Shadow's Son (32 page)

As his enemies closed in,
Caim leapt up onto the bed. He batted aside
a cut from Ral and swung his other knife in a high arc as he dove from
the bed to the tinkle of shattering glass. He landed behind his opponents,
hit the carpet in a soft roll with a grunt, and spun around as he came to
his feet. Burning oil rained from the ceiling. The bed's fine covers went
up like tissue paper. In seconds the fire spread to a drapery on the wall and
up the ceiling.

The cloaked man wheeled like an angry serpent as his shadowy minions flew across the room.
Caim dove through the open window. He
caught hold of a shutter as his legs cleared the sill. He hung there for a
moment. Then, the silvery blur of a throwing knife sped past his face.

He let go and the pavement rushed up to meet him.

"Get down!"

Josey slid under the table as Kas tore the spear down from its mounts.
Its steely head shone with an oily glint. He rushed to the door just as the
latch broke and a mob of Sacred Brothers poured inside.

Kas skewered the first Brother through the door. As the soldier fell,
Kas whipped the spearhead around and stabbed another through the arm. Bright spurts of blood splashed on the floor. For a moment Josey saw a
glimmer of hope. Maybe the old man could fend them off. But as Kas
yanked his weapon free for another strike, the press of bodies shoved him
back. His spear seemed a pitiful weapon against so many swords.

Josey screamed as something crashed through the window. A heavily
built soldier with thick arms and a scraggly yellow beard crawled over the
sill. She reached up onto the table for something to use as a weapon. Her
fingers found a smooth, cool surface. She grabbed the half-empty bottle
and hurled it at the invader. It struck him on the arm and broke, drenching
his uniform in wine. The Brother yelped and clutched his elbow. Heartened, Josey reached for more ammunition. She threw plates and cutlery,
but he batted the missiles aside and leapt at her. He caught her by the
ankle. She kicked and screamed as he reeled her in like a fish on a line.

Kas staggered in the middle of the room. Blood streamed down his
clothes from a host of wounds. He plied the spear with failing strength
until a blade smote him across the brow. He stumbled to the floor with a
gasp.

Josey shivered in the embrace of her captor. Wine from his soaked arm
wetted her dress. His horrid breath whistled in her ear. He chuckled and
took liberties in the placement of his hands as he hauled her to her feet.
She squirmed and tried to bite him, and was rewarded with a sharp slap
across the face.

"Now, none of that, Josephine," a voice spoke from the cabin's
entrance.

A shudder seized hold of Josey as Markus stepped into the cabin.
Bandages peeked from underneath a striking new uniform: a white jacket
and pants with golden insignia along the sleeves and stiff collar. It was the
uniform of the grand master of the Sacred Brotherhood.
Why is he ... ?

Josey's questions fled at the hideous sight of his face. The flesh of his
sunken cheeks was rippled and crusted black. Drool leaked from the wet
sores where his lips had been; they pulled back in a terrible grimace as he
stood over Kas. The big man's eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused.
Blood seeped between the fingers clutching his ample belly.

"Another valiant defender," Markus said. "You seem to collect them
like pets."

"Leave him alone! Take me, but let him be."

Markus held up a gloved finger as the Brothers surrounded Kas.
"Don't waste your breath. There's no rescue coming for you this time."

While their brethren stomped the old man with their hobnailed
boots, two soldiers drew long daggers and approached Josey. A scream
hovered in Josey's breast as the sharp instruments came toward her, but
she refused to release it. She was a princess, heir to the throne of Nimea.
She wouldn't debase herself with pleading or crying. She would show
them how a lady of imperial blood could die.

Markus straightened his cuffs. "Do you like my new look?"

Josey hurled her most defiant glare at him over the shoulders of the
soldiers. "How much gold did it take to convince you to betray your
oath?"

"Times are changing, Princess," he said. "You would be wise to
change with them."

"Go to hell."

He chuckled as the knives sliced off her clothing. "I was too kind before
on the waterfront. This time, I'm going to take my time and enjoy it."

Josey gasped as she was lifted onto the table, the rough wood
abrading her naked skin. Calloused hands pried apart her legs and exposed
her intimate parts for all to see. She kicked and connected with something
squishy. A gloved fist smashed into her mouth. Blood dripped from her
lips, but she smiled through the pain. Let them do their worst. She
wouldn't go quietly.

But a cold worm twisted in Josey's belly as Markus appeared over her.
The scars on his face oozed clear pus.

"Don't worry, girl. I was told to return you alive and unharmed. We're
not going to hurt you."

He unbuckled his trousers. "Just a little tickle."

Josey screamed as a lance of red-hot pain penetrated between her
thighs. Golden starbursts filled the black space behind her clenched eyelids. So lovely, they carried her away from the horrors of the waking
world.

al spewed profanity with a vengeance as a troupe of table dealers
from the gaming room downstairs battled the flames burning his
suite. The blaze was under control, but it had reduced his rooms to a burnt
shambles. Everything reeked of fire and ashes. Damn Caim! He had the
Horned One's own luck. The sorcerer was gone as well. Good riddance to
both as far as he was concerned. They could kill each other for all he cared.

As Ral paced across charred carpet, he considered Vassili's papers,
tucked inside his jacket. He hadn't been able to make out everything on
those yellowed pages, but what he understood spelled out dire implications, not only for the Church, but for the entire country. The archpriest
had been involved in dirty dealings, even by his standards. Trucking with
sorcery, deviltry, regicide ... Vassili hadn't just wanted to rule Nimea; he
had wanted to spread the Church's influence throughout the entire world.
What boldness! In the end, the archpriest's sin had not been a lack of
ambition, but trust in the wrong persons. Ral wouldn't make that mistake. He didn't trust anyone, especially his new ally. But knowing what
to expect from the sorcerer-secrets, lies, and eventual betrayal-was
better than trust. It was a certainty upon which to base his decisions. To
rule an empire. It could be done, if he was bold enough.

Ral stopped beside the sideboard table. The wooden boxes had survived the fire with a few singes, a minor miracle for which he was almost
prepared to bend knee and offer a prayer of thanks. He had seen for himself the kind of power a symbol could hold over common folk. Give them
a hero, especially one raised from their own ranks, and they would follow
him to the gates of Hell. Everything was almost in place. When Markus
returned with the prize, they could proceed to the final phase of the plan.
The last throw of the dice. Ral could barely contain his excitement.

A centurion of the Sacred Brotherhood, a grizzled veteran with more
gray in his hair than blond and deep lines crisscrossing his face, appeared
at the door and saluted with a fist pressed to his heart.

"The surrounding streets are clear, sir. But I sent a squad after the
culprit."

Ral turned over his left hand. The tower-shaped blot gleamed on his
palm like a patch of wet ink. He had tried washing it with lye, brine,
vinegar, and bourbon, but so far the stain proved indelible. More to boot,
in the fight with Caim he could have sworn it had started to tingle, barely
noticeable in the heat of the melee, but a strange sensation nonetheless.

"Recall them. Are we prepared for Master Arriston's return?"

"Yes, sir. I have Brothers posted at the Market Gate to receive him
and the package."

"Good. Have them brought to Celestial Hill as soon as they arrive.
We're going to the palace."

"As you command."

At the centurion's command, thirteen Sacred Brothers entered the
suite. Each left carrying a wooden box. A jaunty tune played in Ral's head
as he glanced down at his hand. The mark rippled with the supple contractions of his tendons. A noble mark. Perhaps he would use it in his new
family crest, a black tower on a field of white. It had a touch of elegance
to it.

He looked around the room for the last time. The mural of Dantos
was singed beyond recognition. The hero now appeared to be disappearing into a black void, his love forever beyond his reach. Ral didn't
intend to return here ever again. In fact, he would try to forget his time
spent here. Rising stars had no need for memories of the earth below.

He hummed as he walked out of the suite.

There once was a man who danced with Death ...

Levictus stepped from the shadow of a sagging oak tree and onto a carpet
of soft loam. Night seeped between the boles of the ancient grove. The
sweet promise of its power beckoned to him like a lover's perfume.

His cheek burned through lines of blood congealed along his jaw. He had attempted to pursue the one who injured him through the city, but
finally lost the man somewhere in the labyrinthine alleyways.

With a curse, he seized one of the shadows crawling under his robe
and tore it open. Its minuscule death shriek rattled the dying leaves on
nearby trees as he stuffed its gelatinous body into his wound. Murmured
spells halted the bleeding and set the flesh to mending. This man, Caim,
was a devious foe, but only a man after all. He would be dealt with before
long.

Levictus strode across the uneven ground. Moldy stones and fallen pillars of an old sacellum studded the earth under the canopy of interwoven
branches. Built as a temple in Nimea's pagan past, the site also marked a
fault point, a weakness in the fabric between realms. It was here, less than
a league from the city walls, he had discovered his budding powers as a
young man, here he taught himself how to access those abilities with sacrifices of small forest creatures and, eventually, larger victims. Later, Vassill, ever the supportive mentor when he wanted something, had supplied
him with proscribed texts to further his education in the black arts. Now
the archpriest was dead and he, a man remade in the torture cells of the
Holy Inquest, manipulated the strings of an empire.

He went to the stone altar at the temple's center, the very spot where
he had made his fateful pact so many years ago. The memory of that night
was seared into his brain. He had sought to avenge his family, but what
he summoned in his ignorance went beyond anything he had ever imagined. He had seen things that night he couldn't forget, no matter how he
tried. By the following dawn, he'd been a changed man.

He ran his hands across the weathered stone and drank in the power
permeating the temple, let it fill him to completeness. He hadn't been
back to this place in years, but now he needed to make contact again. It
was time to unleash the full measure of his powers upon those who had
tormented him.