“Bored now,” I muttered, putting out the Merlin Gun and shooting Roland off his horse with a single shot.
“Jane!” Emma shouted, shocked at my sudden attack.
“He’s a damned ghost blood curse thingy!” I shouted. “This conversation was never going to end well!”
“Ha!” Charlemagne laughed, still swinging around his sword.
I shot him in the face, sending the vampire tumbling backward. That was probably the only way I could have pulled it off since Ancient Ones, vampires over a thousand years old, were effectively demigods in their strength and speed.
THAT’S NOT GOING TO STOP THEM, a booming voice spoke in my head. It was the Merin Gun.
“Aren’t you supposed to destroy these kinds of beings?” I asked.
THEY ARE BOTH POWERFUL CURSED MEN. ALSO, NOW, VERY ANGRY.
Charlemagne was the first to stand up, his head glowing from the holy bullet inside his skull that was burning him from the inside out. “Betrayer! Harlot!”
“You okay?” I mocked. “You look like you have a little Ghost Rider thing going on there.”
Charlemagne used vampire speed to cross across the dig and grabbed me by the throat, lifting me up. “You will be the first to die by my blessed blade!”
That was when Emma turned into an enormous six-foot-tall wolf straight from Tolkien’s nightmares and grabbed the ancient vampire by the throat, tearing him away from me. I fired a couple of more shots in his back, unfortunately leaving me only two bullets even as he and Emma battled.
That was when I saw the Nightmare charging at me, its hooves causing puffs of hellfire to rise from the ground. I managed to get out of the way but just barely. Spinning around, I fired two more shots, missing one and hitting the demon horse with the last. It promptly exploded into a ball of fire and left me with one less foe to deal with.
“Wretched child of Lilith, you are an honorless piece of trash who shows no respect for your betters,” Roland’s voice spoke up from behind me.
“Have you ever heard it’s not a good thing for villains to monologue?” I asked, spinning around and pulling the trigger on the Merlin Gun. Unfortunately, it didn’t fire. No bullets left. Damn revolvers! I tossed it on the ground, which was probably not the best way to treat an angelically powered weapon, but you did what you had to do during life and death struggles.
Roland had his sword drawn and was slowly advancing on me. His helmet had fallen off to reveal a bearded man with a scarred visage that was far from the depiction of handsome French knights you saw in art about the period. In his hand was a hellish black iron copy of Durandal, the sister-sword to Joyeus and Cortana (the last being a legendary sword as well as a Microsoft product). “I realize now, God will forgive me once I have turned my wrath against the supernatural. I am to guard Joyeus against being taken, but I am at liberty to interpret my orders. I will slay thee, animate your corpse, and use it to wage war upon the heathen in this age.”
I blinked. “You know, Rolo, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you just don’t get Christianity.”
“Die!” Roland screamed, charging at me.
That was when I crouched down and made use of my epic deer kicking power to kick the hell-spawned ghost in the chest, sending him backward on the ground. “Mixed martial arts, motherbucker!”
Roland sat up and opened his mouth before spewing out a fireball that I ducked under but still seared my hair and back. Thank God and the Goddess for weredeer reflexes, that was all I had to say.
“No fair, cheating!” I said, mocking the pretenses of the ghost.
“You will die!” Roland shouted, climbing up to his feet.
“You’re a one trick pony, you know that,” I said, spotting Joyeus on the ground. Emma and Charlemagne were still brawling, though I was putting my money on Emma since his skin was starting to melt off while she was regenerating his attacks.
I pulled the magic sword to me with telekinesis, one of the few spells I knew and mostly useful for party tricks.
“No!” Roland hissed. “You are unworthy of that weapon.”
“It’s not the weapon, it’s the woman.”
He charged at me, so hurled it at him and directed it with telekinesis to slam into his throat. I couldn’t throw things very fast with my magic, but I could damn well make sure they went where I aimed. The sword slid through his neck and out through the other side, causing his spiritual form to dematerialize.
With that, I felt the oppressive aura around the dig site disappear. The clouds broke up as quickly as they’d arrived, and the wind died down. There was also no sense of magic left around the site. I looked down at Joyeus and noticed the sword looked plain and unadorned. Not the sword of an Emperor at all.
ROLAND WAS KIN TO CHARLEMAGNE. ITS POWERS WERE BROKEN WHEN USED AGAINST HIM, The Merlin Gun spoke.
“Whoops,” I said.
Seconds later, I saw the head of Charlemagne roll across the ground before crumbling to dust as age tended to catch up with dead vampires. It was also possible the sunlight was affecting him now that he was dead.
Emma limped over to me in wolf form, having taken a bad beating even with her power to heal most wounds. “I got him.”
“Good,” I said, scratching behind her ears.
“What do we do with the sword?” Emma asked, swishing her tail around.
“You want it?”
“Hell no.”
I nodded. “We’ll think of something.”
We ended up hanging it up over the Deerlightful’s jukebox.
Gift of the Gaze
By James Alderdice
Lysandra moved with grace and stealth, her closest sisters. It wouldn’t do to be recognized even at this late hour. Her thin frame was wrapped in multi-colored veils that blended with the darkness like the children of shadows. Nothing but her green eyes and wisps of red hair were readily visible. She muted her striking features because beauty can be a blessing and a curse.
No respectable woman would stroll the finer avenues of Marence after dark, let alone the river-quarter. Here villains and rogues congregated in taverns, carnivals, and drug-dens, all the filth eventually sliding into the River Furno. Most women would shudder at the thought of being here.
Lysandra had no such qualms, it was business. Carrier pigeons brought word of a mandatory meeting with Bryman, “The Profit”, dealer of all things both legal and permanently borrowed. She slid through the door of the usual rendezvous, a tavern so old and forgotten only the gods might remember the name, and they hadn’t been seen around here in quite some time.
The Profit, sat at his usual table, gulping soup. His bodyguards lurked at the table across the aisle. Bryman, a heavy-set man, decorated his long black beard with gold and turquoise beads woven into the braids. His crafty eyes narrowed, and a smile spread across his face as Lysandra approached.
“Lysandra, whose name means beautiful, has a heart as ugly and cold as Desolation in winter,” said Bryman. “It’s a wonder your very touch doesn’t freeze me to the bone.”
“You think I would touch you? Only your stench is more repulsive.”
“But here we are,” he said, grinning. “I’ve a job for you, Queen of Thieves.”
The title flattered more than she wished to admit.
“I have it on good account that a holy relic, The Interpreter, is to be removed from the Tower of Talushazar in one week. The Chief Judge’s men are going to open that celestial vault for the first time in decades and remove the treasures. This is the last opportunity to obtain it before it’s lost, buried in the earth, and forgotten,” said Bryman.
“Why do you care? Profit, you’re no believer.”
“Of course, I’m not. Couldn’t fence the Interpreter if I wanted to. But the Grand Master wants it before Anarion, and the scribes bury it, though. And that is a man I don’t plan on disappointing.”
“The Grand Master wants it?” she asked. “Why not use his own people?”
Bryman shrugged, “His Adepts
have been lying low these last few weeks. Most are gone from the city. Other business, I suppose.” His words were unconvincing, even for him.
“As are the Chief Judge’s most prized guardsmen,” she countered, mentioning the Adepts most hated enemies in the vain hope of generating a reaction from Bryman.
Bryman ignored the comment and rubbed at his braided beard, saying offhandedly, “He asked for you specifically. I think he may be sweet on a little thing like you.”
She bit her lip beneath the veil. Most of her clients were wealthy merchants and nobles. They paid her to steal various treasures in a constant battle to appear more prestigious than each other. Sometimes it was information and on occasion something more. But the Adepts had never employed her, too insulted that she would not join their occulted Order. And why should she pay a tithe to the Order when she could keep it all for herself anyway? She had gotten along just fine without their help or employment, why accept it now? It could only come with hidden shackles attached.
“No, I won’t work for them. They want to entice me to join their Order with a big score, don’t they?”
Bryman’s smile faded like sunset, slow then dark. “Lysandra, enough games. You’ve gone your own way for years, you have a reputation. Things are changing. You can’t avoid them. They want you to do the job and join their ranks—or else.”
“Or else what?”
“They know who your family is. I always said you can’t keep secrets forever. Your brothers and sisters, Hennem, Mari, Gedeon, and little Ari, the Adepts told me their names so you would know it was true. If you don’t do this, Lysandra, their assassins will pay your family a visit.”
“What do they want?” Lysandra asked.
“Go to the Tower, retrieve The Interpreter, bring it back. You’ll be paid and ordained into the Order. It’s very simple. Why fight it? You know which way the wind is blowing.”
“Anything else?”
“Yea, women aren’t meant to be alone. Think on it,” he said, with a yellowed grin as he groped across the table for her hand.
With a feline’s grace and speed, Lysandra reached across the table taking hold of the Profit’s bejeweled beard with her left hand. Her right hand arced a blade grasped tight and true.
Bryman closed his eyes tight.
Lysandra’s knife took the beard from his chin. She dropped the golden braids in his soup and turned to leave. One of the bodyguards got up, but Lysandra forced him down with a violent wrist-lock. The other bodyguard thought better of interfering.
“If anything happens to my family…”
“You’ll do nothing,” Bryman chuckled to hide his fear. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but the Order already has them. Do the job if you ever want to see them alive again.”
Eyes blazing a silent fury, Lysandra slid out the back door as Bryman lamented for a barber.
Returning to her home, silence reigned where Lysandra should have been greeted with multiple snores. None should have known this was her family’s home. Signs of struggle littered the floor.
Ari’s toys were smashed upon the tiles.
Lysandra wiped the first tears from her eyes. They had trusted her to care for them, and now their young lives hung in a critical balance. Lysandra pounded against unfeeling walls before collapsing in tears.
She vowed to do whatever it took for the children’s return. Writing a brief encoded message, she attached the note to a carrier pigeon and released the bird. Packing her special tools and enough rations for two weeks, she wondered if her dead parents could have imagined this dire predicament for their children. Then a fitful sleep took her for a few precious hours.
In the morning, Lysandra changed into simple traveling clothes—a white silk blouse and flared black breeches, common enough, if she were a man. Tying her long hair back with her mother’s scarf, she lamented the revenge her father’s knife would give. The Order had gone too far this time. This would make the incident with the Cockatrice look like child’s play.
The dawn rose with a red sheen, reflecting Lysandra’s mood as she walked to the riverfront docks. On the way, she mentioned the whereabouts of one of the Order’s safe houses to one of the Chief Judge’s men before boarding a river merchant’s ship to take her down to The Forks, where the River Furno met the Englentine. That should play havoc with the Order’s plans, she mused.
On the journey to Talushazar, home of the Tower and relics, Lysandra calculated she would lose three to four days if luck prevailed, as much as six days if the rowers were lax. Such ships had a full complement of men to row upstream when the sails couldn’t do the job. Most men who did such back-breaking labor were not slaves but debtors and released criminals who could find little else for work.
Lysandra recalled that if she lacked useful talents, she could have belonged to a debtor’s camp herself. If she failed on this and the Order let her siblings live, they would certainly end up in the orphanage and then debtor camps. There was no justice under the rule of Judges, except perhaps from the fanatical Chief Judge. But she could never expect mercy from the leader of that antiquated church. Thinking of her family held by the Order, Lysandra steeled herself not to cry until sure that no one could see.
“What’s this? A doe-eyed girl with tears. Such a beauty shouldn’t be weeping,” said a tall dark-haired man with a trim goatee. He wore a fine crimson cloak and an even finer sword on his belt. “She should be smiling, it’s a fine day.” He smiled but his teeth, white and predatory, reminded her more of a wolf than a man.
“Be off. I’ve no time for false swordsmen.”
“But we have only just met on this most glorious day.”
“I’ve no time for weak poet’s either.”
“I’ll tell you one truth or two, dear lady. I am no false swordsman. I know why you are journeying to Talushazar,” he said with eyes blazing some hidden emotion she couldn’t read.
“Do tell before I call your bluff, you scarlet-coated Nimrod.”
“You cut me to the quick. If only my sword had your tongue’s sharpness. But in truth I am a mighty hunter, sent to keep an eye on you,” he said showing those dazzling teeth.
“Are you to help, hinder or merely report on me—Errand-boy?”
He stifled a laugh. “My name is Mitacarnon of Avaris. I am a proud son of the East. I was to watch and report upon your progress, but I’ve had a change of heart.”
“I thought the Order sacrificed their hearts to Elkanah on the full moon. Even I won’t hazard a guess at what Avarans’ sacrifice. Probably your manhood, considering how quickly you all rolled over for the Dark Goddess and her fanatics.”
His smile dimmed, and he changed the subject from his countrymen. “I saw the children, your family.” She glared daggers at him, but he quickly continued, “I could not be a party to that. They look like you, long red curls and bright green eyes. I couldn’t hurt them. I swore to help you, for their sake.”
“What of your bloody oaths? Once an Adept always an Adept, so they say.”
“Times are changing,” said Mitacarnon.
“For the worse,” laughed Lysandra bitter as sea salt.
Exposing his palms, Mitacarnon countered, “The Chief Judge vowed to break the Order into a thousand pieces.”
“You have to catch them first.”
“He will, the Judge is wise. And I’m wise enough to change while I still can.”
Her gaze pierced him. “You would risk the dark oath for children with who you have no blood ties? You’re a liar, what do you say to that?”
“Trust me.”
“Trust a stranger I just met? No thanks. I was promised if I completed the theft and gave it to The Profit, I’d be inducted into the Order,” said Lysandra.
Mitacarnon shook his head. “Promises and oaths mean nothing but to another member of the Order. They mean to eliminate an embarrassment—the Queen of Thieves, the most successful thief in all of Marence and beyond.”
Lysandra laughed, this time with actual humor rathe
r than spite. “Queen of Thieves. That title paid my vanity more than it ever did in gold limnahs. I’m not half so wealthy as you might think. I give most all my spoils to the poor of Marence, those that the rich and haughty tread upon. I rule no one and no one rules me.”
“That’s why you must let me help you. Let us retrieve The Interpreter, get the children back and then cut ourselves from the Adepts’ chain. They plan on slaying you once you return,” said Mitacarnon. “You’re going to need someone on your side, and here I am.” He held his arms out wide, almost as if expecting an embrace.
Lysandra scoffed, but said, “You really want to help me? Give me space the rest of the voyage to Beersheba. We can talk on the ride to Talushazar. Agreed?”
Mitacarnon nodded and left her there on the bow, alone with her thoughts.
The ship made good time down the Furno to the junction of rivers, but it was slow going up the east-forking Englentine River. Nothing for Lysandra to do but think, scheme, and stroke the ship’s cat. It helped pass the time to mull things over with the scrawny beast. Mitacarnon was always nearby, but never approached or spoke to her again.
None had ever succeeded in theft at the massive Tower of Talushazar. There was not a taller building in the known world. It dwarfed even the watchtowers of Englentine, Tolburn, and Marence. Lysandra wondered if she was meant to fail. What if Mitacarnon was right and the Order had planned this to eliminate competition? Mitacarnon was handsome and charming, but a darkness speared his soul.
Who was she to judge? Wasn’t it fair to say a darkness speared hers as well? If only the cat could answer, she mused.
After five days, the ship anchored at the town of Beersheba. Lysandra sauntered down the gangplank to complete her journey. It was early, and Mitacarnon still slept. She decided to be rid of him rather than wait. Who needs a lazy man who sleeps the day away?
Browsing over the stables, Lysandra purchased the swiftest horse she could find, a buckskin mare with strong legs. She paid more than she thought the animal was worth because there was no time to haggle. Preparing to ride south, her friend, the ship’s cat announced herself. Scooping the scraggly black cat into to her waiting arms, Lysandra mounted the horse, and the three rode away with all possible speed.
Blackest Knights Page 3