Forged: The World of Nightwalkers (2 page)

He fisted his hand, turning his flesh and bloodskin to stone … a dark gray stone. With a carefully controlled show of force, he rammed his fist through the glass. He was powerful enough to grind everything within the box into dust if he was not careful, and that would mean not
only his end, but the end of all the others connected to all those other stones.

The reactive magic was horrifically painful. It lashed at him, driving him back, pushing him away from the object he so desperately needed. He lunged forward against it, but still the force drove him back.

No! No! I cannot fail this!

He needed to succeed and he needed to do so quickly. The alarm screaming out of the room would bring others in mere moments. Using every last ounce of strength and will he possessed, he lunged forward once more, grabbed for his touchstone, and closed his fist around it.

The box toppled to the ground, the other touchstones within it scattering wildly. But he paid them no attention. He was turning into the push of the magic, letting it shove him violently out of the room. He plowed over two acolytes that had come running at the sound of the alarm. A third lifted a weapon, a gun, and fired at pointblank range into his chest, right over his beating heart, right below the brand that forever marked him. The stone of his skin deflected most of the bullet’s impact, but he felt and saw a chunk of it go flying. The pain was brilliant and fierce, but he paid it no mind. He’d felt worse. For now he focused on grabbing the acolyte, yanking him closer and smashing his hand, touchstone within, into the man’s skull. The man crumbled and he let him fall, discarding him like trash. As always he allowed no remorse to fill his mind. That would come later. In that moment he needed to fight, for his freedom and for the right to pay penance—for the new sins he was about to rack up as well as for the old.

Shaking that thought off, he made his way outdoors, the night cold and brisk and stunningly perfect as he spread his wings and launched himself into the air with three steady pumps of his wings.

He knew they would be on his heels, but he also knew he was free.

Free
.

And no one would ever take that away from him again.

Present day

Captive.

Chained
. Like a beast. Like … like an animal awaiting butchering. Awaiting those that would devour him.

Ahnvil wanted to scream, but he would give his captors no such pleasure. He moved and the sound of chains scraping over the cement floor of his prison instantly came to him. He was shackled at the ankles as well as the wrists and thrown behind a wall of steel bars for good measure. His prison was a basement of some sort that he could sense was fully underground.

The sound of conversation floated to him, and his ears pricked up. He moved forward as far as his manacles allowed and began to pace, as if agitated. It was what they had come to expect of him. The feeling of superiority this supposed knowledge gave them made them sloppy and, he hoped, would give him an advantage.

“I’ve got to show you this,” the Templar priest was saying in semi-hushed tones to his companion. He doubted there was even anyone to overhear them, but their desire to be secretive was telling and he was going to make sure to be very attentive … while not seeming to be so. Perhaps he would finally find out why they had
bothered chaining him up and keeping him captive instead of simply killing him and striking a serious blow to their enemies who depended on his strength and abilities. Of course there was always the possibility they were going to let time do it for them …

“What is it?” the second Templar, a short, balding male, wanted to know.
Seriously
? Ahnvil thought dryly,
Of all the humans he could choose to be reborn in, this is what he chose? It goes to show that some Bodywalkers are just smarter and stronger and
better
than others
.

A Bodywalker was a body with two shared souls. One was the human that had been naturally born to it. The other soul was that of an ancient Egyptian, a powerful man or woman that could be reborn in the host body of the human, in effect sharing that body with the original soul. Only, these Bodywalkers, the Templars, did not share. They subjugated the innocent human soul … just as they had once subjugated him.

The Bodywalker he knew, the ones he was devoted to, the Politic, they were different. They cared for their human hosts, they Blended with them and respected them and shared their lives with them in harmony. The way it should be.

And since Bodywalkers could choose exactly whom they could be reborn into … it seemed ridiculous that this one had chosen such an inferior physical specimen.

As they came fully into range of his prison cell, he could see his captor: tall and handsome, if older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a deep dimple in his left cheek. This one had obviously chosen based on aesthetics.

“Oh my! Where did you get that?” Baldie asked with surprise when he caught sight of the captive in the cage.

“Not that,” Dimples said impatiently. “I’ll tell you why I’ve caught
that
in just a moment.”

“Oh. Well, what then?”

Dimples went to a drawer in a nearby worktable, a table that held any number of things, including all kinds of components for the spells the Templars worked. They were dark, vicious powers that ought not to be messed with. The same dark powers that had created
him
.

Dimples pulled a steel box from the drawer and opened it, the tremulous touch of his fingers revealing exactly how excited he was about what was inside the box. He reached in and withdrew a necklace, the pendant of which glinted sharply when the light from above struck it.

“What is it?” Baldie asked, snatching it out of his companion’s hands. Dimples immediately snatched it back, holding it again with reverence.

“It’s called Adoma’s Amulet,” he said breathily.

“Really?” Now Baldie had adopted Dimple’s reverent tone. “What does it do, Panahasi?”

“I have no idea,” Panahasi said.

Baldie frowned with consternation and impatience. “If you don’t know what it does, what’s so special about it?”

“What’s special is that I found it in Kamenwati’s belongings before his things were cleaned away!”

Their captive’s ears burned at the recognizable name. Kamenwati was the most powerful Templar priest ever known. He had been the right hand to the most powerful priestess, Odjit.

That is, until Kamen had defected to the other side.
Ahnvil’s
side.

Ironic, considering he was Ahnvil’s creator. His former master.

Baldie reacted accordingly. “Ohhh! And what makes you think it’s special, other than that?”

“Well, apparently Kamen had been researching it virulently. It was with tome upon tome, sitting on his desk. But the only thing he had found thus far was this passage.” Panahasi withdrew a small book from the box and
flipped it open to a marked page. Ahnvil winced as he watched this, wondering how the book didn’t simply fall apart in Panahasi’s hands, given how obviously old it was. But neither of the Templars seemed to respect or even notice that. They were too busy trying hard to stand on the shoulders of another’s works, someone who was far and away more worthy of reaping the benefits of those works, if by way of his power alone … and even Ahnvil had to admit that, despite his own hostile reasons for despising Kamen.

“It reads: ‘The slave, born of the infinite Nightwalkers, will set free the power within. The one that harnesses Adoma’s Amulet will have such power as to make a god weep.’ ”

“Oh my,” Baldie breathed, clearly finally understanding the scope of what his friend held. “Oh!” he said with sudden animation. “That’s what the Gargoyle is for!” He glanced over at their prisoner.

“Yes! And he’s not just any enslaved Gargoyle, he’s Kamen’s Gargoyle. Kamen’s creation. I thought if any slave would be powerful enough to unlock the power within this Amulet, it would be one of either Kamen’s or Odjit’s slaves. And since Odjit has no living Gargoyles that I know of at present, this one will have to do.”

“So what do we do next?” Baldie wanted to know, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

“
We
don’t do anything. I am going to try to get this Gargoyle to unlock the power in the Amulet.”

“And just how are you going to do that?” Baldie sneered, clearly not liking being cut out of the potential rewards, even if he had done nothing to deserve them. Just as his friend had done nothing to deserve them outside of being a thief. “If you get too close to it, it’ll rip your head off. It’s not as though it’s going to want to do you any favors.”

“I know,” Panahasi said with a frown as they both looked over at him. He gave them a dutifully vicious smile for their efforts.

“Well, you better think of something soon. You only have a few days before he’s no longer any good.”

“I
know
,” Panahasi growled sharply. “Don’t worry, I will think of something. Kamenwati isn’t the only priest with power, you know. I did manage to ambush the Gargoyle and catch him, didn’t I?” Panahasi said, puffing himself up. But it rang very hollow to both Panahasi’s friend and his captive. Probably even to Panahasi himself.

“Never mind.” Panahasi said when his companion still looked dubious. He dropped the Amulet into the box along with the book he’d read from and shoved both onto the table. The action made the lid of the box shut sharply. “I’ll deal with it later. I merely wanted to know if you were interested in being a part of it. But if all you are going to do is judge …”

“No! I won’t judge,” Baldie said eagerly. He held up a hand, palm flattened out solemnly. “I swear.”

“Good,” Panahasi said, seeming to be mollified by his friend’s newfound respect for him. Or what passed for respect. It was more likely he would try to find a way to snatch the Amulet for himself at the first opportunity. That was just how grasping and disloyal these Templars were.

There was a noise at the door and Ahnvil’s keeper came bumbling through in a cacophony of objects and clumsiness. She was not his captor. Merely his warden. She moved forward, approaching him cautiously as she always did, her fear obvious on her face. She was wise to feel trepidation. He had not made things easy on her. She had never actually harmed him, but neither had she aided him in any way except to feed him and tidy his
cage. He stood up, his fists clenching, his entire attitude making his body seem bigger than his already massive stature.

“Is it daylight?” he asked, the passing of time so awkward and slow for him in here, shut away from the whims of the sun.

“No. It is turned night,” she answered amicably. She was a mousy little thing, in face and form and most certainly in attitude. She was shy and unsure, especially when she approached his cage.

She was incredibly petite. So small and so thin he could break her with a single swipe of his hand. She moved to the lever on the wall across from him and his entire body went tense, instinctively straining against the action to come. She pulled the lever and immediately, with a grinding groan of machinery, the ends of his chains began to disappear into the wall. They shortened and began to drag his powerful, straining body back toward the solid stone of the rear wall of his prison. He glared at her scathingly, and she turned and hid her face under the length of her hair.

He growled as he stepped back voluntarily, knowing that it was inevitable anyway but it was at least an act of freedom, of choice, however small or disillusioned it might be.

“What is my slop for the day, jailor?” he asked. She seemed to flinch under the reference of her being his jailor. Even though they both knew there was little truth to the matter. She was not the one who had put him here and she was not the one who held him captive still.

She moved back to the doorway to fetch the tray she had been carrying when she’d entered the room, then, with a sense of unease he could feel all the way across the room, she came toward him, her steps small and tight. She was so afraid of him things on the tray rattled softly because her hands, possibly her whole body, was
trembling. As she approached the steel-barred door of his room, she hesitated. She had good cause to fear him. Even lashed down as he was he was, still a force to be reckoned with. And no doubt she could feel his hatred toward her as it rolled off him. She’d have to be dense not to be intimidated.

“Mendato dirivitus day-o septoma,”
she said at last, unlocking the heavy door and its lock with the spoken spell. She was not afraid of him hearing it, because his kind could not cast magic. Magic had forged his kind into life. And magic, it was said, could not beget magic.

She turned and butted the door open using the hook of her ankle to control it. She entered more quickly now. He could only assume it was because she wanted to get the whole thing over with and the less time she spent in the cage with him the better off she’d be.

She had no idea, he thought with menace. If he could get his hands on her, he’d snap her rotten Templar neck in an instant. She and her kind had taken the one thing, the
one thing
that he treasured above all other things, and they would pay for it.