Darkness Rising: Disciples of the Horned One Volume One (Soul Force Saga Book 1) (17 page)

T
wo days
after his meeting with Uncle Andy, Damien stood in a short hall that led to a balcony where the king would place a gold trinket around his neck. The voices of the gathering crowd reached Damien despite the distance.

He tugged at the collar of his formal robes. A shrill, wrinkled woman had spent an hour yesterday evening measuring him and attempting to poke him with needles. If not for his personal shield he’d look like a pin cushion. He’d never met the woman before, but he felt certain she hated him on sight. When she left an hour later he returned the feeling.

Why couldn’t they just get it over with already? He couldn’t see the sun from where he stood, but he figured he had at least another half hour of waiting. Damien never imagined wishing for a demon attack, but it might be a welcome change right about now. He conjured a chair and slumped down in it.

“Damien St. Cloud?” A slender, older woman with blond hair, a mess of fine wrinkles around her sharp green eyes, and a crimson robe appeared as if out of nowhere. He saw no soul force so she must be a sorcerer, probably a member of the Crimson Legion.

Damien blinked in surprise. “Yes, ma’am, can I help you?”

“I’m Lidia Thorn, archmage of the kingdom.”

Damien scrambled to his feet, reabsorbed the speck of power he used to form the chair, and licked his lips. The archmage! What was he supposed to do, bow, salute, no one ever told him. “Nice to meet you.” That was almost certainly not the proper reply.

She smiled at his unease. “Please relax or you’ll make me nervous. I’ve been reading about you. You completed your training in the minimum required time, killed a demon a few days later, and now you almost killed a dragon. An impressive start to your career.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I haven’t had much luck finding a mentor despite my efforts. If I can’t find one soon I don’t know what sort of career I might have.”

She waved her hand as though that was of no concern. “Show me your power.”

“Ma’am?”

“Channel half your power into your shield and make it visible. Reading reports isn’t the same as seeing for myself.”

Damien saw no reason to refuse, and even if he did he wouldn’t dare object to her order. He made his shield visible and suddenly the world took on a golden tint. Half his power went flowing down the channels he’d made. All around him stones vibrated, and cracks ran along the floor as the power he didn’t fully contain spilled over. The archmage’s hair and robe blew back from the breeze his power whipped up.

“That’s enough.” She waved her arms like he couldn’t hear her.

He drew his power back in and returned his shield to its original state. “Was that okay, ma’am?”

She smiled and straightened her hair. “Better than okay. You’re stronger than me. I suspect you could take any three of my Crimson Legion in a duel. How about you come work for me?”

“Ma’am?” He had to have heard wrong. There was no way the archmage would want a kid six months out of the tower to serve in her legion.

“I want you to come work for me. The others are too gutless to take you as an apprentice. Well, that’s their loss. You’re far too valuable to waste sitting in The Tower waiting for a mentor. I’ll be your mentor and you’ll answer directly to me. You’ve certainly proven yourself a capable field agent. What do you say?”

Damien didn’t have to think long. “I’d be honored, Master.”

She nodded once. “Excellent. I’ve arranged a room for you in the castle. When I have something I’ll summon you. In the meantime keep practicing and make yourself useful around the grounds. I’m sure you can find something to do.”

Damien blinked and she vanished. He squinted, trying and failing to penetrate her invisibility screen. What an odd woman. He’d assumed the archmage would be more intimidating, but she reminded Damien of a kindly aunt.

Oh well, at least he didn’t have to go around begging for a master anymore. He was working with the archmage. He restrained himself from jumping for joy. After this even the award ceremony would be bearable.

D
amien St. Cloud
leaned against the wall in the back corner of the throne room, the stone rough through his black tunic, and watched the line of peacocks waiting their turn to suck up to Uncle Andy. Silk and lace draped the soft, flabby bodies of thirty of the richest and most powerful people in the kingdom while gold and gems glittered in the light of the glow globes hanging from the ceiling. They’d arrived to present themselves to the king. Probably so, despite his best efforts, he wouldn’t forget they existed.

A slight breeze from the invisible fan he’d conjured blew the overwhelming stink of perfume mingled with sweat away. When he first entered, the stench had about knocked him over. You’d think people that rich could afford a bath. He didn’t know how the regular guards stood it. The warlords used soul force to block their sense of smell. Damien could see the flow of energy that separated their brains from their noses. That had to be how Uncle Andy kept from throwing up.

For his part the king sat on his simple wooden throne, a big, fake smile plastered on his face as he shook the hand of a fat, bald nobleman in acid green silks. Damien couldn’t hear what the fawning fop was saying nor did he care enough to conjure an eavesdropping sphere to listen in. He assumed the man wanted something, the same as the rest of the leeches in line. Rich as they were, you could always count on a noble to want more.

Damien narrowed his focus, curious about the nobles’ soul force. The fat man in green seemed ordinary enough, likewise the woman behind him. The man behind her, one of the few without a giant stomach, had a weak internal soul force. Not strong enough to train as a warlord, but enough to give him an edge over an ordinary person.

He kept scanning. A surprising number of the nobility lacked any significant soul force. Maybe nature made a point of balancing their wealth with a lack of real power. Damien frowned when he reached the second-to-last man in line, a potbellied fellow with oily black hair and watery blue eyes. He had no soul force at all. Which meant he had to be a sorcerer. Curiosity piqued, Damien studied the man even closer. A faint soul force aura surrounded his body. Some kind of illusion maybe.

Why would a noble need an illusion to present himself to the king? Something was wrong. Along the far-side wall stood the captain of the royal guard in his immaculate blue-and-silver tabard over practical mail armor. Damien didn’t know the man well. He’d stood beside Damien’s father when Uncle Andy presented him with the Medal of Valor last week. The captain had a strong internal soul force, nothing compared to Dad, but better than average. Most important, his loyalty to the king was beyond question. He’d know if the nobleman was hiding something.

Damien worked his way around the back of the throne room. The guards all knew him and moved out of his way. A minute later he leaned against the wall beside the guard captain, arms crossed, trying to look casual. “Captain.”

“Damien. Something I can do for you?” The captain pitched his voice low so no one would overhear them.

“The second-to-last man in line, do you know him?”

“Dominic Santen. He’s a merchant prince, bought a title, but doesn’t hold any land. What about him?”

“Is he a sorcerer?”

“No, he’s a weasel, liar, thief, and cheat, but not a sorcerer.”

“Then we have a problem, because that man’s a sorcerer and I suspect he’s using an illusion to look like Mr. Santen.”

The captain eased his hand closer to the well-worn hilt of his sword. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah.” Damien wanted to tap his soul force, but didn’t dare for fear of warning the imposter. “How do you want to handle it?”

“Can you break the illusion so we can see what we’re dealing with?”

The imposter had moved so he stood only ten people from the throne. They needed to act fast, before he got any closer to Uncle Andy. “Sure, but if he’s strong this could get ugly fast. Do you want me to shield the nobles or take down the sorcerer?”

“Take down the sorcerer. I know enough about sorcerers to know my men won’t have much of a chance against him. We’ll deal with the nobles. Blasted Crimson Legion! They were supposed to screen all the guests before they entered the throne room.”

Damien nodded. The captain’s plan made sense. Part of him wanted to defend his new comrades, but he couldn’t think of a good argument. How had the sorcerer snuck into the castle? Damien hoped whoever the imposter was, he was just filling in for the real Dominic Santen and didn’t mean any harm. “Understood. When do you want me to go?”

The captain made several subtle gestures with his off hand and all around the room guards tensed. “Now.”

Damien drew power and sent a stream of it at the imposter. He formed the blast so it would only shatter the illusion, not harm the person under it. The image of an out-of-shape merchant vanished. In his place stood a female figure. Tight gray pants and shirt hugged a curvy figure. A half mask covered her face from the nose down. She wore thin black gloves and heavy leather boots.

Her cold gaze locked with Damien’s. This woman was a killer, he knew it. She leapt toward the throne, a golden blade appearing in her right hand. Damien conjured a wall in her path, but the blade made short work of it. He’d never seen a soul force construct that dense. It looked like she put all her power into it.

Uncle Andy had leapt to his feet and pulled his sword. It appeared he wanted to fight, but his guards were standing in front of him, shielding him from the assassin. Whimpering nobles fled for the exit, royal guards attempting to keep them under control. Damien had no time to worry about them. With his barrier demolished the sorcerer rushed the guards.

They attacked and an instant later found their swords in pieces, only their enhanced speed keeping them from getting gutted. Damien drew half his power and conjured golden chains that wrapped tight around her legs and body. He matched the density of her blade and when she tried to cut the bindings away she only nicked them.

Uncle Andy’s guards hustled him out the back exit. Half a dozen guardsmen approached the woman as she furiously hacked at the chains. Damien poured more energy into them to repair the damage she was causing.

“Somebody hit her! I can’t keep her bound forever.”

The captain of the guard raced in at warlord speed and brought his pommel down on the back of her head. Her sword vanished and she slumped in Damien’s chains. He studied the flow of her soul force to make certain she wasn’t faking before he let the chains vanish. Two guards caught her before she hit the ground.

E
very castle had a dungeon
. Damien felt sure it was a rule. He’d never visited one before so he had no idea how Uncle Andy’s compared to someone else’s. In some of the stories he’d read, the authors described dungeons as dank, smelly places filled with torture chambers and hooded guards that entertained themselves by beating the prisoners. By that standard this dungeon was a pleasant spot.

Cool and dry, without a bit of standing water, the dungeon under the royal castle had a dozen cells outfitted with simple cots and mess buckets. A faint odor of sweat and human waste filtered through the halls, but nothing unbearable. In fact, to Damien, the smell offended less than the nobles’ perfume. Steel doors with small view slits kept the prisoners from wandering off. Ten guards in blue-and-sliver uniforms patrolled the halls, heavy truncheons hanging at their belts.

On their way to the interrogation chamber Damien and the archmage passed three guards on patrol. Was “interrogation chamber” a euphemism for “torture chamber”?

When she heard about the attempt on the king’s life his master had about hit the roof. Damien wouldn’t have wanted to be whichever Crimson Legionnaire had let the assassin sneak into the castle.

“You did well to spot and subdue her, Damien,” the archmage said. “Since you took her alive, hopefully we can find out who hired her.”

“Thank you, Master.” Damien allowed himself a moment to bask in his mentor’s praise. “I’ve never seen anyone who used their soul force like she did.”

“I’m not surprised.” They rounded a corner and found three red-robed sorcerers facing into an open room. Soul force streamed from the sorcerers. Every time the assassin tried to draw power from her core they severed the link and her conjuring collapsed. He wasn't familiar with that technique. Inside the room a fourth sorcerer in identical robes sat at a simple wooden table facing the assassin.

“She’s a member of a group called the Soul Knives,” the archmage said. “Assassins for hire that specialize in creating soul force weapons of great destructive power. They’re based down south in the badlands. Whoever hired her must have a lot of coin as they don’t work cheap.”

They stopped just beyond the interrogation chamber. Someone had removed the assassin’s mask and outer clothes, leaving her wearing nothing but small clothes. Her thin lips were turned down in a sullen frown. Pale, freckled skin covered a lean, wiry body. Several thin scars marred her flat, well-muscled stomach. She might have been attractive but for the flat, emotionless brown eyes; killer’s eyes. Damien’s father had eyes like that when he fought.

The sorcerer in the room slammed his fist on the table. “Who are you working for?”

The assassin’s cool, indifferent gaze raked him over and dismissed him. Damien doubted just asking would be enough to get her to talk. Maybe they’d need a torture chamber after all.

“I don’t think she’s going to tell us anything,” Damien said.

His master smiled, a tiny, evil curl of her lips. “We haven’t begun the interrogation yet. Alden’s just giving her a chance to talk and save herself some pain. I wanted you to see how he proceeds. This isn’t the sort of thing they teach at Sorcery. Pay close attention.”

She whistled two sharp notes. Alden drew a thin stream of power and drove it straight into the assassin’s brain. She tried to conjure a shield to block the probe, but one of the other sorcerers countered her.

The assassin’s back arched and she screamed. Damien recognized the place Alden stabbed: the pain center of the brain. In healing class they’d learned how to block the flow of pain from a wound to that area, like he’d done for Talon last summer. This looked like the exact opposite of that technique. It never occurred to him to do that.

The questioner shifted his probe to another section of her brain and the screaming stopped. “Who hired you?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Damien glanced at his master.

“She’s trying to lie, but Alden’s blocked her access to that area of her brain. If she wishes to speak she can only tell the truth. This part of the technique is more important than the pain. If you can’t keep them from lying torture does no good.”

Damien winced when Alden switched his probe back to the pain center, drawing another scream. For her sake, killer or not, he hoped she told them what they wanted to know. “Do you think she’ll break?”

“They all break eventually.” Her cold, emotionless tone sent a chill up Damien’s spine.