The Archon's Assassin (17 page)

He winced as his blood ignited; tried to push her away. She responded with a fierce grip around his neck and refused to release his mouth. His dream of making love to Rhiannon—the one he’d first had at Pardes; the one that had plagued him ever since—ghosted through his mind, blurred with what was happening, grew clearer, more tangible, until one became the other.

Rhiannon leaned back to shrug her shoulders out of her dress. She peeled it lower, arched her back to offer him her breasts. Scars crisscrossed her torso. The same with her forearms.

He grabbed her arms, forced her to look him in the eye. She snarled and went for his neck. As she sucked and murmured, his resistance waned. He looked passively beyond her at the ramshackle room. Her hand found his crotch. He was dimly aware of his arousal, but something arrested his vision. There was a sword leaning in the corner. The scabbard was his own. He’d given it to her on Aethir. But the hilt poking from the top, handgrip black and roughly knurled, the pommel obsidian…

“Callixus’s bla—”

She smothered his words with a breast, roughly pulled his face into it.

“Shut up,” she purred, grinding herself against the bulge in his britches. Her hand felt its way beneath her thighs and fumbled at his buttons.

Shader turned his face to the side and rasped, “No, Rhiannon. Stop.” This wasn’t what she wanted. Couldn’t be. And he, a priest. “Please, stop.”

Her hand wriggled inside, found him. He gasped and then met her lips again, this time with unbridled hunger. She slid back off his lap and dropped to her knees. Shader shut his eyes and trembled with anticipation. He felt the heat of her breath, braced himself as she brought her head down.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

“Hello?”—A woman’s voice.

“Shit!” Rhiannon leapt to her feet and pulled up the straps of her dress.

Shader fastened his britches, just in time, as the door scraped open.

A girl entered—no more than four or five, a plump woman behind her.

“Mommy.” The girl threw her arms around Rhiannon’s legs, pressed the side of her head to her hip.

Rhiannon stiffened, but then ruffled her hair.

“Same time tomorrow?” The woman’s eyes strayed to Shader.

He forced a smile and acknowledged her with a nod.

“Please,” Rhiannon said.

The woman let herself out.

Rhiannon put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and turned her to face Shader. “Darling,” she said. She sounded strained, awkward. “This is Mommy’s friend, Deacon.”

Shader stared dumbly.

“And, Deacon,” Rhiannon said, “this is my daughter, Saphra.”

THE VRAAJO

Vicinity of Mount Sartis, Aethir

S
hadrak stretched out one leg at a time, shifted into a more comfortable position on the high branch. The wind gusted, sending leaves thrashing about his face. For a moment, he was blinded by the wafting smoke from the cook fire below. Fanning it with his free hand, he pushed his back against the trunk and raised his rifle.

Down on the ground, Nameless bellowed a bawdy song that resonated inside his great helm and boomed into the depths of the forest. He sat beneath a yew, tapping out a rhythm on his axe haft. Tongues of flame from the fire danced over his armor, set the green flecks in his helm aglow.

Albert was crouched over the spit, sniffing delicately, dipping his fingers into bags of spices and touching them to his lips. He’d turned Adeptus Ludo’s mule into a walking kitchen, laden it with pots and pans, black bread, dried fruit, and jerky. Galen had thrown a fit when Albert had dumped all the scriptures and prayer cords in the plane ship, but the adeptus had reassured him with some crap about the needs of the body preceding those of the spirit.

Every now and again, Albert would glance at the notes he’d scrawled on a scrap of paper, snippets of information they’d been given by Aristodeus relating to their mission. Shadrak didn’t need written notes; it was all filed away in his memory. The others had shown no sign they were even listening. Say one thing for Albert: he might have been a fat poisonous bastard, but at least he was a professional fat poisonous bastard.

Bird had left the minute Ekyls returned with the rabbit. He’d not been seen since. Gave the impression he was squeamish about the killing of rodents. Either that, or he was scared the same thing would happen to him if he turned into one. If he could. So far, he’d just done the raven thing.

Ekyls was somewhere about—his stench carried on the wind like a moldering carcass. How much could the savage be trusted now he was back to his own element? Chances are, he’d bugger off, no matter what hold Albert had over him. Bugger off or butcher the lot of them when they were asleep.

A blast went up from the volcano, singeing the treetops and swathing the sky in red. It was still a mile distant, its long shadow cooling; the steam from its core roasting.

Ludo shivered and clutched at the sleeves of his cassock.

Galen lifted his huge head, rubbing at his sideburns and looking pleased with himself. “Your move, Eminence.”

He took up his clay pipe and plucked a brand from the fire to light it. The breeze dislodged some thin strands of hair that had only just been meticulously wetted and combed over. He sat ramrod straight, all brawn and whiskers. Big dumb ox. Defenseless at that very moment. How easy it would be to squeeze the trigger.

Ludo bent over the chessboard, touching a finger to his lips. Shadrak focused in on him, twisting the tube until the crosshairs centered between the adeptus’s doleful eyes. His face was drawn and furrowed, the lips cracked but softly smiling. Shadrak reckoned Ludo was younger than he looked, probably in his fifties. He still had most of his hair, thinning curls feigning retreat but never quite leaving the field.

“I believe that is checkmate.” Ludo ran his tongue along the brown stubs of his teeth and put on his spectacles, as if that were an end to it.

Galen held the pipe in the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking over the board with the same rigorous scrutiny Shadrak had used on the combination locks of the plane ship. “Blimey,” he grunted, with the lift of a bushy eyebrow. “Caught me napping there, wot.”

Nameless launched into another song, louder and bawdier.

Ludo winced and started to pack away the pieces.

“Best of three?” Galen tugged his jacket straight; it was stiff and scarlet, heavy with epaulettes.

“Maybe later, Brother. But the Demiurgos does love an idler.”

Galen looked over his shoulder, as if he expected to see the Father of Lies there, goading him into another game.

Ludo picked up a leather-bound book from beside the chessboard. “Discipline is to do what we must, even when lost in the drama of competition.”

Apparently, Galen got his point. “Yes, yes. Quite.” He tapped out his pipe and fussed about in his jacket pockets. “Upon the hour, every hour.” He produced his own book and started to thumb through it. “Well, not quite, but thank you for reminding me, Eminence.
Ora et labora
,
wot.”

Shadrak shifted his aim, scanning the tree-line, peering down at Galen’s black mare and the mule. The animals were nervous, dipping their heads into their grain sacks and swishing their tails, but every now and again throwing back their ears, nostrils flaring. The mare whinnied.

Nameless stopped singing, swiveled his helmed head, and then resumed, louder than before.

Ludo began to read to an imaginary congregation, in the Nousian secret language, as Shadrak thought of it; long drawn-out vowels and a sonorous tone.

Galen’s shoulders bunched up around his ears, and he closed his book. He muttered something beneath his mustache and stood, brushing down his white jodhpurs, stamping the dirt from his shiny boots.

“Pray with me, Brother.” Ludo looked up from the page.

“Quite right, Eminence. Quite right.” But Galen pocketed his book and went over to his horse, rubbing its mane and whispering in its ear.

Shadrak followed him with the crosshairs, looked beyond, into the trees; strained to listen. No mean feat, as Nameless was now in full flow above the chirping of the cicadas and the crackling of the fire.

—“My shogging fat wife with her head full of gin…”

—The hissing of fat falling on the flames.

Ludo continued to drone: “
Quotidianum da nobis hodie
…”

The horse nickered and stomped its hooves.

Galen did his best to calm her. “There, there, Beatrice. Easy, girl.”

Leaves rustled to the right. Shadrak swung the rifle around.

Ekyls.

The savage was crouching at the end of a branch high above the clearing. He was hard to see, his brown skin merging with the bark, the snake tattoos acting as camouflage. His yellow eyes flashed in acknowledgement of Shadrak.

“Come open the bar to us, let us come in…” Nameless sang.

Ludo was as insistent as the cicadas. “
Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris
…”

“Easy, Bea.” Galen stroked along the horse’s flanks.

The mule sidled up and nuzzled Beatrice’s neck.

An owl hooted.

Ekyls pointed below.

Black fingers curled around the edge of a trunk. A head peeked out, long ears twitching, slitty eyes burning into Ludo’s back. Another crept into view behind Nameless, small, naked, its dusky skin scabby and blistered.

Albert shaved off a sliver of meat with his cheese-cutter.

Nameless stopped singing and curled his fingers around the haft of his axe. He stretched then pushed himself into a crouch beside the fire.

Shadrak held his breath as he focused his senses. A mephitic stench beneath his tree; the whispering of leaves; the faintest squelch of mud. There were at least four more of the creatures below. Goblins. Nameless had said to expect them. Said they’d been here when the dwarves of Arx Gravis had worked the volcano decades ago.

They tiptoed from the trees, jagged flints raised. Shadrak almost sniggered. For a moment, he could have been back in the theater, ogling Dame Consilia’s tits and yelling, “He’s behind you!”

Two of the goblins screeched and started hopping and holding their feet. A thorny branch snapped back across another’s face, just missing an eye but snagging skin.

Nameless spun, axe scything carelessly behind, slinging green blood across the forest floor.

More goblins poured from the trees, ululating cries howling from curled lips.

Galen slashed one across the throat with his saber—Shadrak hadn’t even seen him draw it.

Another hurled itself at Ludo, still seated, still praying.

Shadrak fired. The goblin dropped, blood the color of snot spurting from its chest.

The two hopping goblins suddenly stiffened and toppled over. The one struck by the branch clawed gouges out of its own face. Purpling veins spread from a series of tiny puncture marks left by the thorns. The goblin shuddered, went into spasm, and crumpled to the ground.

A dark shape sprang at Albert. It was a mistake to assume he was an easy target on account of his appearance. The poisoner stepped nimbly aside, wrapped the cheese-cutter around the goblin’s throat, and yanked with practiced efficiency. The goblin’s feet lifted from the floor. It kicked feebly, and then went limp.

Shadrak fired into the trees, hitting a goblin between the eyes.

Half a dozen more charged at Ludo.

Galen surged into them, hacked the legs from beneath the first, and skewered the second. Before he could free his blade, the others were upon him.

Ekyls dropped from his branch, rolled, came up, and brought his hatchet down, spilling brains.

Nameless seemed to glide as he cut down one, then another.

Galen let go his saber and delivered a fierce jab to the face of the last goblin. Its head snapped back, then it snarled and leapt at him. Galen’s right caught it on the chin, lifting it into the air and dumping it on its back.

Ekyls was on it in a flash, hacking at its neck repeatedly until the head came away. He lifted it proudly, let the green blood stain his face and lips.

“There was no need for that!” Galen roared. “Bloody savage!”

Ekyls leered at him, licked the blood from his lips, and squared up.

Galen thumped his fist into his palm and cracked his neck.

Shadrak focused in on them with the rifle’s sight. This was going to be worth a laugh.

Ludo got to his feet, brushed the dirt off, and was about to say something, when a tremor rippled across the clearing.

Those on the ground pitched to their arses, and Shadrak yelped as he fell out of the tree. He hit hard. Pain shot up his arm. The rifle bounced, discharged, and clattered against a trunk. Tears stung his eyes. Felt like someone had rammed a dagger through his armpit. He struggled to his knees, left arm hanging useless.

A shadow fell over him, as a looming figure stepped from the forest. How could he not have seen it before? Either he was getting careless, or there was more skill here than met the eye. Skill, or magic.

A mawg vraajo glowered at him before reaching down and picking up the rifle. It was missing an ear, and a black patch covered one eye. The other was like a speck of blood in a pool of piss. It towered over him—a huge misshapen bear with jutting jaws and rows of thorny teeth. Its knuckles dragged against the ground as it loped toward Shadrak, baring its teeth in what he took for a grin. It slapped the rifle against its flaccid breasts and grunted guttural noises. He’d heard that tongue before, in the Anglesh Isles, but he was shogged if he understood it.

He struggled to his feet and started to back away. The vraajo made a clutching movement with its fingers, and he froze. Movement behind him told him his companions were getting up, but the mawg made a sweeping gesture, and silence fell in an instant.

Options, Shadrak, options!

A cold clump of panic formed in his stomach, rose through his chest, and lodged in his throat. He began to wheeze and shudder, fighting for every breath.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Nameless, barely a step behind, frozen in mid-stride, axe poised to swing but going nowhere.