Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (31 page)

Taking a deep breath, she forced her eyes open once more. Her doubled vision snapped into focus as she stared at the bloodied handprint she’d left on the wall. Outside the room, she heard Lord Tower erupt into deep, booming laughter.

She stumbled into the doorway in time to see Slate once more roll aside as the Witchbreaker bit into the floor of the throne room. Slate’s efforts at avoiding the enchanted blade had left an almost perfect circle chopped into the pale white bone that both combatants stood upon.

Slate was bleeding from a gash in his forehead and a slice across his right shoulder. He was drenched in sweat, his limbs rubbery as he managed to rise into a crouch.

“Don’t you understand the futility of struggle?” Tower asked with a sneer. “Look upon my face. You’re nothing but my reflection, a redundancy, a pathetic doppelganger stubbornly clinging to the illusion of life.”

“Bold words,” Slate wheezed, wiping sweat from his eyes, “from a man without a heartbeat.”

Tower shook his head. “Hearts are a tremendous liability. Allow me to demonstrate!”

The knight swung the Witchbreaker high overhead. Sorrow leapt forward, spreading her wings, but in her weakened condition succeeded only in crashing to the floor.

Her flailing wings distracted Lord Tower enough to allow Slate to roll aside before the Witchbreaker once more sliced into bone. The knight looked at Sorrow as she tried to rise. He smiled as he said, “Gravity is not your friend.”

“Nor yours!” Slate cried as he rose to his knees, wrapping both his arms around Tower’s armored waist. With a gurgling grunt, he bent the undead knight backward, until Tower’s leather boots lost their grip and the knight’s heavy frame slammed into the center of the weakened circle of bone.

A loud
POP
echoed from the few inches of bone that remained intact around the circle. Cracks formed and broadened. Just as Sorrow made it back to her knees, the floor beneath the two warriors gave way and they dropped from view.

“Slate!” she cried, leaping forward, landing so that her body dangled out over the gaping hole.

The two men tumbled toward the earth a hundred yards distant. There was no time for her to even move.

From nowhere, a smaller airborne man dodged around the falling circle of bone, spreading his arms as he kicked toward Slate. Jetsam! From the smell of the humid swamp beneath, Sorrow supposed that they’d crossed once more into the material world.

Jetsam wrapped his arms around Slate’s belly, kicking furiously to push toward the waters of the swamp. They disappeared into the ink-black waters.

The bone floor turned on edge and landed upright, punching into the ground immediately behind the wagon where Bigsby and Brand were sitting. The ox harnessed to the cart bolted like a startled rabbit, plunging them all into the swamp. Lord Tower’s armored form landed in the rut of the cart’s wheel and lay very still.

Sorrow climbed back into the throne room, feeling too weak to risk flying. She turned and found two overlapping images of Avaris directly behind her. The two raven-haired witches quickly resolved into one as Avaris drew back and delivered a powerful kick to Sorrow’s gut. Sorrow was forced backward into the open hole.

As she dropped, she heard Avaris say, “Fledglings sometimes need a little nudge from the nest.”

Sorrow twisted, spreading her wings, her fall slowing as she caught the air. She wound up in a dizzying spiral as the dark ground rushed toward her. Fortunately, her wings slowed her fall enough that when she landed in the marsh grass, she sank in the muck to her knees, but was otherwise unharmed.

She craned her neck toward the star-filled sky and watched as the walking castle lumbered back into the swamp, fading deeper into the shadows with each step. Within seconds, its feet no longer splashed in the waters of the material world.

She tried to will herself back across the veil to give chase; she had many more questions for Avaris. But her body remained stubbornly stuck in the realm of mud. With a loud
SLUCK
she pulled herself from the mire and stumbled back to drier ground.

“Walker!” she shouted. “Walker!”

“He’s gone,” Brand said. “Just faded away, until nothing was left but a grin. Then even that vanished.”

With some effort, she focused her eyes on him. Brand was still dry, apparently having jumped from the cart just before it hit the water. He said, “Walker told us to be patient before he vanished. Jetsam was keeping watch while Bigsby and I caught a little shut-eye. Next thing I know I’m waking up with the damn castle directly overhead, people are falling from the sky, plus you’ve got wings, and, oh, yeah, legs. Care to explain what’s going on?”

Sorrow didn’t answer. What was she to say?

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping closer. Brand’s expression changed from consternation to concern. He placed his fingers on her chin and turned her head to get a better look at her eye. “By the sacred quill. I thought you just had mud on your face. I didn’t realize you were injured.”

“It’s just a head wound,” she said with a feeble smile. “I collect them to fill my idle hours.”

“New body parts also seem to be a hobby,” said Brand. “Wings?”

She shrugged. “My body was a bit more flexible in the Black Bog. I’m still halfway to dragonhood, but at least I can wear shoes again.”

Brand took off his shirt and offered it to her. “You have more urgent things to cover than your feet,” he said, glancing toward the swamp, where Slate and Bigsby were crawling up the bank. Jetsam was balanced on the surface of the water, kneeling before the ox thrashing in the mud, using his sword to cut away the beast’s harness.

Sorrow looked at the shirt, baffled by how it would possibly work with her wings. In the end, she tied it around her hips to serve as an impromptu skirt, then crossed her arms over her breasts.

The dripping wet ox thundered past a moment later, galloping off across the field in a panic. From above, Jetsam said, “Sorry. Lost my grip on his lead as I was helping guide him back to land. I couldn’t just let him drown.”

“It’s okay,” said Brand.

“I’m not okay with it,” said Bigsby, shaking mud from his limbs as he walked between the ruts left by the ox cart. “It’s a long hike back to town.” He came to a sudden halt as he encountered the armor sunk into the ground.

“Careful,” said Sorrow. “He might not be dead!”

“From that height?” Jetsam said. “He’s dead.”

“Okay, yes, but he was dead before and it didn’t slow him much.”

Slate approached the fallen knight and dropped to his knees. He grabbed the knight’s left shoulder and tried to turn Tower over onto his back. The man’s arm came loose in his hands. Maggots writhed in the exposed tissue inside the iron sleeve.

Jetsam and Brand gagged as the stench of rotten meat billowed into the air. Sorrow wrinkled her nose reflexively, but was surprised that the stink didn’t strike her as particularly foul. Perhaps sharing body parts with Rott had deadened her revulsion to such smells.

Bigsby also seemed oddly oblivious to the odor as he walked up to the body and stared at the face, which had been partially revealed by Slate’s efforts.

“He looks... familiar,” Bigsby said.

Brand pinched his nose shut and covered his mouth with his hand as he asked, “How can you stand so close to that stench, brother?”

Bigsby shrugged. “I ran a fish market for almost twenty years. I guess even nostrils can develop calluses.” Looking back at the corpse, he asked, “Who was he?”

“He was me,” said Slate, shaking his head mournfully.

“Explain,” said Brand.

Slate told them what he’d learned, which meshed pretty well with what Avaris had told Sorrow. Apparently, Tower had been chatty during battle.

Everyone stared at Slate quietly after his tale. His expression was completely unreadable.

Finally, Brand said, glancing at Tower, “I suppose the decent thing to do would be to bury him.”

“That sounds like work,” said Jetsam. “Can’t we just toss him into the swamp?”

“No,” said Slate. “He may have been turned into a monster in death by Avaris, but in life he was a great champion of the church. He deserves better than to have his body tossed into some nameless swamp.”

“I’ll bet actual money the locals have a name for this place,” said Jetsam.

“I’ll build a coffin,” Slate said. “I need to take his remains to a respectful resting place.”

Sorrow couldn’t hold her tongue. “Are you out of your mind? He tried to kill you! He was laughing as he tore new holes in your flesh!”

“You mistake the corpse for the man,” Slate said. “Avaris perverted his remains. You witnessed her atrocities. You heard her casual boasts of wickedness.” He glanced at her. “Or can it be, even with one eye nearly missing, you’re still blind to her evil?”

Sorrow touched her face. With all the blood, Slate must have assumed that Avaris had attacked her. No one needed to know of the bargain made.

“You’re right,” she said. “I may have had, perhaps, an overly optimistic idea of the kind of person she was. But don’t you see the same is true of Lord Tower? He was cruel in life as well as death. Disposing of him in the swamp is almost an insult to the swamp.”

Slate pulled Tower’s body completely free of the soft earth. The Witchbreaker was revealed in the dirt beneath. Faint howls of agony filled the night as Slate lifted the ebony blade. They fell silent as Slate slid the weapon back into its scabbard.

“A blade that that sends the souls of its victims to hell,” said Sorrow. “Is that the weapon of a hero?”

“It is now,” said Slate, slinging the scabbard over his shoulder.

“You’re keeping the blade?” Bigsby asked. “I think having to hear those screams every time I used it would give me nightmares.”

“A just man need not be disturbed by hell,” said Slate. “After the events of this night, I understand the need for such a place, and the justice of it.”

“Slate, listen to yourself!” Sorrow said, throwing her hands into the air. She quickly clamped them back over her breasts when she saw Jetsam’s eyes bulge. She returned her focus to Slate, marching up and shouting, “You aren’t a champion of the church! You’re just a bit of magic that looks like a man. The church despises things like you and is dedicated to wiping them from existence!”

“However odd my origins, I’m a man,” said Slate, remaining calm. “I may lack memories, but I have a conscience.”

Sorrow sighed. She was confounded by Slate’s reaction. But what would she want? That he would be outraged by his origins? Wouldn’t that just make him hate witches? Did she desire that he be filled with despair? Of what use would he be if he were despondent, or suicidal?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. You’re a man, and a good one at that. I shouldn’t have said that you weren’t. I’m merely asking you to consider that, possibly, the real Lord Tower didn’t quite live up to the ideals laid out in Poppy’s book.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t,” said Slate. “Whatever Lord Tower’s sins may have been, I’m his second chance. I can live as the hero the world believed him to be.”

“Is this settled?” Brand asked. “If we’re going to build a coffin, that might take a while. I guess we can use wood from the cart, but we don’t really have the right tools.”

Sorrow shrugged. “If he must have a coffin, I can make one. With my wood weaving abilities, it won’t take long.”

She waded into the water to tear boards off the cart. The dark water was warm as a bathtub. She dipped beneath the surface to clean the blood from her face.

“And where exactly are we hauling him off to?” Bigsby asked.

“There’s a vault for highly honored knights in the Cathedral of the Book,” said Brand. “But going back to the Silver City is out of the question any time soon.”

“Saints get air burials at the Temple of the Book,” said Jetsam.

“Air burials?” asked Bigsby.

“The temple is high in the mountains of Raitingu,” said Jetsam. “There’s no real soil there, just rock, so bodies are left out for birds to devour. The left-over bones are put into an ossuary beneath the temple.”

“It looks like the maggots aren’t leaving anything for the birds,” said Bigsby.

“The Temple of the Book,” Slate said, as if he was trying to remember something. “That’s where the One True Book was discovered? The birthplace of the church?”

“Yep,” said Jetsam. “Kind of ironic, since now the place is surrounded by Stormies.”

“Stormies?” asked Slate.

“The Isle of Storm is where Tempest dwells,” said Brand. “For the last couple of centuries, the dragon has been worshipped as a god by the locals. Stormies isn’t the most respectful way of addressing them.”

Slate looked confused. “Why would men worship a dragon?”

“Why would men worship a book?” Jetsam asked.

“They don’t worship a book. They worship its author,” said Slate.

Jetsam held up four fingers, tapping them one by one as he said, “Church. Of. The...” He let the last word go unspoken as he stared at Slate.

Sorrow tossed the last of the boards she’d need onto the bank. She left the water, shaking her wings to dry them. Her strength had returned somewhat after her bath.