Nightlord: Sunset (48 page)

“Well done, lord,” he said.  “I trust you have fed to your satisfaction?”

I pointed my ichor-dripping short sword at him.  “I want my things,” I stated.  I noticed my fangs were still out; they didn’t want to retract.  I tried.

“Immediately, lord,” was the response, and he disappeared from view.  I stared after him.  I hadn’t expected that.  I’m not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t agreement!  Then again, maybe it was a ruse to get a head start?  No, surely not—why bother to follow me up to the roof and applaud if he was only going to run away?

I looked over the battlement of the tower.  The front door was still shut.  So he wasn’t running that way.

I went down the steps, three floors, until I was at ground level; here was a smithy.  I had passed through it like some engine of death, killing everything without actually damaging much.  It was spooky to see.  There wasn’t a drop of blood anywhere; apparently, I had sucked the blood from these without really noticing.  There were a dozen or so bodies, all lying perfectly still, as though they had simply dropped in their tracks—which might have happened, if the tendrils got them before the fangs.  At least the light from the forge gave them a semblance of color, ghastly as it was.  It made me think of Hell.  Aesthetically, it was somewhat pleasing.  I took a few moments with the shortsword to make cuts and holes where I had bitten, disguising the nature of the wounds.  Habit.

The elf came back up from the basement levels at a light, quick trot.  He set down my backpack—hastily but neatly repacked with my equipment and clothes—and swung Firebrand by the belt.  I could
sense
the blade didn’t like him.  Judging by the way he was careful not to put his hands anywhere near the sword itself, I suspect he could too.  He laid Firebrand on the floor next to the pack, stepped back, and bowed.

“Does my lord require any other service?” he asked.

From prisoner-to-be-whipped to yes-my-lord in less than ten minutes?
  I wondered. 
What gives?
  I asked as much.

“My lord, forgive,” he asked, and I could hear a slight quaver in his voice.  “I knew not that one of your kind had returned from beyond the Gate of Shadows.”

Aha
, thought I.  “My kind?” I asked.  “And what do you think I am?”

“You are
na’irethed
.  One who stands in the light, rules in the dark; one who drinks life.”

“You’re right about that,” I observed.  While I spoke, I looked him over.  His spirit was deeper, richer in colors than a human’s, and tinged with darker shades than most.  Not a nice person at all.  I had wondered, for a moment, if I might have brushed by him with that whirlwind of life-draining effect and weakened his will.  No, he looked intact to me.  If he was lying, I couldn’t tell.  But he didn’t like being stared at that keenly.

“What will my lord require?” he asked, going to one knee.

I drew out my clothes and got dressed.  He didn’t move.  I thought I detected a faint flinch when I picked up Firebrand and buckled it on.  When I took out my gun, checked the load, cocked it, and pressed it to his head, he merely looked inquisitive.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t smear your brains all over a wall,” I demanded.

“I am your loyal servant,” he replied immediately.  “I will serve you best by living and doing your will, rather than wasting my life in an expression of your well-earned ire.  I will be your herald to all the under-deeps of the world, and restore to you the dominion over all the dark lands.”

And do a damn fine job of sucking up
, I reflected.  You have to respect a man who can think that fast and sling that much blarney on the fly.  I put the gun away.

“All right.  Tempting as it is to kill you out of hand,” and it was, believe me, “I’m trying to cut down on random violence.”

“My lord has his servant’s thanks.”

“Yeah, well… right,” I replied. I’m not used to having people bow and scrape and refer to themselves in third person.  “What’s your name, anyway?”

He told me.  I couldn’t pronounce it if my life depended on it.  It was long and complicated and probably had some cultural significance regarding his history and deeds and family and whatever else.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the least interested in a lesson in culture.

“In the interests of ready communication,” said I, “I will refer to you as ‘Bob.’  It is not replacing your name, but it is difficult to repeat your name when one is in a hurry.” 
Or at all
, I added mentally.

“Yes, lord.  When you say ‘Bob,’ I shall know that you are addressing myself.”

“Good.  Now, what’s this place out here for?”

“The tower, lord?”

“Yes.”

“It is a foundry, lord, for the iron mines over which it was constructed.  I took it from the humans of the west and have made use of it for a decade, forging weapons and armor.  The spells are my own, drawing in any who venture too close, and they become slaves in the mines below.”

“I see.  How many more goblins do you have?”

“Few, my lord.  There are four shifts of them to guard the slaves, and only the shift on duty has survived your wrath.  The smith, his helpers, and the personal servants are also dead.”

“Fine.  Take me to see the slaves.”

“At once, lord.”  And he did.  Down and down and down
farther, we kept on going.  The stairway, once below the floor where I had been incarcerated, turned into a sloping ramp.  This wound down, erratic and twisting, presumably following the iron seams.  As we descended, I heard the sounds of digging echo up the shaft.  Eventually we came to the end of the tunnel; there were wheeled carts being loaded with iron ore and with rock.

Despite myself, I was curious about the operation.

“You do not smelt it here below?”

“No, lord.  The fumes would kill everyone.”

“Of course.”  I was thinking there could be a ventilation chimney, but the local drilling technology probably wasn’t up to that.  “And what do you do with the rock?  The dross of smelting?”

“One of the older tunnels ended at a deep chasm.  The waste is carted there and dumped.”

I nodded.  Good answers.  Labor-intensive, but what did he care?  Slaves aren’t exactly there to be coddled.

Nor were they.  When we reached the diggings, I saw a bunch of skinny, hungry-looking men with picks and leg-irons.  The only working lanterns were down near the slaves themselves, illuminating them and the diggings.  A pair of shuttered lanterns
was set some distance back, presumably in case the slaves decided to douse the lights. The goblins stayed back with the shuttered lanterns, holding crossbows; one overseer with a long whip was actually down with the slaves.  The slaves could probably kill him if even three of them agreed to rush him, but it still wouldn’t get them out of the leg irons or the tunnel.  And crossbows have a lot more range than a bunch of men with picks.  One or two dead companions would slow the whole line down considerably.

I wondered how many escapes were tried, and how many of the failures were tortured to death in front of the rest.

That made me realize I could half-remember such things had actually happened.  I tried not to think about them.  Or about my own dietary side effects.

“Bob?”

“Yes, lord?” he answered, surveying the operation with me.  We hung back with the crossbowmen; I saw no reason to notify any of the humans to my presence.

“I don’t think we can keep them with so few guards.”

“I agree, my lord.  What is your will?”

“Let them go,” I replied.  “Take them up to the lowest level, lock them in a room, and give me the keys.  I’ll deal with them in the morning.  Don’t let them see any signs of the battle.”

He bowed.  “As you say, lord.”  He sounded nettled.

“You disapprove?”

He hesitated.  “Lord, if I may?  They will bring others to this place.”

“I know.  And they will find it empty.  Let them waste the time and effort.”

“Ah?” he said, blinking at me.  “Then my lord has some other task in mind for his servant?”

“I do.  I would rather have a dominion somewhat more elaborate than this.  I am sure you are just the one to go out and find it.”

“I will justify your faith, lord,” he replied, and bowed again.  “Is there any token I may take to show your favor?”

I thought about it.  “I believe so.  But that will be later, and not here.  See to it my orders are carried out.  I will be upstairs.  Oh, and kill one of the goblins for his blood; scatter it around.  See to it that it looks like the others were slain in more mundane fashions.”  I left him there to give orders to the goblins—which I overheard, by the way, and understood.  Apparently consuming the spirits of an uncertain-but-large-number of people brings enough with it to include a whole language.  I doubt I could have spoken it, but I could
understand
it.

That would make things easier if I ever felt like learning another language.  Come to that, it did explain my surprising facility with Rethven.  I thought about finding some magicians and devouring them, just to see if their arcane studies would come along as well.  It was worth thinking about.

I caught myself thinking like that and did my best to suppress the ruthless tendencies.  Language isn’t the
only
thing I got from a bunch of goblins…

Upstairs, I took more time sorting through my gear; it was all there, neatly folded and packed.  I rearranged it a bit and went up to the roof; it would be dawn in another couple of hours.  Below, I heard the clanking of chain and the shuffling of feet.  That would be the slaves—excuse me, the prisoners—being locked away for the time being.

I gave some thought to my immediate plans.  Send Bob off, of course.  Let him take his goblins.  Let the prisoners go.  Head back to the town.  Find Shada and see if she would rather settle there or move on with me.  I could cope on my own, now; I ought to give her the choice.  After that, who knows?  Maybe take a trip to some subterranean kingdom, there to plan a war of conquest against the foolish religion that dared attack me.

Good plans, good plans.  I readied a spell for Bob, then enjoyed the night sky for a while.

Bob came up when dawn was still a half-hour or so off and reported.  He had done exactly as I’d told him.  He and his remaining goblins were ready to head out.  As he handed me the keys to the tower, I smiled.

“You asked for a token,” I said.

“Yes, lord.”

“Bare your chest.”

He looked frightened for a moment, but did so.  I placed my palm over his heart, fingers spread, and released my spell.  Smoke rose from my touch, and Bob shuddered.  He fairly writhed, but was unable to pull away from my hand—it was as though they were glued together.  But his face was contorted in the most ghastly expression of ecstasy as I have ever seen.

A very good piece of work, I thought.  It branded his flesh, reversed pain for pleasure, and called up a little of my own blood from the skin of my hand to soak into the burned wound.  About one drop of it, spread so thin it covered an entire handprint.  This left a permanent patch of crimson scarred into his flesh, exactly in the shape of my open hand.

When the spell ended, Bob was released from my touch and fell to the floor, gasping, curling around his chest, twitching—and
now
it was no longer pleasure; the pain of the handprint branding was exactly as one might expect.  I smiled.  So much for the arrogance of elves and their haughty grace and poise.  After he had recovered a bit and looked at the mark, he rose to one knee before me and bowed his head.

“I am your servant, lord.”

“Indeed you are,” I answered.  “Never give me cause to close my fist.”

His hand flew up to the mark on his chest and he gasped.  “As you say, lord!”

“Good.  Get you and yours hence.  In an hour or so I will loose the prisoners as their conquering hero and send them to the Eastgate.”

“I go, my lord.”  And he did.

After the sun came up—it was a nasty one; I’d gone into a fit of rage, healed a cracked skull and several crossbow hits.  Regenerating overnight always makes sunrise unpleasant—I felt much more myself again; my fangs also retracted, finally.  I stomped around the tower, calling out to anyone who might be around.

“Hello?  Is there anybody here?” Several voices replied.  There was a general agreement that there were, in fact, people there, several of whom did not wish to be.

“One moment, one moment—I’ve got to find a key, or something to batter down the door.  Hold on; I’ll be right back.”  I dashed down the corridor, out of earshot, and waited a while.  I was searching for the keys in my pocket, of course, and taking enough time to make it look good.  But they didn’t need to know that.

I came back after maybe twenty minutes and tried key after key in the lock; there were several on the ring.  The door opened, and the sorry mass of them were practically in tears to see something that looked like a human being.  I shouted at them for quiet, told them the place was no longer occupied by anything living but them, and assured them they would be free in a moment.  I also introduced myself as Halar, the former court wizard to the Baron Baret, currently out for a bit of wandering and magical experimentation.  None of them were wizards, but they all knew of Baret.