first priest in the throat, digging a bloody furrow across it, and the man fell away. But the retired spy was already moving past, his blade questing for the heart of the next priest in line. Before it could find its mark, the man reached out, his hand clamping around Torrik’s wrist with a shocking strength greater than any normal man should possess, and the once-spy cried out as he felt the bones of his wrist grinding together. Stronger than any man, but these were not just men, not any longer, that much he knew, and he didn’t believe he imagined the way their eyes—the bishop’s included—had turned completely black.
The priest punched him in the face, and sparks of light danced in Torrik’s eyes. He would have fallen, but the priest had not let go of his wrist, and he was trapped. The man was preparing to strike again when something flashed in front of Torrik’s face. The robed man let go of his arm, and stumbled away, a knife—one his wife had used to cut the meat for dinner—protruding from his throat. She was the brains, and he the hand. It was how it was, how it always had been, but even the mind must learn to protect itself.
He turned to check on her and Alesh, but then another robed man was rushing toward him, and there was no time. He had a brief moment to hope that Elayna and Alesh were okay, then the man was on him, swinging a knife at him. The robed man had not been well-trained—this much, at least, was obvious as he waded toward Torrik with wild, heavy blows, a snarl on his face—but he came on like an animal, hungry for blood and, unlike an animal, possessed of no thought for his own safety.
Torrik was forced to back away under the vicious assault, retreating a step, then another, and grunting as his back struck the table. He heard the sound of plates breaking as they were knocked to the ground, but he barely noticed, too busy twisting away from the knife and doing his best to grab the man’s wrist. He wasn’t quite fast enough, and shouted in anger and surprise as the blade scored him across the chest—not a deep cut, but a painful one. Still, he remembered enough of his training to take the opportunity the strike gave him and grab the man’s wrist.
The robed man uttered a bestial, inhuman growl, and struggled to break free, flailing wildly even as his other hand balled into a fist and struck Torrik repeatedly in the shoulder. His face was close, inches from Torrik’s own, as he hissed and spat. Intimidating, to see a man so far gone to his anger, bereft of his own humanity, but also convenient as it put him well within reach of the retired spy’s blade which, a moment later, plunged into his chin, tearing up and into his brain. Torrik’s attacker tensed as if in shock, wavered, then finally collapsed at his feet.
Wheezing for breath, Torrik scanned the room. Four of the robed men lay scattered on the ground, unmoving, their blood black in the lantern light. That left three standing, Decka
rd and two more of his nameless followers. One was facing off against Elayna who held a kitchen knife in one hand, and one of the robed men’s own blades in the other. Torrik started toward her, meaning to help, then froze as a scream filled the air.
He spun to see that the other fake priest had wrapped Alesh in a bear hug. Torrik’s son was screaming struggling vainly against the man’s hold. With a growl, the retired spy launched himself forward, but came up short as Deckard stepped in front of him, barring his path.
The bishop’s usual mask of calm arrogance was nowhere in evidence. His features were fixed in a snarl borne of madness and rage, and he was panting for breath, like a wild animal eager for its meal. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes wholly black, alien, but what caught Torrik’s attention was the knife he held.
“You should not have come,” the bishop grated in a voice that didn’t sound entirely human. “Now, you and your family will di—” His words turned to a bellow of surprise as Torrik charged, burying his dagger in the older man’s stomach before he could react. Deckard gave a violent jerk, twisting away and taking Torrik’s dagger with him, but the retired spy was already running past him, and with a shout of his own, he rushed headlong into the man holding his son, sending the three of them sprawling.
His head struck the floor when he fell, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. Groaning, he blinked furiously in an effort to banish the dark spots rising in his vision and began climbing to his feet. He was halfway up when someone barreled into him, slamming him against the wall and knocking the breath from his lungs.
The remaining robed man hissed, baring his bloody teeth, and before Torrik could gather himself, his attacker’s hands were around his throat. Even as he struggled to break the man’s grip, some part of his mind noted that the man’s hands, like Deckard’s, were split and cracked, as if badly burned. So, too, were his arms. The parts with which he touched Alesh, Torrik thought. Gods, what is happening to my son?
The Forging of Dawn Page 10