Nightlord: Sunset (52 page)

“I think we found something she likes,” I observed.  “One bucket of coal, please, and a hand up.”

Nodnodnod.

I have a coal-fired horse.  Pity the statue wasn’t iron; I could have named her “Locomotive.”

A few minutes later, we had a bucket of coal on the street—plus an audience—and Bronze was chomping away at it.  The coal, not the audience.  I noticed smoke was coming from her ears.  Just a little smoke, but it was there.  I wondered if she was ready to breathe fire already.

“What do I owe you, my good mastersmith?”

We dickered for a bit and I let him get the better end of the bargain.  Neither of us was really paying attention to the haggling; we were watching Bronze eat.

I did find myself interested in his shop, however.  Maybe I’m being stereotypical, but there I was, a guy wanting to hang around the garage while the lady went shopping for dresses.  I’m sorry, but dresses and shopping just aren’t my speed, unless we’re looking at books, computers, or other kinds of toys.  I watched for a while, observing the work, until Shada climbed down from the cart.  She stood in the entryway with her arms folded, looking at me. 

I resolved to come back later.

I handed her back into the cart and we got underway again.  Shada enjoyed the day out; to a degree, so did I, despite Bronze’s ears giving off a rather unpleasant sort of smoky odor from whatever internal processes were going on.  What kind of digestion does a golem
have?
  And do I need a pooper-scooper for them?

On the trip back through town toward the inn, I brought up the subject of her freedom.  After all, she’d agreed to help me when she didn’t have much choice.  I didn’t want her to feel I was forcing her to stay.  If she
wanted
to, okay.  But I had to clear that up.

“You know, I think I’ve got most of the hang of this place now,” I said.  “If you want, you can afford to do pretty much anything you like.”

She glanced at me and frowned.  “I do not understand.”

“I’m saying that if you don’t want to be around anymore, I’ll understand.  I needed you—as a guide—for a while.  Now I think I can manage on my own.  And I know that you aren’t too happy about… well… me being what I am.  I don’t suppose you have better prospects, but by now you could surely afford to find less distasteful ones, if you want.”

“Are you telling me that you want me to go?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I answered, feeling my stomach do a flip-flop.  I didn’t want her to go, but I needed to let her know she could.  “I’m just pointing out that you can if you like.  It’s your feelings I’m trying to consider.  I know you don’t like me much—I’m a bloodsucking fiend of evil and all—but you put on a good face and haven’t rubbed my nose in it, and I appreciate that.  So I won’t stop you if you’d rather be somewhere else.”

She sniffed at me.  “You,” she replied, frostily, “are the most arrogant and stupid man I have ever had the misfortune to know.  Stop the cart.”

“What?”

“
Stop
the
cart,
” she repeated, in a tone suitable for addressing high-grade morons.  I did so, feeling a deep-down sense of dread. 

She got down, collected her purchases in one arm, and looked me squarely in the eyes.  Her monologue described my mental, physical, and moral shortcomings in detail, rising from a conversational tone to something like a priestess’ chant.  I barely kept up with what she was saying and can’t reproduce it without mangling it.  It went on for over a minute, maybe two or three.  People stopped to listen and stare.  Even Bronze turned to look.  I felt my face get warm while she boiled hotter and hotter.

“You self-centered, narrow-minded, black-hearted excuse for a man,” she shrilled, trembling.  “For a while, I
had
thought it was an incredible irony that such as you might be different from a normal man—but I was wrong!  You’re no better than them, no better than the mud between the toes of a pig!  Men are always dolts, but you are
exceptional!
  Get away.  Go on!  Get away from me before I say something
unkind!
” she finished.

Then she turned on her heel and stalked off.  I stared after her, dumbfounded.  I found I couldn’t do anything else.  I wanted to chase after her—to say something, anything.  I couldn’t move.  I watched her go and realized with a sense of shock that she was leaving.

It hurt.  I didn’t want her to go.  I was surprised at how
much
it hurt.  It felt like Terri all over again, but with my own stupidity to blame this time.  All I could do was watch her vanish into the crowd.

I flicked the reins and headed back to the manor.  I didn’t want people to see their wizard weep in public.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
TH

I
took the sunset gracefully, without even convulsing.  As Sasha mentioned, the changes weren’t nearly so bad if I had led a good life and didn’t need a lot of regeneration.  Things seemed pretty mild.  I could get used to it, or at least learn to tolerate it as a necessary nuisance.

There was no sign of Shada, and I was fidgeting.  Waiting.  If I’d had a book, I might have killed some time by reading, but I didn’t even have a paperback.  I needed a distraction.  Finally, I decided this might be a good time to have a chat with Firebrand.

I settled down at the low, rickety table in my room and laid Firebrand on it.  I didn’t need light, but I got a candle just the same; some fire seemed appropriate.

“Hello,” I tried.  I’m sure I must have looked silly to any third party, but I’d
felt
that sword; I
knew
someone/something was in there.

It didn’t answer.  It was a very sleepy sword.

I touched it lightly, like I would touch the spirit of a man.  It sounded deeper and harder, if that makes any sense, and somnolent and inquisitive at once.

“Hello,” I tried again.

It stirred.  And, in a flash, I was no longer sitting in my room.  I was standing in a cavern—I know the smell of a cave, and there was the echo you might expect.  I spun around, looking the place over and staring; it was a big bloody cavern.  But the place had an air about it that reminded me of my mental study, the place where I go to write this down, make notes for later, read my notes-slash-reference library.  But it wasn’t my mental study—it wasn’t
my
mental study.  I’m not sure if it’s in my headspace or in the sword or somewhere in between.

“What do you want?” came the voice, and what I had taken for a pile of rock stirred slowly.  Large head.  Long neck.  Scales.  Those were wings, not flows of cooled lava… eyes the size of my head, lids just barely open.  The voice was a cross between a hissing and a grinding, like a heavy stone as it slid over gravel.

“To speak with you,” I answered.  My voice sounded awfully faint and piping next to the rock-grinding-crushing-grumbling of the dragon.

“Then you have your wish.  Be silent.”

“Hold on a minute!  I have questions.”

“Yes, you have questions now,” it observed, as the head rose higher to look down at me.  The cavern roof was only a few feet
farther when it stopped.  Big bloody dragon, with eyes that glowed the color of my own.  “Be brief.  I require rest.”

“Okay,” I replied.  Seemed fair to me.  “What are you?”

There was a pause, as though for thought, then, “I am the sword of fire
.”

“What does that mean?”

“I am the blade forged of the heart of the dragon.”

I thought about that for a second, and thought of Bronze.  “Then my sword has the spirit of a dragon inside it?  You’re the thing in the metal?”

“Much of it, yes.”

I haven’t met a dragon before.  But, judging by this, I don’t want to, either.  It looked at me as though it looked at all of me—the good, the bad, the hidden.  I felt like I was four and my all-knowing, all-powerful grandfather was giving me the Long, Hard Look.

“So who made you?” I ventured.

“You did.”

I shut up.  It regarded me for a moment more, then settled itself into a position of repose.  As suddenly as I left, I was back in the room at the inn, exactly as if I had never moved.  Which, considering the nature of my encounter, was probably the case.  It now had the quality of a dream or a vision; I think I was drawn into the blade to talk to it, or it found a congenial imagery in my mind to talk through.  Whichever, it implied a power in the sword I had not suspected.

Which didn’t help my feeling of unease.  My ability to be disturbed was diminishing—there were a lot of things I’d been through that just made the typical wow-that-creeps-me-out things seem trivial.  But what it had said… .

I
made it? 

This case of mistaken identity is going a bit far.  I wish to heaven I could meet this joker who looked like me.  Or I look like.  Whatever.  I wonder how I would know the difference between him and a mirror.  Wittier conversation, perhaps.

I left Firebrand on the table and moved to lie down on the bed, still thinking.  Hands behind my head, I looked at the ceiling and thought about it for a while.  Presently, I fell asleep.

It was the same night when I awoke.  I had a headache roughly the size of New York.  Maybe Los Angeles.  Large enough to be a whole new state.  I groaned and put my arm over my eyes; something clanked as I did so.

“Aha!” came a voice.  “It’s awake.”

I muttered something about it being open for debate.  Then, as my head started to decrease in size, I realized I was on the floor—a cold stone floor, not the wooden floor of my room, and I wasn’t wearing anything.  As sense slowly slipped into its rather roomy spot inside my skull, I realized my regeneration was working—ergo, something had hit me in the head.  Judging by the diminishing points of agony, mainly along the sides and behind the ears.  Quite possibly a collection of bludgeoning wounds.

I opened my eyes and sat up carefully.  Nothing fell off, but parts of my head felt like they were trying to.

I was in the center of a very large room with a bunch of dark-robed figures; it might have been a meeting hall at one point, or a throne room.  There were candles along the walls—not bright and cheery candles, either.  Fat, dribbly candles with odd, but not entirely unpleasant odors.  They were set up high on the walls, in fresh brickwork; apparently, someone had sealed the narrow windows just recently. 

In between and below the candles, there were other prisoners—a bunch of old guys, shackled to the walls.  These older fellows watched with varying degrees of interest and terror, but the robed figures had all my attention.

There wasn’t a staff to be seen in the bunch.  Nor my sword.  But there were a lot of ornate daggers at belts and some very nice rings on various fingers.

I got up.  I found I was chained at the wrists, as well as naked.  I’m getting annoyed at being undressed by strangers.  The chains were set into the floor itself, with enough slack to let me stand with my arms down and to either side, but not enough to move around much.  I was also standing in the center of a complicated magic circle, chalked on the floor.

I knew I should have studied the blasted things in more detail.

“Well, you seem to have recovered nicely,” one of the figures commented.  I made a rude noise in response while getting a good look at him; the hood of his robe was meant to conceal features in shadow, but that wasn’t doing much to stop my vision.  He was a little on the short side and a bit plump.  I couldn’t see his hair because of the hood, and he was clean-shaven.  His eyes were brown.  He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. 

I did a quick count of the others and got a depressingly large number—thirteen.  Mostly male, with a trio of women, but they were all dressed alike.

“Come, come,” he continued, smiling.  “Surely you didn’t expect to wander to and fro over the face of the world without attracting
some
attention?”  His voice sounded somewhat familiar, too, but my skull was still setting itself to rights.

“If I’d wandered faster, it wouldn’t have mattered,” I replied.  “So how did you find me, anyhow?  I thought I had magical detection pretty much whipped.”

He chuckled.  “Indeed!  We are all quite anxious to learn your technique; it is quite effective.  But while you are relatively immune to magical detection, you can still be
seen
.”

“So you put out an APB on me?”

“Beg pardon?” he asked.

“You sent out a lot of spies?”

“After a fashion.  Birds, mostly.  You’re quite a devil to keep in sight, you know.”

I shrugged.  “I blame my horse.”

He smirked.  “That is part of it, I’m sure.”

“Speaking of which, where is my horse?”

“That golem you ride is still in Eastgate, as far as I know; we did not even attempt to capture it.”

Great.  That meant we
weren’t
in Eastgate.

“And my sword?” I asked.

“Still on the table, I believe. 
You
are the subject of our interest.”

I sighed and sat down; there was plenty of room to stretch out, if I wanted.  “Which brings us to business, I suppose.  What do you want?”  My skull was still bothering me, but it was down to a deep-bone itching as it finished knitting back together.

He chuckled outright.  “Why, your blood, naturally.”

I felt very cold.  I doubt it had anything to do with the temperature.

“My blood?” I asked, and I didn’t like the squeak in my voice.  Well, I was naked and chained in a magic circle at some unknown place with a coven of magic-workers who wanted my blood.  I think I can be excused for a little anxiety.

“Not all of it,” he pointed out.  “Just samples.”

“Dare I ask what for?”

He lifted a hand and stroked his chin for a second.  “You are immortal,” he stated.

“After a fashion,” I agreed, cautiously.  “Proof against age, I’m sure, but I can still be killed.”

“We are interested in becoming immortal.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“You do not wish to be?” he asked, looking startled.

“It’s okay.  All things considered, I guess I have to say it’s been a positive experience.  But I don’t recommend it.”

“Well, we will try to avoid the vampiric portions of your immortality.  We hope to make an elixir of youth, or at least an elixir that will stop or slow aging.”

I thought about it.  That didn’t sound so bad.  At least it wasn’t like handing over thirteen magician-vampires into the world… which, all things considered, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing around here.  It would certainly give the Church a baker’s dozen headaches.  Which gave me an idea.  If I could find people of suitable temperament to turn into vampires, it might work out.  Later.  When I was loose again.  If I ever was loose again.

But if these bright lads did manage to make a potion of age halting… well, it had better be permanent, or they’d need a steady supply of vampire blood to keep making more.  Hmm.

“How much blood do you want?” I finally asked.

He looked momentarily vexed.  “I do not know,” he admitted.  “Enough to perfect our formula.”

I had a nasty, sneaking, evil suspicion.  “You mean to keep me as a supply of vampire blood until you have your potion all worked out, don’t you?”

There was some shuffling and muttering among the others, but the leader nodded.

“You’ll pardon me if I say I find that incredibly offensive?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ll also understand I’m already a trifle upset about being kidnapped and bound here.”

“Naturally.  We had no choice, however.”

I bristled.  “No
choice?
  Whatever happened to a nice, polite request?  Did you
try
that?”

“You might have said ‘no,’” he answered, reasonably, “and would undoubtedly have wanted to know why.  It would have revealed too much of us, and we cannot afford to be revealed.”

Lights came on in my head.  “Experimenting with vampire blood can’t be sanctioned by the Church; I doubt fiddling with your lifespans is looked on with great favor, either.  And if you’re already worried about being found out, then I bet you’re all probably wanted, dead or alive,” I guessed.  From their reactions, I could tell they didn’t like my guess.  The leader accepted my guess with good grace.

“True enough,” the leader admitted, unruffled, “although there are none who know of these offenses.  We extend our lives by using the time allotted to others.”

The fact he was willing to tell me that did
not
bode well for my future freedom.

“But the Church—especially the Hand—would be all over you if they knew.”

He nodded.

“Then we are natural allies,” I went on.  “I propose this: I need more magical training and some other assistance in my goals.  You need blood.  We can trade,” I suggested.

He looked thoughtful for a long minute, then he and his buddies went into a huddle.  I could hear them perfectly, but it didn’t seem wise to say so.  They discussed the possibility and likelihood I was lying to get loose.  In the end…

“I am sorry,” said the leader, when the huddle broke.  “While your offer is tempting, it is more likely a gambit to regain your freedom.  I am sorry,” he said again.  “No.”

Without bothering to get up from the floor, I let my tendrils uncoil around me.  Several of my captors jerked back from the edges of the circle.  The leader stood his ground, but he paled.  I’m pretty sure they’ve never seen an actual vampire before.  At least, not one at close range and pissed off.