Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (21 page)

Before the half-men could beg for a different fate, Sage shouted, “You won’t believe what I just found!”

“I’m almost certain I will,” said Rigger, leaning against the foremast. “I’ve lost all capacity for surprise.”

“Is it treasure?” Jetsam called out. “The proverbial pirate chest of gold?”

“It’s a painting,” said Sage.

Rigger furrowed his brow. “I retract my statement. I can’t believe you’re excited about finding a painting.”

Jetsam scratched his head. “Is it... you know... a naked lady?”

Gale smacked the back of his head.

“I really think you should take a look at it,” said Sage. “It’s in Captain Stallion’s cabin.”

Sorrow was nearest to the door. She grasped the tarnished brass handle and turned it. The room stank worse than a horse stall. She covered her mouth to cut the stench, and still couldn’t quite bring herself to slither into the filthy chamber. In the dim light, she could see a painting bolted to the wall. It was a large canvas in a gilded frame. The painting was difficult to make out; the varnish had darkened, leaving only shadowy figures. Yet there was something about the colors and the poses that reminded her of paintings that had adorned the wall of her father’s mansion. If this was the work of an old master, it could be a far more valuable prize than any gold or jewelry.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Mako grumbled as he pushed past Sorrow. If the stench of the room bothered him he gave no indication. He tore the frame off the wall, more roughly than Sorrow thought necessary. If it was valuable, why damage it?

Mako carried the painting into sunlight. Now the colors were brighter, the shapes clearer, though it was also more apparent that much of the painting had been splattered with various forms of filth over the years, obscuring the images. Sorrow recoiled as she understood the subject matter.

Jetsam, now well out of Gale’s reach, said, “I was right! A naked lady!”

Indeed, one of the foreground figures was an unclothed female. But the painting didn’t portray her as a figure of beauty set against some pastoral landscape. Instead, the woman was bound with her wrists stretched overhead, fastened to a hook on a wooden pole. Kindling was stacked around her legs to the midpoint of her thighs. The woman’s face was a mask of terror. Her head was shaved and bleeding from numerous holes in her scalp.

This was a painting of a witch being put to death.

Judging from the apparent age, the canvas could possibly have been painted during the war against the witches those long centuries ago. A trio of men stood near the woman. A truthspeaker was present, reading from a scroll. Beside him was a large man in ebony armor, carrying a sword that was painted charcoal black. He was pointing toward the woman’s feet, seemingly issuing a command to the third man, a ghostly white pygmy who stood by the piled kindling with a torch in his hand.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Sage asked.

Sorrow jumped. At some point, Sage had left the
Circus
and was now standing right beside her.

“I’m not amazed,” said Sorrow. “My father had an extensive collection of similar art. I heard him say that one painting he most wanted for his collection had been stolen from its last known owner. The painting was called
The Witchbreaker
.”

“The guy with the sword that could send you straight to hell?” said Jetsam.

“If the sword did have such power, then death by flames was an act of mercy,” said Slate.

Sorrow frowned at him.

“If you were to be put to death by fire, you would have time to repent your sins while the flames were building,” Slate explained.

“So you think the painting’s worth something?” asked Jetsam.

The painting wasn’t in the best of shape, given the way the varnish had colored and cracked. Nor had Captain Stallion taken care with it. What looked like mustard hid the face of the truthspeaker, and what was almost certainly manure was smeared across the face of Stark Tower, which gave Sorrow a certain grim satisfaction. But, despite the painting’s poor condition, she knew it would easily find a buyer. “My father would no doubt pay to have this in his collection. The halls of our family home are adorned with similar atrocities. To keep it from his hands, I’ll negotiate whatever price you consider fair. Then I shall destroy it.”

“What?” Sage said. “You can’t destroy this!”

“Why not?” asked Mako.

“You stumble onto a mystery like this and your first instinct is to destroy it?” asked Sage.

“What mystery?” asked Sorrow. “The Silver Isles are rife with such paintings. The Church of the Book is ever eager to celebrate the torturers of women. Entire cities are named for these ancient witch slayers.”

“But—” Sage shook her head and chuckled softly. “Sorry. I’m an idiot. I sometimes forget that not everyone sees the things I see. Look.” She licked her thumb and rubbed the grime obscuring the truthspeaker’s features. Details of his face emerged. He was a dark-haired man with his hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Oddly, a large red ‘D’ was painted on his forehead. “Don’t you know who that is?”

“I can’t say that I do,” said Sorrow.

“That’s Zetetic the Deceiver! He came to us a few years back seeking passage to the Sea of Wine.”

“We didn’t do business with him,” Gale said. “He offered good money, but how can you enter a contract with someone who openly calls himself a deceiver?”

“It does kind of look like him,” said Jetsam. “But it can’t be. Zetetic is, what, maybe forty? This painting’s got to be hundreds of years old.”

“I’m positive it’s him,” said Sage.

“I admit there’s a resemblance,” said Gale. “But I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“Maybe,” said Sage. “But what do you make of this?” She pulled down the sleeve of her blouse and spat on it, then scrubbed away the filth that covered Stark Tower’s face.

Gale’s eyes widened. Jetsam let out a low whistle. Mako’s monstrous jaws gaped. Sorrow’s breath caught in her throat.

In unison, they all turned to stare at Slate.

Slate cocked his head as he realized he was the target of their combined gaze. “Does something trouble thee... I mean, you?”

“I think we have a clue as to why you talk like you’ve walked out of another century,” said Jetsam.

CHAPTER TEN

SUCH A BAD THING

T
HE
R
OMERS WERE
still sorting through the items found aboard the
Seahorse
. Sage could identify some of the rightful owners of the stolen objects, and there was a great deal of political goodwill they could purchase among their fellow Wanderers by reuniting them with property taken by Stallion.

Slate had grown quiet after discovering his resemblance to Lord Stark Tower. Sorrow had been speaking with Sage about the possible fate of Numinous when she’d noticed Slate discarding his armor and returning to the
Circus
. Her initial instinct had been to let him have time to think things over. Perhaps his memories would be jogged further. But she noticed that Poppy was also absent, and wondered if the girl might be trying to cheer him up. The girl’s romantic notion of knights bore little resemblance to their real world cruelty, and she worried that Slate might receive false impressions from her.

Sorrow found Slate and Poppy in the galley.

“You should be excited,” Poppy said to Slate as Sorrow slithered silently through the door. “Stark Tower is one of the best knights ever. He saved the whole world from evil witches!”

“Your book tells you this?” Sorrow asked.

Poppy turned her head swiftly, looking startled that Sorrow was right behind her. She swallowed, then said, “I know that not all witches are bad.”

“Your book tells you that?”

Poppy shrugged. “The book really only has one kind of witch. But you’re a nice witch. Aren’t you?”

Sorrow frowned. It was a simple enough question. Why couldn’t she bring herself to say, “Yes, I’m nice?” Instead, she said, “Can I speak to Slate in private?”

“I guess,” said Poppy, who looked a little worried as she glanced at the big man. He was normally cheerful in her company, but now his expression was completely neutral.

“Leave us,” he said.

Poppy left the table, leaving her book of knights resting where she’d been sitting.

The door closed behind her. Slate and Sorrow eyed each other without speaking. It had been a long day. The daylight was fading. Neither made a move to light the lantern.

“You knew who I was,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t. And I don’t. So what if you happen to look like him? I know nothing about who you really are, or who you were before we met.”

“Tell me again how we met.”

“You know. You were there. I was attacked by a dragon’s skeleton and you jumped up to save me.”

“Jumped up.”

She pressed her lips tightly together.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

She sighed. “This is everything. Brand and I found you buried in the Witches Graveyard. You were in a glass coffin. We thought you were dead, but you made a remarkable recovery after the bone-dragon smashed open your casket.”

Slate placed his hands upon the table and stared at them. “My nails... my hair....”

“Were rather long, yes,” she said. “You may have been underground for a while.”

“Then... I am Tower? Returned from the grave? Due to your magic?”

“I can assure you that I don’t have the power to raise the dead. If I did, I can also assure you that I wouldn’t use that power on the Witchbreaker. He deserves to rot in whatever hell may hold him.”

Slate pulled the book toward him. He ran his beefy thumb along the edge of the cover.

“According to this book, the man was a hero,” said Slate. “He abandoned his comfort and fortune in the Silver Isles to lead the battle against the greatest threat ever faced by the Church of the Book. He literally traveled to hell and back to acquire the weapon that turned the tide of history.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” said Sorrow, crossing her arms. “You saw the damn painting. The witches didn’t have a traditional army. They mostly lived in peace among all the different kingdoms of the time. Tower’s war didn’t involve him testing his might against hordes of armed warriors in battle. It mainly involved him kidnapping women from their homes and torturing them into confessions. That’s not heroism.”

“According to the book, Avaris commanded an army of devils and beasts that threatened all of mankind.”

“History is written by the victors. I believe her crime was building a following of women and offering them an alternative to the oppression they faced elsewhere. If she threatened anything, it was to improve the lives of half of humanity.”

“Why should I believe you? You hid the full truth of how you discovered me. I was a fool to trust you.”

“You’re right. I should have told you everything.” She shook her head slowly. “In perfect honesty, I seldom feel I have people’s trust. It leaves me a poor steward of the commodity when I do stumble upon it. Can you forgive me?”

“Let me turn the question upon you,” he said. “If I am Stark Tower, would you forgive me? Or are we enemies by blood, forever? A witch and a witchbreaker?”

“Whoever you used to be, as far as I’m concerned you crawled out of that grave a new man. There’s no need for us to be enemies.”

“Even if I’m a champion of the Church of the Book?”

“But you’re not!” She slammed her fist onto the table. “You barely remember anything about the church. Your mind’s a damned blank slate! How can you want to be a champion of something you know nothing about?”

Slate grinned slightly, looking bemused.

“Did I say something funny?”

“I fear I’m a slow learner. Until just now, I didn’t comprehend why you decided to call me Slate. What is it that you wish to write upon me, Sorrow?”

“What do I wish to write?” she said. “Only the truth.”

“Indeed? And you hoped to bring me to the truth by lying about my origins? By stringing me along by your claim to be a damsel in distress?”

“I didn’t want to confuse you. I was going to tell you more when the time was right.”

“I’m ready to hear what you wish to tell me.”

She sighed. “Fine. All cards on the table. Maybe I have been stringing you along. I’ve even been trying to manipulate you. I don’t have a lot of friends, Slate. I’ve been fighting most of my battles alone for a long time. I thought... it would me nice to have an ally.”

“An ally against what?”

She took a long, slow breath. “Against the Church of the Book. My life’s goal is to destroy it.”

His eyebrow’s raised.

“Forget what Poppy’s fairy tales have told you. You may not have any memories, but I have a lifetime of moments I can never forget. My father was a judge. I watched him hang his own mother after she was accused of being a witch.”

“Was she?” asked Slate.

“How can that possibly matter?” Sorrow asked. “He. Hung. His. Mother. He killed her because he loved his church more than he loved his own flesh and blood. I was ten years old when I witnessed this. I learned the truth of the world that day. My father wasn’t wicked; he was the product of an entire society of wickedness. The supposed laws of a supposed god had been warped and twisted to make evil seem like good and good seem like evil.”