Demonbane (Book 4) (17 page)

“
Kendril
,” Joseph warned as they hurried down a richly carpeted hall, “you’re going to get us shot.”

“I’m tired of all this nonsense,” Kendril responded in a heated tone. “You want Kara back alive, right? Then hurry up and watch out backs.”

They turned a corner.

Two gendarmes scrambled to their feet from where they had been sitting by a large pair of open doors. They stood and blocked the passage, their halberds held at the ready.

“Ghostwalker business,” Kendril snapped. He pushed past them.

Joseph gave an apologetic shrug and followed his friend.

From the open doors ahead came the booming voice of the Lord Mayor mingled with the shrieking tone of Baron Dutraad, and interspersed with the calmer and deeper tones of Captain Potemkin.

“I can’t just arrest them, your lordship,” the Lord Mayor was saying. “They have the authority of the King himself—”

“I’ll see them hanged,” Dutraad shouted. “By Eru, I’ll see you
all
hanged. I demand you let me go this instant.”

“Please have patience, Baron,” the mayor said in a placating tone. “As soon as our messenger gets back from Varnost—”

“You don’t have that long.” Kendril stepped into the room and tossed a pile of papers down onto the long, highly polished wooden table.

The two gendarmes rushed in behind him, their weapons raised.

Captain Potemkin raised a hand and the guards fell back a step.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Lord Mayor blustered. “Captain, how can you allow—?”

“We found them,” Kendril interjected. “We know where this mystery cult is. Tell them, Joseph.”

“We
think
we know where they
might
be,” Joseph corrected. He reached down and picked up one of the pieces of paper that Kendril had tossed down. “I found these in Lady Dutraad’s room. It’s a series of letters, correspondence between her and someone who simply signs themselves as ‘B’.”

“Now you’re ransacking my rooms?” Dutraad slammed his hand down on the surface of the table. “Ashes, you’ll pay for all the damage you’ve caused.” He looked over at the Lord Mayor. “And if they don’t, then
you
will. There are no charges against me, no reason to—”

“‘B’ is certainly Bronwyn, or Brionne, or whatever the witch is calling herself,” Kendril said abruptly. “She set up times to meet with your wife, Baron. They had been having secret meetings going back for several months.”

“My wife,” Dutraad said, his mustache quaking with rage, “is a victim in this whole affair. How on Zanthora you think that Mina could possibly be
involved
in any kind of—”

“The cult of Indigoru,” Madris said as she entered the room, “is a mystery religion, Baron. It relies on multiple stages of initiation, secrecy, and pagan rituals. It undoubtedly has a hidden temple or meeting place somewhere here in Vorten. Your wife was a member.”

“That’s impossible.” Dutraad leaned over the table, both hands splayed on its surface. “Don’t you think I know my own wife?”

“Considering that you were apparently chasing after every young strumpet in Vorten and were sleeping in different rooms,” said Kendril with a cold gleam in his eye, “no, your lordship, I don’t.”

Dutraad glared at the Ghostwalker with undisguised rage.

“Please, Kendril,
attempt
to show some tact,” Madris sighed.

“We’re past the time for tact,” Kendril shot back.

“This…cult,” said Potemkin, who was still standing ramrod straight near the wall of the room, “where is it?”

“The letters don’t say,” Joseph said. His voice sounded strangely quiet amidst the heated tones in the room. “We have times, and dates, but not a location.”

“Then how does that help us?” The Lord Mayor clasped his hands behind his back in frustration.

“It doesn’t,” Kendril agreed. “Until Joseph found these.” He motioned to his friend.

The bearded scout pulled out a few slips of paper and set them down on the table.

Everyone leaned in with interest.

“What in Eru’s name—?” Dutraad began.

“They’re
tickets
,” Kendril explained impatiently. “Ticket stubs, actually. The times and dates match those in the letters.”

The Lord Mayor looked up at the Ghostwalker in confusion. “How—?”

Kendril exhaled in exasperation. “Baron Dutraad, your wife, did she go to the opera often?”

Dutraad squirmed for a moment, as if answering was physically painful. “Yes. It was her one true diversion in life. But…how is that important?”

“Tuldor’s beard,” Kendril cursed. “Are you really all so stupid?”

The Lord Mayor frowned deeply.

“
Kendril
,” Madris warned again.

Joseph picked up one of the stubs. “These are from opera performances that Mina attended. Performances that have matching times and dates to the meetings with the mysterious ‘B’ in the letters.”

Everyone stared at the scout for a moment in startled silence.

“The
cult
,” Kendril said, fire leaping in his eyes. “Don’t you see? They’re meeting in the opera house.”

Chapter 10

Kara grunted in pain as she was pushed down to her knees.

Through the heavy linen bag that covered her head she could hear the echoing sound of falling water. The putrid reek of garbage and rot was so strong that it penetrated through the cloth to her nostrils. The ground under her knees was hard and slimy.

Voices moved around her, soft and barely audible over the constant splashing of the water and Kara’s own heavy breathing, amplified inside the darkness of the hood over her face.

She had been forced to walk, stumbling and tripping without being able to see where she was going, pushed and dragged until she had arrived here, wherever here was. She had heard a discordant sound like screeching violins at one point, far away and somewhere above her. She had been shoved down a long flight of stairs at some point, then turned her back and forth for several minutes.

In short, Kara had no idea where she was. Of course, she had no idea where she had been when she had started, so not much had changed.

Her legs had been unbound before she had left the closet she had been tied up in. They were still throbbing with pain, tingling and hurting with each step. Her hands were still tied tightly behind her back. She kept her fists clenched.

She was still wearing the dress, ripped as it was. By now it was no doubt torn and covered with filth. Maklavir would be horrified when he saw it, especially after all the money he had paid for it.

“Take the hood off her,” came Bronwyn’s voice from somewhere to Kara’s right. “She may as well go to her death with her eyes open.”

The hood was torn from Kara’s head.

She winced for a moment as the light of several torches assaulted her senses, but her eyes quickly adjusted. The wretched stink of an open sewer almost made her wretch. It was ten times worse with the bag off her head.

Kara risked a glance around. She was in some kind of intersection for various sewer run-offs. Several flows of blackish-green water spilled from elevated causeways, thundering down into a brackish pool of sludge that filled the room. A stone causeway, covered with sludge and putrid slime, led from a walkway that circled the perimeter of the room to a raised area in the center of the lake of raw sewage.

It was on this man-made island that Kara now kneeled. Directly in front of her on the raised area was some sort of stone altar. Candles were burning at its corners. A human skull grinned out at her from just below the stone edifice.

All around stood robed, hooded figures. Their faces were cast in shadow. Some held torches. Others had swords, knives, and other weapons at their belts. There had to be at least a dozen of them.

Kara set her face, determined not to show any fear. She shook her head and her tangled red hair spilled down around her shoulders.

Several objects, small and sharp, scattered from her tresses, falling down onto her shoulders and towards the ground.

Shards of ceramic pottery, caught in her hair.

Kara didn’t think. She didn’t have time to. She opened her hand.

As if by some miracle, one of the shards fell into her palm.

She instantly closed her fist.

 “Prepare the altar,” one of the hooded figures ordered.

Kara recognized Bronwyn’s voice, even though the witch’s face was hidden from view.

Behind her back she clenched her hands even tighter.

Three of the cultists moved to the altar, and started attaching ropes to iron rings set into all four of the corners.

Bronwyn pushed back her hood and revealed her beautiful face. She knelt down next to Kara and gave a sympathetic smile. “I’ll take out the gag, if you promise to behave yourself.” She leaned over and pulled the tight cloth out of Kara’s mouth.

The redheaded thief spat, licking her dry lips.

“If you’re thinking about screaming, you can certainly go ahead and try,” said Bronwyn casually. “But as you’ve no doubt guessed by now, no one is going to hear you down here. And if you make too much noise, I have no problems with shutting you up again.”

Kara glared up at the dark-haired woman. “You’re a monster.”

Bronwyn beamed. “There, you see? I think it’s the least I can do to give you a chance to spout off a few insults before we bleed you dry. Seems somehow more civilized, doesn’t it?” She held up her dagger, twisting it in the torchlight of the dark chamber. “Also, I’m curious as to whether you’ll scream at the end.”

Kara’s eyes fell on the altar and the acolytes who were feverishly preparing it.

Bronwyn followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. Fairly self-explanatory, isn’t it? It was good of the goddess to provide you for the sacrifice. Saves us the trouble of having to snatch some young maiden off the streets, which always seems to raise questions regardless of how careful one is.”

Kara looked back at the witch. “You sacrifice
human beings
to your gods?”

“Ashes, no. At least, not most of the time.” Bronwyn rested her chin on her knee. “Usually it has to be chickens, dogs, that sort of thing. Hardly a fitting sacrifice for a Seteru, but killing a person can bring the wrong sort of attention very quickly.” Her eyes flashed with a sudden spark of passion. “All that will change, of course. It will be a new world tomorrow, a world where the Seteru are venerated again, and the false worship of Eru is put to an end. You’ll see. Well, not
you
specifically, but Rothland in general. It will be so beautiful, so very, very beautiful.”

Kara swallowed.

Mad. The woman was completely mad.

“So why do you need me?” Kara asked. Her gaze flicked across the room, She silently counted the number of cultists, noted which ones were armed and which weren’t, marked the dark archway on the other side of the causeway that was the room’s only visible exit. She loosened her hand, but kept it closed. She could feel the sharp edge of the object she held inside her clenched fist. Eru, she hoped there was no blood.

“To summon the Goddess,” Bronwyn continued, her voice as pleasant and chatty as if they had been speaking of the weather, “we need blood.
Human
blood. That’s where you come in. We must sacrifice a young, female virgin to tear the veil to the Void.”

Kara lifted her eyebrows. “A virgin?”

Bronwyn gave a gleeful giggle. “Don’t worry about any of that.” She bent over until her mouth was inches away from Kara’s ear, her voice a whisper. “Between you and me, the goddess isn’t too…
particular
about those kinds of details.”

Kara felt white hot rage flow through her. She never thought it would end like this. Bound like some helpless creature, sacrificed to some dark god by some insane cult. It was all she could do not to tighten her fist so much that she cut her palm on the pottery shard.

Bronwyn straightened. She lifted the hood of her black robe back over her head, and her face fell into shadow once more.

Kara felt desperate and helpless. She wanted to say something,
anything
.

“I have friends,” she blurted. “They’ll find me.”

She sensed rather than saw Bronwyn’s mocking smile from underneath the darkness of the raised cowl.

“In two hours,” the witch said in a chilling tone, “it won’t matter.”

Captain Potemkin looked out the windows of the office.

The sky was darkening into evening, the sky a muted gray. The snowflakes had finally ceased their relentless fall on the city, leaving a fresh blanket of deep white snow behind.

Potemkin turned his head back to the Lord Mayor, who stood staring at the roaring fireplace. “Sir, it’s getting dark. If we’re going to move—”

“
Move
?” The rotund man grabbed a fire poker from where it hung by the fire. “Tuldor’s beard, Potemkin, you’re beginning to sound like one of those cursed Ghostwalkers.”

The gendarme captain stiffened.

Kendril stood by the doorway to the room. His eyes were on the windows, his right hand tapping agitatedly against his leg. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, your honor.”

Madris, seated against the wall, cast Kendril a warning glance.

The mayor thrust the fire poker violently into one of the logs. It set up a flare of burning sparks. “You have no evidence. No evidence at all. You’re making a wild leap, a guess that the opera house is a meeting place for some vile cult that’s about to launch some kind of vast, demonic invasion of Vorten.” He looked over his shoulder at Kendril, the fire poker still in his hand. “Perhaps in your world that makes sense, Ghostwalker, but here in reality there are other considerations that sane men have to keep in mind.”

Kendril’s eyes flickered darkly. “Such as?”

The mayor gave a sigh. He replaced the poker. “There’s a performance at the opera house tonight. What would have me do? Storm the building with fifty gendarmes and create a panic and uproar among the more than
one thousand
people who are in attendance?” He pointed an accusing finger at Kendril. “All on a
guess
?”