“There are other options,” Ghost said aloud, reminding himself of his many allies and of the fact that both of those resisting wizards had wound up as worm food.
One of those times, Ghost had possessed a victim that the unsuspecting mage could not suspect—his wife. What a sweet kill that had been! On the other occasion, Ghost had served the attending Night Mask band as an infiltrator, providing them with such an enormous amount of information that the targeted wizard, as powerful as he was, had been among the guild’s easiest kills.
“Either way, young Cadderly,” the merciless assassin whispered to the wind, “I shall paint my picture, and you shall be dead before the first of winter’s snows.”
With a malignant snicker, the assassin in a beggar’s body went to the bushes and retrieved his own form. The magical ring had nearly completed its healing work on the limp-muscled figure by then. The stench was fast fading and the flies had gone away.
“Do you wear a ring such as mine?” the assassin teased the formless spirit he knew would still be wandering nearby. Ghost willed the Ghearufu, white glove, and mirror, back into sight and took the black glove from the hand of the corpse. He fell back into his mind, connecting with the powers of the magical device.
The eyes of the assassin’s more familiar form blinked open just in time to watch the beggar’s body fall stiffly to the side. Ghost spent a moment reorienting himself to his customary form then propped himself up on his elbows.
“No magic ring?” he laughed at the beggar’s corpse. “Then you will stay dead, pitiful fool, though whoever finds your body will have no idea how you died!”
The thought widened Ghost’s smile. In his earliest days with the Ghearufu, more than a hundred years before, he had hacked up his unmarked victims. His confidence had quickly grown, though, and Ghost soon changed tactics, thinking in his budding arrogance that the mysteries surrounding the demise of an apparently healthy body would serve as an appropriate calling card.
Ghost willed the Ghearufu away and brushed the dirt from his clothes. He started down the road for the distant gates of Carradoon, and his room at the Dragon’s Codpiece.
The firbolg noted with distaste the apparently normal situation at the farmhouse on the outskirts of Carradoon. A few hens clucked and strutted, pecking at discarded seed here and there, the three horses in the stable beside the barn showed no signs that they had been spooked in the least, and the house itself showed neither a shattered window nor a broken door.
Vander knew better. It was always that way, always done in absolute secrecy. And it all seemed so cowardly to the warrior giant.
“We could have stayed in the forest,” Vander muttered, flipping his white-furred cloak back over his muscular shoulders.
The black-and-silver-outfitted assassins at the firbolg’s sides looked at each other with curiosity. “It was by your orders …” one of them began to reply, but Vander’s upraised hand silenced him.
Not by my orders, the firbolg thought, remembering when Ghost, in Vander’s magnificent body, had set the troupe into motion, while Vander could only sit and watch helplessly from inside Ghost’s weak form.
“We must get inside,” offered the assassin after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “This yard can be seen from the road.”
“The light of day offends you,” the firbolg remarked.
“It reveals us,” the Night Mask replied.
Vander cast him a threatening scowl but followed the two men to the door anyway. The portal was large enough so that Vander didn’t have to alter his size, and he was glad, for he didn’t enjoy wearing a human frame, especially not around his murderous compatriots. He liked the imposing strength of his giant body, the long, muscled limbs that could reach an enemy from across a room and easily throttle him.
Vander hesitated at the threshold.
“The house is secure,” one of the assassins inside assured the firbolg, misunderstanding his dismay. “Only the elder daughter remains alive, and she is held—” the lewd way the man spoke that word irritated Vander profoundly—“in the bedroom.”
Vander strode in. “Where?” he demanded, purposely redirecting his gaze from the bloodied male and female bodies in the corner of the small kitchen. The human assassin, obviously unbothered by the gruesome sight, sat at the table, casually eating breakfast. He motioned to a door at the back of the room.
Propelled by his mounting rage, Vander was across the kitchen and through the door in an instant. He nearly tripped over a smaller bloodied form just inside the second room, and that moved him along only faster.
The second room connected to a side bedroom, its door open a crack. A whimpering sound came from within, revealing to Vander what was going on even before the firbolg shoved the door wide.
The girl lay on the bed, half-dressed and securely tied to the posts by her wrists and ankles, with the sides of her mouth pulled tightly back by a cloth gag. An assassin lay on each side of her, teasing her and taking delight at her terrified movements.
Vander had to stoop low to avoid the ceiling beams, but that didn’t slow him. He swept aside the three Night Masks standing in his way with a single movement then stepped to the foot of the bed.
One of the prone assassins looked up and grinned wickedly, misconstruing the firbolg’s urgency. The fool motioned for Vander to join in the fun.
Vander’s great hands caught both the men by their collars and sent them flying across the room to collide heavily with the wall on each side of the door. The firbolg quickly threw a blanket over the exposed young woman and turned to face his hated associates.
The three on the side of the room looked at each other nervously. One of the men who had hit the wall lay crumpled in a heap at its base. The other, though, was up and outraged, a short sword in one hand.
Vander couldn’t help but grin as he considered the situation. Might this be the long-awaited showdown? A nagging thought stole his mirth. He could kill the men, all five, and probably the other dozen or so that were in and about the house, but what about Ghost?
“You three,” he commanded to the men on the side of the room. “Your associate has drawn a weapon on your master.”
The three understood the implications immediately, as did the man holding the short sword, if his suddenly fearful expression correctly revealed his thoughts. The Night Masks were a vicious and unforgiving band, but within the organization existed strict codes of conduct and horrible forms of discipline that even the heartiest assassin feared. The three by the wall drew their own weapons and faced the traitor.
The man with the short sword fumbled to put his weapon away. He jerked once then again, a confused expression on his face.
His accomplice, crumpled at the base of the wall, was not as dazed as he’d appeared, and he was eager to regain the taskmaster’s favor. In his hand he held the last of three daggers, and that one, too, he whipped across to find a place in the traitor’s side.
Anxious to show their respect and loyalty to their powerful leader, the other three promptly rushed the dying man. A club slapped the short sword from trembling hands, and all four loyal soldiers set upon the doomed man, hacking and crushing until he lay in a bloody heap on the floor.
“Put him with the other dead,” Vander said to them. He looked back to the bed. “And find a proper prison for this girl.”
“She is a witness, and must be killed,” an assassin replied. “That is our way.”
“On my word alone,” Vander growled back, his voice carrying tremendous influence, considering the grim fate of the one who had dared to oppose him. “Now take her!”
The same man who had questioned the decision started immediately for the bed, sheathing his weapon but not relenting his steely-eyed glare.
Vander caught him in one hand by the throat and easily lifted him from the floor.
“You are not to touch her.” The firbolg snarled in his face. He noticed the man’s hand inching toward his belt. “Yes,” Vander purred, “do draw your little
knife!”
The three remaining men seemed at a loss.
“She must be killed,” one of them dared to offer in support of his threatened colleague.
The man in Vander’s grasp twisted free enough to growl defiantly at the firbolg.
Vander heaved him through the nearest wall, back into the kitchen. Several assassins who had gathered in the other room stared through the hole in disbelief at the angry firbolg.
“On your word alone,” the three men by the door said obediently.
“I will make my place in the barn,” Vander said to them all. “It is more fitting to my size and there I will not have to deal with your impertinence. I warn you just one more time,” he growled. “If the girl is harmed in any way.…”
Vander left it at that, preferring to end the threat by leading the others’ gazes to the squirming, groaning Night Mask caught fast by broken, stabbing planks halfway between the bedroom and the kitchen.
Fredegar Harriman, proprietor of the Dragon’s Codpiece, shook his thick-jowled face in disbelief at the request for yet another private room. The inn had only eight such rooms, and while the much less expensive common room was nearly empty, all of the private rooms were occupied. That alone seemed amazing enough, but what struck Fredegar as even more odd was the makeup of his guests. Five of the rooms belonged to visiting merchants, as was common. A sixth had been paid for until the end of the year by Cadderly, and a seventh had been reserved by the Edificant Library for use by a soon-to-arrive headmaster. Even more unexpectedly, the last room had been rented that very day, to a stranger nearly as curious-looking as the brown-haired lad who stood before him.
“Common room won’t do?” the flustered innkeeper asked. “At least for a few nights? It’s on the back side of the building. Not much of a view, but quiet enough.”
The young man shook his head, his stringy brown hair flopping to one side, revealing that half of his head had been shaved. “I can pay you well,” the man offered, giving his purse a quick shake to accentuate the point.
Fredegar continued to wipe the bar and tried to find a way around the dilemma. He didn’t want to put the young man out, more to protect his own reputation than for the lost coins, but he didn’t see a way around it. The hearth room was teeming—as it had been every night since rumors of impending war had spread through Carradoon—mostly with locals. Fredegar peered through the throng, trying to see if any of his private guests were in attendance.
“I have just one room empty,” he explained, “but it won’t be for long—might even be filled this very night.”
“I am here now to fill it,” the stranger argued. “Is my gold not as good as any other’s?”
“Your gold is fine,” Fredegar assured him, hoping to keep the tension low. “The one open room has been reserved for more than a tenday by priests from the Edificant Library. I have assured them that it will be available, and well, if you are from the area, you know that it is not wise for an honest merchant such as myself to displease the Edificant Library.”
The traveler perked his ears up at mention of the place.
“Headmaster Avery and Kierkan Rufo will be in soon,” the talkative innkeeper went on. “I haven’t seen the good, fat headmaster for almost a year now. I expect he and Rufo have come to town to meet with young Cadderly, another of my guests and another of their priests, and to prepare for this potential war that everyone seems to be talking about.”
Bogo scrutinized every word, all the while trying to appear unconcerned. The news about Rufo seemed almost too good to be true. Having the two-time stooge so close at hand could aid his plans to kill Cadderly.
The innkeeper rambled on in many unimportant tangents, speaking mostly of the outrageous rumors that had been circulating. Bogo put in an occasional smile or grunt to make it appear that he was listening, but his mind raced with his own plans.
“I have it!” the innkeeper announced suddenly, so loudly that several patrons at the nearest tables of the hearth room stopped their conversations and turned to regard the innkeeper. “Malcolm,” he called across the room.
An older gentleman, a merchant by his rich and fanciful dress, looked up from his table.
“Half price if you will share a room with my Brennan,” the innkeeper offered.
The old gentleman smiled and turned to talk with his companions at the table then stood and came over to the bar.
“Fredegar, you know I have only one more night in town,” Malcolm answered. “I leave for Riatavin in the morning.” He winked conspiratorially, both at Fredegar and the unfamiliar young man standing at the bar. “One can make fine trades with such grim news filling the air, eh?”
“A night with my Brennan?” Fredegar asked once more.
The merchant gazed across the room to a younger woman, fine in stature, who looked back at him with obvious interest. “I had hoped to be, uh … accompanied on my last night in town,” he explained. Again came a wink, even more lecherous. “After all, back in Riatavin, tomorrow night, I will be forced to spend some time with my wife.”
Fredegar, blushing, joined him in his laughter.
“I could spend a single night in the common room,” Bogo interjected, not at all amused by the worthless bantering, “if you will guarantee me this man’s room by midday tomorrow.” Bogo turned his thin lips up in a wry smile, thinking it best to play the conniving buddy game. “Free of charge this night?” he asked coyly.
Fredegar, never one to bicker—especially not when the inn was so full—readily agreed. “And an ale with my compliments, young stranger,” the innkeeper offered as he filled a tankard. “And one for your intended?” Fredegar asked Malcolm.
“I will meet it at the table,” the lecherous merchant replied, going back to his seat.
Bogo accepted the drink with a smile and turned, leaning with his elbow propped on the bar. The crowd buzzed and laughed. It was a jovial and warm inn, its atmosphere not at all hindered—perhaps even enhanced—by the still-distant rumors of war. The perfect cover, Bogo thought as he watched the bustle, and he nearly laughed aloud as he considered how the events of the next few days might steal a bit of the place’s mirth.
“So good that you have returned!” he heard Fredegar say a short while later. Bogo’s eyes widened and he purposely shifted farther down the bar as a young man of above average height and solid build moved to join the innkeeper.
He wore a blue, wide-brimmed hat lined with a red sash. Set in its middle was a porcelain brooch bearing the holy symbol of Deneir. There could be little doubt as to his identity—Dorigen’s description of Cadderly had not included the beard, but Bogo could see that it was newly grown, and the unkempt, sand-brown hair and gray eyes certainly fit.
“Headmaster Avery and Kierkan Rufo are coming in,” Fredegar explained, “perhaps this very night.”
Bogo noticed the young man flinch at that remark, though the priest had tried to cover his reaction. “Do they know I’m staying here?” he asked.
Fredegar seemed at a loss by his guest’s obvious discomfort.
“Why, Cadderly,” he replied slyly, “have you done something wrong?”
The young priest smiled noncommittally and started for the staircase beside the bar. Distracted, Cadderly didn’t even notice the odd-looking young man as he passed by.
But Bogo certainly noticed Cadderly. He watched the priest go, thinking how easy this all might be.
NINE
EVIL VISIONS, EVIL DEEDS
He stood in a lighted room, the sitting room of Belisarius’s tower perhaps, holding a beating heart in his hand. The slain minotaur lay at his feet and all his closest friends, Danica and the dwarf brothers, stood by it, laughing wildly, uncontrollably.
Cadderly, too, joined in the laughter but as soon as he did, he realized that his friends were not laughing at all. Rather, they were crying, sobbing great tears that streaked their cheeks and fell in impossibly large puddles at their feet.
He didn’t understand.
S
omething was wrong—something about the entire scene was out of place. He felt the warm blood running down his arm, soaking his tunic, but in his perversion of the wizard’s minotaur-and-maze illusion there had been no blood. Slowly, fearfully the young scholar looked down.
The minotaur was not a minotaur any longer, nor had it vanished like some insubstantial illusion, as Cadderly had expected. It was Avery—Cadderly knew it was Avery, though he could not see the face of the man who lay on his back across a table, arms and legs splayed wide and his chest savagely torn open.
Cadderly held Avery’s still-beating heart.
He tried to scream but couldn’t. There came a rapping noise, sharp but distant.
He could not scream.
Cadderly sat up. The rapping came again, more insistently, followed by a voice that Cadderly could not ignore. At last he dared open his eyes, and sighed deeply when he learned that he was in his own room, that it had all been another terrible dream.
“Cadderly?”
The call was not a dream, and of course he recognized the commanding, fatherly voice. He closed his eyes again, tried to pretend he was not there, or that Avery was not there.
“Cadderly?” The knocking did not diminish.
What day is it? Cadderly wondered. The moon was up, though beyond its zenith, for no direct silvery light played through the young priest’s east window.
Resigned, Cadderly pulled himself out of bed, straightened his nightshirt, and went to the closed door.
“Cadderly!”
He cracked open the portal and winced at the sight of Headmaster Avery. Kierkan Rufo, leaning as always in his customary position, leered over the headmaster’s broad shoulder.
“It’s late,” Cadderly mumbled through the cottony sensation and the lump of revulsion in his mouth. He couldn’t look at Avery without the gruesome dream image coming clearly to his thoughts, could not regard the man without the warm sensation of blood running along his arm. Unconsciously, he rubbed one hand against his nightshirt.