Dark Lady's Chosen (17 page)

Come morning, Jonmarc left the village with a raiding party of twenty men. The villagers carried whatever weapons had been salvaged from the ruins of the night before, plus an ample supply of reed torches, tinder and oil. In addition to the day crypts Gabriel and Laisren had told Jonmarc about, the Magistrate suggested several more hiding places.

“What makes you think you know where Malesh and his brood rest by day?” Jonmarc asked the magistrate as they rode through the deep snow.

“I chose the dread places,” the Magistrate replied. He had a thick Principality accent and a face weathered from hard outdoor work. “The places that the legends warn us about. Oh, the tales don’t speak of biters. Just of men who entered and never returned, or travelers snatched from the road, or children gone missing. Places with strange lights and shadows, where a cold fear takes your heart and tells you that a wise man would turn tail and run.”

“How did you narrow the list?”

The Magistrate shrugged. “We need to be home before dark. We know they can attack the village, but I’ll still feel safer there than near one of these Crone-damned places.”

A crossroads came into view. As at Crombey, one road bordered thick forest. Beside the crossroads was a shabby shrine, its ribbons tattered and faded with age. Someone seasons ago had piled up eight stones to the Lady as a small altar. Stubs of weathered candles sat among the stones, some recent and some dirty with time.

The Magistrate held up a hand and the group reined in their horses, tethering them lightly to the saplings at the edge of the forest. Jonmarc and the Magistrate led the group into the trees, where the branches blocked the light. Jonmarc’s crossbow was notched and ready.

Beside him, the Magistrate carried a broadsword; he was the only man in the village who seemed to actually have an idea of how to use one. Some of the other men had bows while the rest brought scythes or newly sharpened pikes. Two men carried bundles of wood on their backs, while another carefully brought a large pitcher of oil. A young man carried a wooden cage with a large cat in it. The hedge witch had forced them to bring it, swearing that the cat could sense
vayash moru
and would alert them to the presence of undead.

Jonmarc noted the group’s uneasiness as a sign they were in the right place. From the looks on the faces of the men around him, they were fighting against something that bordered on sheer terror. As they moved into the forest, the cat yowled.

“Shut that thing up!” Jonmarc snapped. The dreams had left him tired and irritable. His mood got worse the closer they came to the task. It might be unavoidable, but he didn’t have to like it.

Jonmarc spotted their destination. A small family cemetery lay long abandoned among the trees. In the Black Mountains of Principality, villagers gave their shrouded dead final rest in the high treetops and in the rocky ledges, making it easier, legend said, for their souls to embrace the Lover. But here in the lowlands, people were more likely to bury their dead.

Bits of glass and

metal hung from the lower branches of trees to ward away dark spirits. A few worn monuments stood tilted in the frozen ground. In the center of the plot, a stairway descended into another shrine.

The boy with the cat ventured closer. Before he was ten paces from the stairway, the cat reared up and hissed, crying out like a baby and clawing at its cage. Jonmarc waved the boy back and three men brought the bundles of dried wood and kindling. Jonmarc and the archers covered the men as they went as far down the stairs as they dared before setting the fire. They overturned the pitcher so that the oil ran down the stairs and into the shrine, and then one of the men struck flint to steel. The bundles burst into flame, and the fire roared up, as flames followed the trail of oil deeper into the shadows. Jonmarc set his jaw, forcing down old panic that triggered at the smell of burning oil as his heart thudded wildly, wanting to be anywhere but here.

Behind them, the cat yowled like a crazed thing, hissing and spitting in terror.

“Get ready,” Jonmarc murmured.

From the depths of the shrine came an ear-splitting wail. A blur of flame rushed toward them up the stairs.

“Fire!” Jonmarc shouted, loosing his quarrel.

Two fiery shapes burst from the shrine entrance. Jonmarc glimpsed faces contorted in agony as the flames consumed the two men and the arrows found their mark. Forced into the sunlight, the
vayash morus
’s outlines flared. Their skin grew translucent, as if the flames glowed beneath it, and then fire shot from their eyes and mouths, rapidly cindering the two forms, which fell in a charred heap in the snow. The smell of burned flesh woke old memories, and he fought the urge to retch. Warily, Jonmarc and the Magistrate approached, but there was no movement, and as one of the men poked at the heap with his pike, it was clear that little remained beyond charred bone.

“Were they the ones we sought?” the magistrate asked.

Jonmarc nodded, feeling sick. “I recognized both from the battle. If there were others who used this site, they’ll keep their distance now. Let’s move on.”

The Magistrate led them to another site at the edge of the forest. It was clear that long ago, a substantial home stood here, although only ruins remained. By the look of it, the home had burned. Before the group could get within fifty feet of the ruined building, the cat began to throw itself against its cage, claws reaching between the bars as if it were trying to run for its life.

Jonmarc had always prided himself on not being a superstitious man. Yet as the group approached the burned foundation, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It wasn’t just a sense of
vayash moru
presence, Jonmarc thought. It was a shadow that even the bright sunlight did not dispel. He remembered the last time he had felt that coldness: in the presence of the Obsidian King.

“This is an evil place,” the Magistrate said. “It burned a generation ago. My grandfather told me about it. Servants disappearing. Errand boys never seen again. They say the lady of the house was mad, and that she murdered the lord and then slept beside his shriveled corpse.

Some said that she wanted blood to bring him back to life, but my grandfather thought she bathed in it.”

Weapons ready, the group moved warily forward, leaving the crazed cat behind in its cage.

They picked their way across the fallen rocks and past the remnants of walls. At the western corner of the foundations lay what remained of a private chapel. The feeling of uneasiness was oppressive here, and Jonmarc knew they had found the right place. He looked around for an opening.

“There,” the Magistrate said, pointing to a cracked marble altar. Jonmarc summoned two of the village men, and together they slid the altar a few feet across the snow-covered floor.

The air that rushed up from the darkness beneath smelled of decay.

“Do you want the brands?”

Jonmarc shook his head. “I’d bet this goes deeper than the last one.” He smiled ruefully.

“I’ve had the privilege to sleep in quite a few places like this with Lord Gabriel’s folks, under emergency circumstances.” He motioned for one of the men to hand him a torch and headed down the stairs warily, crossbow ready. As he expected, the stairs went deep. As several of the other men descended, their torches lit the small antechamber at the bottom.

Six other doorways opened from the main room. Pairs of men, weapons at the ready, brandished their torches as they searched, finding only the bones of the dead. Many of the skeletons were missing their skulls, Jonmarc noted; proof that they were not the first hunters to come this way.

The sixth room had a heavy wooden door. Jonmarc approached it carefully, expecting an ambush. Here below the ground, if the
vayash moru
could extinguish their torches, they were vulnerable in the dark. He jerked back hard on the door, and stumbled as it gave way unexpectedly. When he thrust his torch into the room, he found a comfortably appointed sitting room, filled with furniture to suit a fashionable salon. The room was empty, save for one shape on

the floor curled into a fetal position. As Jonmarc held the torch aloft and his bow at the ready, a pikeman poled the shape over.

Uri lay on his side, a shiv in his back through his heart. His body was immobile, but his eyes snapped open at the intrusion, and his gaze locked on Jonmarc.

“Hold your fire!” Jonmarc commanded. “Let’s get him closer to daylight—mind that you don’t dislodge that shiv.”

As Jonmarc kept his crossbow trained on Uri’s chest, two of the village men handed off their torches and weapons to pick up the immobilized
vayash moru
by the shoulders and legs, moving him gingerly with their eyes fixed on the shiv sunk hilt-deep in his back and the large stain of black ichor surrounding it. They retreated until they reached the step just below where the daylight reached. The sun was now high overhead, and after the gloom of the crypt, the forest seemed glaringly bright.

“All right, Uri. Riqua bet you’d burn without too much effort, so I want to make you a very clear offer. I’m going to keep my crossbow against your chest while my friend pulls out the shiv. These two gents are going to hold you on your feet. Any move—any move at all—and I put a bolt through your chest and they let you fall into the sun. You know I’d welcome the excuse. Blink if you understand me.”

Uri blinked once.

“I want to know where Malesh is. Get in my way and I won’t wait for Riqua to watch you burn. Are we clear?”

Uri blinked.

Slowly, the Magistrate withdrew the shiv, as Jonmarc pressed the crossbow against Uri’s chest. When the blade was out, Uri remained still, although his features lost their frozen appearance.

“Talk—but don’t move.”

“Malesh was here. I came to confront him. I told him the attacks must end. I was right about the blood magic. It cancels out my link to him.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I told you. I can’t read him.”

“I should put this bolt through you, for what you’ve done,” Jonmarc said quietly. None of the other men around them mattered to him just then; he and Uri might as well have been alone.

“I can be of use to you.”

“How?”

“I do have control over most of my brood. I can feel them. They’re afraid of what Malesh’s done. I can call them to fight. Or if they won’t fight, I can command them to stay out of the way.”

“That didn’t work too well the last time.”

“Even we learn.”

“Riqua and Gabriel are still bloodsworn.”

Jonmarc saw loss in Uri’s eyes. “I know. And they have exacted their price from a score of my children. I have lost enough. I will do what I can, in my own way, to end this war.”

Outside, the wind caught the trees and for a moment, sunlight blazed deeper into the crypt, catching Uri on the cheek. The pale skin reddened immediately and began to char, but Uri did not flinch, mindful of the bow pressed against his chest.

“If you want your revenge, then you have it sevenfold as my children die. If we are gods, then we are most vulnerable gods.”

Jonmarc hesitated, his finger on the trigger of the crossbow.
No one would fault me. Riqua
and Gabriel are bloodsworn. I could claim their oath.
After a moment, he drew a deep breath. “Turn him around,” Jonmarc ordered the guards. They turned Uri so that Jonmarc and the mortal fighters had their backs to the sun, able to step into its glare. One of the villagers picked up the shiv, and Jonmarc slipped it into his belt.

“I didn’t make an oath with Gabriel and Riqua, so I’ll do it now. Do what you can to stop Malesh. But betray my trust, and I’ll not only shiv your heart, I’ll saw through your neck and tie you in the sun. Is that clear?”

“Bright as day,” Uri said as Jonmarc signaled the guards to let him go. He disappeared into the shadows, and Jonmarc and the guards retreated hastily into the sunlight.

“M’lord? What now?”

“We continue the hunt.”

They burned out six tombs before the afternoon shadows began to lengthen. The revulsion Jonmarc felt hardened into coldness, and the memories were pushed away to allow him the clarity he needed to fight. He would pay a price for that, later. They routed a dozen
vayash
moru
, and every time, it took all of his willpower not to flinch at the smell of their burning flesh and the human

terror in their death cries. Uri had said Malesh only had at most two dozen fledges. That meant others had joined Malesh, because given the
vayash moru
who had fallen in battle, Malesh should be out of fighters. Jonmarc doubted very much that was the case.

It was too late to ride for Wolvenskorn. Given the day’s activities, Jonmarc had no desire to chance riding by himself after dark. By the time they returned to the village, bonfires circled the town square. Huddled under rough woolen blankets, the villagers slept under makeshift shelters, too afraid to spend the night in their own houses.

“How long can you do that before you’ve burned all the wood for the winter?” Jonmarc asked as they rode back.

“Not long.” The Magistrate sighed. “As you put it, what’s the choice? Be murdered now or die of cold later?”

“Not much of a choice at all, is it?”
For any of us.

Late that night, Jonmarc sat near one of the bonfires, his cloak drawn around him. There was no pretending that he was going to get any sleep. Not after today. Not after the dreams.

With Malesh still at large, he didn’t dare take the edge off his fighting skills, although he longed for a brandy to blunt the memories that were more difficult than usual to push away.

Eleven years, and you still want to throw up when you smell burning meat. Would they still
consider you the Lady’s Champion if they knew that the bottom drops out of your stomach
every time you hear a gallows door spring open?

He pushed away the mocking voice in his head, and it pushed back.
Maybe you really have
found your true home in Dark Haven. Everyone you care about dies. Easier to handle if
they’re already dead when you meet them.