Bloodforged (35 page)

‘Yes, brother,’ said the man, holding the hand gingerly.

‘And you, Brother Lyric,’ said the warlock, turning to the other man. ‘Have you the key?’

‘Yes, brother.’ He drew a large key from his doublet and held it up.

‘Good,’ said the warlock. ‘Now, fix them together as I showed you.’

The two men stepped together and positioned the key in the severed hand as if it were holding it, then bound it in place using tarred cord.

‘Is it firm?’ asked the warlock.

‘It is, brother,’ said Brother Song, testing it.

‘Then open the door,’ said the warlock. ‘But be on your guard. I know not what lies within. You must protect me.’

‘With our lives, brother,’ said the men in unison.

Brother Song stepped to the door, holding the severed hand by the stump, while Brother Lyric stood on guard behind him and the warlock prepared a spell. Ulrika shook her head at the simplicity of it. She had imagined great magics being wielded. It hadn’t occurred to her the cultists might somehow have obtained the key.

Brother Song slipped the key in the lock, and tried to turn it. It did not move, for the fingers that held it were slack, and despite the cord, did not hold the key tightly. Frustrated, Brother Song reached forwards to clamp them tighter, but the warlock cried out behind him.

‘No!’ he said. ‘It must be by her hand alone. If your fingers touch the key while it is in the lock, it will not open.’

Brother Song grunted, annoyed, and tried again, pressing the hand against the lock and twisting. Had it been a human-made lock, the trick might not have worked at all, but dwarf locks, while immovable if the wrong key was used, were known for their smooth action, and finally, with the fingers of the hag’s hand twisted in a position that would have broken them in life, the key turned in the lock and there was a rumble of great counterweights moving and bolts drawing back.

‘Excellent,’ whispered the warlock, rubbing his hands. ‘Now step back and be on your guard. I will take over from here.’

Brother Song did as he was told, tossing aside the severed hand and key and readying his sword as the warlock stepped forwards and heaved on the handle. For a moment the door did not move, but then slowly, it began to glide open and a wild burst of violin music skittered out and danced about like a gleeful child freed from school.

Ulrika looked to Stefan, wide-eyed with shock. He motioned her to come to him. She shot a look at the two guards. Their eyes were fixed on the interior of the vault as the warlock stepped into it. She shifted across the arch.

‘When he has it,’ said Stefan, ‘we kill them. Him first, then the other two.’

‘Him?’ Ulrika asked. ‘But they have silver.’

‘And he has fire, remember?’ said Stefan.

Ulrika nodded and stepped back across the arch behind her eagle. She and Stefan drew their swords and daggers, then climbed up until they were crouched upon the eagles’ shoulders. Stefan raised his hand.

‘At last!’ came the warlock’s voice from the vault. ‘And unmarked by flame or decay. Splendid!’

The guards stepped back as he strode out, holding an oblong, gold-hinged mahogany case in his arms as if it were a baby.

Stefan dropped his hand, and like twin shadows, he and Ulrika leapt silently from the stone eagles and landed running, only a few paces from the three cultists.

The two guards hadn’t even heard them when Ulrika and Stefan shoved past them, and the warlock was just turning when they struck. Stefan ran him through the heart. Ulrika thrust her rapier into his surprised mouth, punching it out through the back of his skull and killing him instantly. It seemed too brief a death for one who had nearly murdered her with fire, but there was nothing for it.

They whipped their blades from his body and turned to face the two guards as he collapsed to the floor behind them, the violin case spilling from his grasp.

The guards charged in, slashing feverishly with their silvered long swords. Ulrika stepped back, parrying warily. Her man was a good blade, but no match for her – except for the silver. Without it, she would have dared a quick thrust and finished the fight as swiftly as possible, but one unlucky cut from his sword and it would be she who was finished.

The cultist laughed. ‘Aye, fiend! We know your weakness!’

He pressed in, slashing for her extended arm, but her hesitance had made him overconfident, and he left himself exposed. She bound his sword to the side with her dagger, then ran him through the heart with her rapier as he tried to retreat. Stefan dispatched his man at the same moment, ducking a wild slash and running him through the neck.

Ulrika let out a sigh of relief, then frowned. ‘We neglected to question them.’

Stefan shrugged. ‘With the violin in our possession, there is no need. Their plan is foiled.’

Ulrika turned to where the mahogany violin case lay on the floor beside the dead warlock. It was covered in runic wards and seals, all apparently designed to imprison the violin, but despite them, the thing radiated eldritch power like a black sun, making her skin itch. ‘Let us destroy it here and now,’ she said, raising her rapier. ‘I can feel its vile influence through the box.’

‘No!’ said Stefan. ‘If it is truly possessed by a daemon, we would be in mortal danger. Smashing it might release it, and it could kill us both.’

Ulrika looked at the case again, uneasy now. ‘But then what is to be done with it? If it remains whole, the cult will try to get it again.’

Stefan frowned. ‘It is a pity Boyarina Evgena has added you to her blacklist. She is a great practitioner of the arts, I have heard, and would likely know a way to destroy it safely.’ He grunted angrily. ‘Well, we will find some way, but now is not the time to think on it. We will have to take it with us and decide later.’

‘Very well,’ said Ulrika.

Her head swam as she reached for the case, and an almost uncontrollable urge to open it and take out the violin came over her. It begged her for release, promising her the fulfilment of all her desires, the vanquishing of all her enemies, the love of all whom she held dear. All she had to do was free it from its prison. She fought down the urge with difficulty, then slipped the case into a leather pack the dead warlock wore looped through his belt. Her spine shuddered as she slung the pack on her back. She could feel a burning that wasn’t heat sinking into her skin.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Quickly. I want to be rid of it as soon as possible.’

Stefan nodded and they stepped onto the windowsill. Stefan started down immediately, but Ulrika stared to the east. The sky above the mountains was light grey. Dawn was coming. They would have to move swiftly if they were to make it back to the safety of her bakery basement before the sun rose. Ulrika steadied herself, then began to descend, forcing herself to move at a measured, moderate pace.

As they reached the band of twisted stone, she braced, waiting for the visions and disorientation, but strangely, though they came, they were weaker, and did not overwhelm her. She didn’t need to close her eyes in order to find handholds this time. Was it because she had experienced the storm before? Was she used to it now? Had the warlock somehow damped them?

Then she knew the cause. The violin was doing it. It wanted to escape, and was helping her get to the ground by suppressing the visions. The thought made her shiver. Was she doing the right thing taking it with her, or was it manipulating her mind? How could she know if she was in control of herself or if it was pulling her strings?

They descended below the melted area and entered the spire again through a window. Ulrika worried about the vines and the bloodthirsty purple fruit, and wondered if they would have to return to the outside of the tower to avoid them, but when they reached the thicket, it was withered and dead, and all the pods lay motionless on the stairs, nothing more than little dried husks.

‘As I predicted,’ said Stefan as they ducked through the desiccated vines. ‘The warlock has cleared the way for us.’

Ulrika was suddenly very glad they had killed him before he was able to utter his spell.

From there on they hurried down the stairs almost at a run, passing without pausing at the strange scenes they had stared at on the way up. Then, just as they rounded the last turn before descending into the vaulted entry hall, Stefan jolted to a sudden stop. Ulrika stopped too, catching herself on the banister.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Heartbeats,’ he said. ‘Below us.’

Ulrika extended her senses and felt them too. A dozen or so, at rest at the bottom of the stairs. ‘More cultists.’

They crept silently down the stairs until they descended through the roof of the great chamber, then stopped at the wide gap where the stairs had broken away, and peered over the edge into the murk below. In the light of a few lanterns, a group of cultists in cloaks and masks waited amongst the rubble. Some paced, some sat, some murmured together.

One of the pacers turned to a man who reclined on the stairs, quietly reading a book. ‘What takes so long? Where are they?’

The man with the book spoke without looking up. ‘The climb is difficult and the vault may take some time to open, brother. Be patient.’

Ulrika’s lips curled. She knew this voice too. It was the crook-backed sorcerer she and Raiza had observed leading the ceremony in the temple of Salyak – the man who had trapped the innocent girl’s soul in a bottle.

Another cultist looked up at the pacer and laughed. ‘Do you fear this place, little one? When the queen comes, it will be a shrine!’ The voice was harsh and foreign, and sounded like two people talking at once.

Stefan pointed to the hole in the bricked-up front door and whispered in her ear. ‘If we can cross this gap silently, we can descend low enough that we will be able to gain the hole in the door before they can react.’

Ulrika looked at him, disappointed. ‘But the crooked man is here. The one who got away from me before.’

Stefan eyed her levelly. ‘Do you want vengeance, or do you want to save Praag?’

Ulrika hung her head. ‘You are right. Forgive me.’

Stefan shrugged, then, with infinite care, he took up one of the ropes that dangled from the broken banister and lowered himself over the edge of the last step. Ulrika selected another rope and did the same, slipping slowly down it hand under hand so she did not make it creak with her swaying.

At last her feet touched the top step and she planted them with care, making sure not to nudge any of the tools still scattered there. Stefan landed with equal silence beside her, and together they began to tiptoe down the curving stair towards the oblivious cultists.

It was then that the violin decided to play a tune.

Ulrika froze with shock as the cultists sprang to their feet and looked up towards the wild melody. Stefan glared at the pack on her back.

‘Treacherous thing!’ he hissed. ‘Down! Quickly!’

He pounded down the stairs and Ulrika sprinted after him, the violin shrieking its fevered song in her ears as it slapped against her spine.

‘Stop them!’ cried the leader. ‘They have the Fieromonte!’

The cultists swarmed up the stairs, drawing swords and daggers and howling barbaric battle cries as the violin sawed out a wild dance. Ulrika and Stefan met them two-thirds of the way down the spiral – and cut through them like so much chaff, their rapiers and daggers licking like lightning among them, blocking clumsy strikes and impaling chests, necks and groins.

But as they broke through them, three more – one small and two huge – charged up to block their way. Ulrika and Stefan attacked them negligently, but these cultists were different, and slashed back at them with unnatural speed and strength – and silver. One of the giants wielded a huge silvered axe that nearly knocked Ulrika’s rapier from her hand. The little one whirled two silvered long-knives, and Ulrika had to lurch back as one flashed an inch from her eyes. Beside her, Stefan barely dodged the second giant’s axe – identical to that of the first.

‘Defilers!’ snarled the smaller cultist, raising a voice like two voices over the wail of the still-screaming violin. ‘Give us the vessel!’

Higher up the stairs, the cultists Ulrika and Stefan had pricked in passing were recovering and edging down towards them.

‘Across!’ called Stefan.

He kicked back one of the giants and vaulted from their staircase to the other. Ulrika laughed and did the same, fanning back her attackers and bounding across the gap to the second spiral as they slashed futilely after her.

The weight of the violin case slapped against her back and made her stumble as she landed. Stefan steadied her, and they turned to descend, but before they took a step, the little cultist and the two giants landed in front of them, blocking their way. Ulrika gaped as she went on guard. What manner of men could make such a leap?

‘Do you think your night-born strength will save you?’ shrilled the little one in its strange double voice. ‘We are stronger! We are blessed!’

And with that, the three cultists ripped off their cloaks and flung them aside, revealing themselves to be entirely naked, and not entirely human. Ulrika recoiled, repulsed. Stefan grunted a curse.

The little one was a woman, red-haired and sun-bronzed, with twisting Norse tattoos all over her wiry, slim-hipped body. She was brutally attractive, with sultry eyes that looked out from under snakelike dreadlocks, but she was repellent as well, for the mouth on her face was not the only one she bore. A fat goitre grew from her neck, as if she were birthing a second head, and a drooling mouth distended from it and licked its plump lips with a long pink tongue.