Blood Ties (28 page)

All eyes in the place went to the door through which the Half-breeds should have come pouring through. Instead, it remained resolutely shut.

Reaver's voice was remaining flat and even, but I could tell that he was working to control it. He tossed down a key, which I took to be the one that would enable me to unlatch the bolt from my side. “Finn,” he said, “would you be so kind as to open the door?”

I stared at the key. “You can't be serious. You think I'm going to—?”

“I concede your strategy, all right?” said Reaver with a trace of impatience. “That was sloppy on my part, not foreseeing that possibility. No matter how old one is and how much one learns, there are always further lessons, particularly for a student of humanity. You win, you can both leave, and I will have my alchemist ‘cure' your brother of his addiction. I say this before all these witnesses of high standing and character who trust me to keep my word in various dealings. Now, will you please open that damned door?”

“Isn't there going to be a fight today, Reaver?” It was one of the noblewomen. She sounded petulant, like a child being told that there wasn't going to be dessert after dinner.

“It seems not, my dear,” said Reaver, but he hadn't stopped looking at the door.

I exchanged looks with Page. “It's a trick,” she said, never taking her eyes off Reaver.

“I don't think so. He has no reason to. There's something going on, and he's as confused as anyone else.”

“Finn, wait!”

But I didn't wait. Instead, grabbing up the key, I strode across the arena, and it might have been the most stupid thing I had ever done. Yet Reaver was coming across as discomfited, and if that was the case, my concern for my brother's welfare was overwhelming my better judgment.

I gripped the door tightly, opened the lock, yanked the door wide, then backed up quickly, preparing to throw myself in front of Page again if necessary as the creatures came charging out.

No one and nothing did.

My backpedaling slowed, then stopped as I realized no danger was presenting itself. There were confused murmurings from the gallery of spectators above, and Droogan was demanding to know what sort of trick this was.

I reversed my course and headed back toward the opening, straight into the open mouth of the waiting lion, as it were. Yet all I was worried about at that point was my brother's condition and welfare.

I entered the narrow hallway and saw no sign of the creatures. Nor did I hear them in the near distance down the hallway, snarling and howling as they were wont to do. Quickly, I made my way down the corridor toward the cages that had housed them. As I drew close, a smell that I knew all too well overwhelmed me.

It was the smell of death.

The cages were empty and the bodies of Reaver's guardsmen were everywhere. They had been ripped open, torn apart. Their blood was everywhere. Instinctively, I turned toward the cell the alchemist had used as his personal play area, and a deep howl of despair emerged from my throat. His dead eyes stared uncomprehendingly out at me from his head, which was on the other side of the cell from his body.

I was standing there staring at the death of hope for my brother. Insofar as I knew, the alchemist's talents would be required in order to free William of his enslavement in his animal body. With the alchemist dead, all hope was gone.

And gone, too, were the Half-breeds. There was no sign of them at all.

I stepped over the body of the captain of the guards and noticed a large ring of keys dangling from his belt. As I removed it from the belt, I heard an impatient Reaver calling, “Well? What's going on, Finn? What have you found?”

I strode quickly back down the hallway, gripping the keys tightly. Emerging into the Pit, I looked up at the expectant and eager faces above. At that moment all I could think was that if they had had between them a single neck, I would have taken my sword and cut it through. “Your guardsmen are dead,” I called up to Reaver, “and the Half-breeds are gone. All of them.”

“That's impossible,” said Reaver flatly, but I knew from his voice that he was aware I wasn't lying.

Droogan was practically shaking with fury. “You said you had total control over those creatures!”

“I do!” Reaver said, and he looked to his right . . .

. . . and saw nothing. Obviously, he was expecting to see something, but whatever it was, it wasn't there. His head snapped around, and his gaze focused on Droogan. “Where is it?”

“Where's what?”

“My walking stick. I had it when I came in here, and you were right behind me. I set it down, and now it isn't here. Did you pick it up? Did you touch it?”

“I didn't touch your damned walking stick!”

It was the first time I had ever seen Reaver close to losing his iron control.
“Then where is it?”
he nearly shouted.

Then came the last voice that I should have expected, and yet—strangely enough—the very first one I wanted to hear. “Looking for this?”

It floated through the arena, originating from beneath the viewing level. The spectators were looking around, confused as to who had spoken and where he was positioned. But Reaver said two words, growled from between gritted teeth: “The gnome.”

Upon hearing him referred to, the gnome emerged from beneath the balcony and vaulted easily onto the railing. Reaver's guests let out startled shrieks and backed up, stumbling over each other to get away from him as if he presented some manner of actual threat. The gnome was chortling deliriously, no doubt entertained by the sight of the terrified humans giving way to him. “I'd throw insults at you,” he said, “but you'd be a waste of effort. The fact that you live at all is insult enough.”

The gnome was waving Reaver's walking stick around, holding it by the top. Then the cocking of a trigger instantly riveted the gnome's attention in the direction of the potential threat. Reaver had produced a gun, seemingly from nowhere, and he was aiming it straight at the gnome. “Hand me back that walking stick right now,” he said tightly.

“I see no reason not to,” said the gnome, and he lobbed the walking stick to Reaver, who caught it with his free hand. He looked to the end of it, where the glistening bauble that had served as the head of the walking stick had sat, except it was no longer there. The only remains of it were a few assorted fragments that seemed to be clinging to it with determination.

Reaver moaned softly to himself upon seeing the remains of the crystal. “You didn't,” he said tragically, although the obvious truth was right in front of him.

“Oh, I did. Of course I did,” said the gnome. “Do you have any idea how long I've been around? Do you have any idea how much I know? I've forgotten more than you'll ever learn. And when I see an Old World control crystal, I recognize it for what it is. If you'd been paying a bit more attention to your precious bauble and less attention to your guests and your games, I wouldn't have been able to slip right in here and snatch it practically from under your nose, you great idiot.”

“What's he saying?” said Droogan, looking in confusion from the gnome to Reaver.

“Want me to say it more slowly and with words of fewer syllables?” asked the gnome.

Reaver let out a long sigh as if he were about to make a great confession. “That walking stick,” he said with clear frustration, “was how I maintained command over the Half-breeds. It enabled me to control their minds, to guide them. When it was shattered by this household pest, it broke the direct line of communication that I had to them.”

“What . . . what does that mean?” asked one of the women in the group. Her hand fluttered to her throat as if afraid that one of the Half-breeds might be sitting right near her, preparing to chomp down on her throat.

The gnome answered before Reaver could with what was clearly great delight. “It means that they're out and about, and Reaver doesn't have a thing to say about it. It means you're all in mortal danger. That even as we speak, they're tearing around this mansion, ripping into anything they see and anyone they run into. Why don't you run right out there, little miss? I'm sure they'll like you well enough. You're certainly carrying enough additional flesh on those bones. You'll probably go down well.”

The woman let out a shriek and grabbed the man nearest to her for support, but he didn't look any more happy about the entire situation than she did. The rest of the guests were appearing equally terrified. This did not go unnoticed by the gnome, who was taking an insane delight in being the cause of all this fear. “Oh, that's the way of it, eh?” he called out, making no effort to keep the chortle out of his voice. “You have no problem with the prospect of watching other people get ripped into pieces for your entertainment. But when it's your own necks on the lines, suddenly you're all skittish about it! Hah!”

I was busy taking the opportunity to try the assortment of keys in the locked manacle that was keeping Page attached to the stake. The first six accomplished nothing, but I inserted and turned the seventh key with no resistance at all. The lock clicked open, and Page was free.

Full-out panic was seizing everyone in the galley. They wanted to flee, but they were in terror of departing the viewing area because they didn't know what they were going to encounter. But they were equally fearful over staying where they were because for all they knew, the Half-breed monsters would come pouring in there and rip them to pieces. Meanwhile the gnome wasn't making things any easier for them, bounding around like a lunatic, apparently not caring about the gun that Reaver had drawn on him. “Keep going!” he shouted. “Keep babbling to each other! Get louder and louder! It'll make it that much easier for the creatures to hear you and be brought right to you!”

“Oh,
do
shut up,” said Reaver. He fired off a shot at the gnome, but the little fellow was certainly spry; he dodged it easily and quickly found shelter. With a growl of irritation, Reaver shoved his pistol into the inner pocket of his coat and strode up the several steps to the back of the viewing area. Without hesitation he threw open the door that led down into it. The spectators screamed, obviously terrified that the Half-breeds were going to come pouring in through the open doorway and assault them with the full fury of their animal breeding. Obviously, none of them were considering the reality that, if the Half-breeds wanted to get to them, a simple unbarred wooden door would hardly have been sufficient proof against them.

Nothing came through the door.

Page and I were prepared as well. We had our weapons at the ready, and even though we were down in the Pit of the arena, the distance to the door above would have been no great problem for decent marksmen, and Page and I were far more than that. “You know,” I said in a low voice to Page, “we both have a clear shot at Reaver.”

“I'm not a cold-blooded killer, and neither are you, as you have already proven beyond question.”

I nodded in acknowledgment of the truth of her words and returned my attention to the door.

Still nothing presented itself to be shot, including—to my gratitude—my brother. This was going to be brutal enough without having to deal with gunning down William first crack out of the box.

The people were still cowering but were starting to look bewildered. Reaver, for his part, didn't seem the least bit surprised. Obviously, he had not been expecting any of the Half-breeds to attack, and the fact that they were not doing so was simply the realization of that expectation.

“For all your knowledge, gnome, you don't know everything,” said Reaver. “Shattering the crystal didn't quite give them the total freedom you seem to think it did. Yes, I don't control them anymore. But because of their animalistic nature, their minds will—how best to put it—reset. They'll be compelled to return to the last uncompleted mission that I gave them . . . the one that was so much on my mind recently . . . and complete it.”

“How do you know that?” said the gnome, sounding dubious.

“Because I'm Reaver. Because I know things like that. That's why they won't be wandering the mansion. There's a direct exit from the cells to the outside. Their instincts will take them straight toward it and, once they're out, they will feel compelled to head right for—”

“Blackholm,” I said.

“Blackholm?” said one of the women, and she looked much relieved. “Well, thank the gods for that. At least it won't be anywhere that matters.”

I swung the muzzle of my gun toward her. “One more word out of you will be your last.” She could tell from my demeanor that I was not speaking in jest. Her mouth immediately clamped shut as her eyes widened in fear.

“But my men are stationed in Blackholm!” said Droogan with rising alarm.

“Well, they won't be for long,” said Reaver.

“Are you sure about this?” I called up to Reaver. “You're positive they're heading toward Blackholm?”

“Oh yes. The gem may be gone, but I can still sense them here”—and he tapped the side of his head—“like a fading echo. Blackholm is their destination, and once they've overrun that, they'll start going berserk throughout the countryside. Do you see what you've done, gnome? Do you see what your mission has accomplished, Finn? Albion was much better off when the Half-breeds were under my control.”

“The Half-breeds exist because you created them!” I said. “Don't make it sound like Albion owes you a debt of gratitude because you were keeping a leash on the very monsters you created!”

“At least I was keeping that leash. Now no one is.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” said Droogan.