Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (40 page)

When he seemed at a loss for words, she said, “It’s merely a threat to catch the few poor souls who aren’t swayed by bribery?” She nodded toward the blade. “I’ll never worship a god who built a place that sounds like that.”

He said nothing as he slid the Witchbreaker back into its scabbard, silencing the cries.

She tucked her wings under her arms and closed her armor. “Besides, I thought everything that will ever happen is already recorded in the One True Book. Why have this whole system of punishment and bribes to control men when every last choice they’re given has been decided by the Divine Author? By the very tenets of your faith, these men were only in our way because it was His will that we kill them.” She pointed to the huddled pilgrims. “These poor fools have lost possessions, loved ones, and limbs because your god thought it would make a good story.”

Slate crossed his arms. “I’m a knight, not a theologian. I’m sure there are others at the temple who can explain our beliefs more eloquently than I can.”

Sorrow donned her helmet once more and moved to stand beside Slate as he stood before the shivering pilgrims.

“It’s almost nightfall,” he said to the pilgrims. “But these guards must have a camp nearby. If any guards remain there, we’ll take it by force. Tonight, you’ll sleep in the beds of those who caused you grief.”

The one-eyed man cleared his throat. “We’ve decided to turn back. We’ll complete our journey another time.”

Slate glanced over his shoulder at the corpses behind him. “Have we... frightened you?”

“We... we didn’t understand... what manner of creatures... we journeyed with. We’d heard stories of demons who disguise themselves as men—”

“We’re not demons,” said Slate. “I’m a knight. My companion is... unusual in appearance, but human.”

“He’s right,” said Sorrow. “We’re both human. Which means we’re even more dangerous than demons. If you want to turn back, turn back. You wanted a roadblock removed and we removed it. What direction you go from this moment is entirely up to you.”

“You all have reasons for being here,” said Slate. “Your faith has brought you this far. You can’t turn back now.”

And yet, one by one, the pilgrims stood and began to walk back down the path, toward the churning clouds at the mouth of the gap, linking hands as they vanished into the storm.

“They were slowing us down,” said Sorrow. “Don’t look so dejected.”

“It was as if they feared me as much as you,” Slate said, shaking his head. “We fought to save them and they hate us for it?”

“Welcome to every damn day of my life.”

N
IGHT HAD FALLEN
when they discovered the camp of the Storm Guard, a tight cluster of stone huts with hide roofs. Someone shouted out an alarm as they approached, and a moment later they were attacked by five warriors.

The fight was brief.

They spent the remainder of the night in the largest of the huts, warming themselves in front of a stone furnace fueled by coal. Sorrow stared into the flickering flames, wondering if she might dream of Greatshadow once more. Slate looked glum, and even though the hut was well stocked with dried meats and fruits, he ate nothing. He silently removed his armor and stretched out on the ground beside the stove, covering his massive form with a heavy blanket pulled from one of the bunks. His eyes were locked on the Witchbreaker, which rested atop his armor.

Sorrow welcomed his silence. She had worries of her own. The familiar itchiness had returned to her skin, this time concentrated in her arms and hands. She’d shoveled a load of coal into the furnace when they’d arrived, leaving her hands black with dust. Now, as she watched, the blackness hardened on her fingers, growing shiny. Her nails grew longer and thinner, turning into hard claws.

Seduce him and I’ll teach you bone weaving. You cannot rid yourself of the dragon’s essence, but you can push it to less visible parts of your body.

“I know,” she whispered. “But it’s not going to happen.”

Why not? I see the way you glance at him. You’re not immune to his charms.

Sorrow rose and walked to the far side of the hut. “I want to end our agreement. I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you, but I don’t feel that you’re the best teacher for me.”

You’ve more than inconvenienced me. You invaded my home, assaulted me, and destroyed my companion. You cannot turn away from my teachings now.

“Are you teaching me? Or punishing me?”

There may be some overlap. It doesn’t change anything. You promised me you would take a life at my request. Until this promise is kept, our bargain remains in place.

“What if I tell you I don’t intend to kill anyone just because you ask me to? Can we end our bargain then?”

If you betray me, you forfeit all the power I’ve taught you to use.

Sorrow started to argue that wasn’t very much, but thought better of it as she contemplated the possible ways Avaris might remove the knowledge. The old witch probably knew exactly what parts of Sorrow’s brain to probe with a long fingernail in order to scrape away her memories. For now, she was still trapped in her bargain.

Why the doubts now? You were the picture of confidence when you battled your way into my castle.

“I don’t have doubts. I have... finality. There’s no real time left to learn anything before tomorrow.”

Tomorrow you will reach the Temple of the Book.

Sorrow nodded. “Tomorrow, I’m going to cripple my enemies with a blow they can never recover from. I... I intend to win tomorrow’s battles, but I’m not kidding myself. There’s a strong possibility that tonight is my last night alive.”

All the more reason to seduce him.

Sorrow shook her head. “No. If I’m to die, I intend to die true to myself. I’ve lived with the certainty I had no need of men. It’s the wrong moment for second guesses. But if there is anything you have to tell me about Rott’s power that I don’t yet know, now is the time to reveal it. You have to want the church to feel pain as much as I do. Now’s your chance to turn me into your weapon for revenge.”

Your father has already done that work for me.

Avaris began to laugh inside Sorrow’s skull. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

D
URING THE NIGHT
, Sorrow had held out some slender hope that the changes to her hands weren’t as bad as they seemed. The coal dust and the darkness of the hut perhaps made her skin appear darker and rougher than it truly was.

In the pale light of morning, she had no reason for hope. She melted snow in the iron bowl of her helmet and washed her hands, if they could still be called hands. Her pinkies had fused with her ring fingers and all of her digits had become longer and banded by scales. Her nails were now claws, tapering to razor-sharp hooks.

When she heard Slate stirring, she hastily pulled on her iron gauntlets, willing the metal to stretch to hide her deformity. She folded the now empty pinkies of the gauntlets closed and fused them, hoping no one would notice their lack of motion.

Slate looked even more exhausted than he had when he went to sleep.

“Rough night?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Climbing this mountain with a coffin balanced on my back has drained me. From what the pilgrims told me, the temple is only a few hours walk. I look forward to divesting myself of my burden.”

“It’s a burden you placed upon yourself,” said Sorrow. “We could have buried Tower in the swamp.”

“Tower had already suffered the abuse of having his corpse reanimated as a slave of Avaris. The hero of Poppy’s storybook deserves a better ending.”

“He’s dead no matter where his body winds up,” she said. “His ending is already written.”

Slate didn’t look directly at her as he rose to dress. He buckled his armor without saying a word.

“I guess this conversation is over?” she asked.

“This conversation is impossible.”

“What does that mean?”

He sighed. “Only that I will never be able to explain myself.” He walked to the coffin and knelt beside it, placing his hands upon the wooden surface. His voice was soft as he said, “I was created from Tower’s blood. I’m like a branch snapped from a tree that’s taken root in new soil. Is the new tree a double of the old, or an extension of it? I’m not Tower’s duplicate. I’m his continuation. Who else in all of history has borne the burden of having to bury himself?”

S
ORROW HAD EXPECTED
the Temple of the Book to be a more imposing structure. In fact, it wasn’t a structure at all, just a number of dark holes chiseled into a cliff of solid white quartz. The landscape surrounding it was windswept and barren, nothing but rough gravel over frozen gray soil.

The dark holes led into the mountain, and she could see shadows flickering across the well-lit interiors. They were still several hundred yards away, but from the flurry of activity, she gathered they’d been spotted.

A horse galloped out of one of the uppermost holes, bearing a rider upon his back. The horse was a pure black mare, well-muscled to support the heavily armored knight upon her back. Glorystone horseshoes shot beams of bright light down from the mare’s hooves, and the horse raced across the sky upon these columns of radiance. The knight was armed with a crystalline lance, which had a pale blue glow similar to the lightning rod Sorrow had stolen. He wore a flowing purple cape trimmed with golden silk. There were words embroidered within the trim, but Sorrow couldn’t make them out at this distance.

The horse charged toward them in eerie silence, coming to a stop roughly a hundred feet up in the sky.

“Halt!” the knight shouted.

Slate halted. Sorrow felt an almost uncontrollable urge to step forward, so she did.

“I said, halt!”

“What right do you have to prevent anyone from walking the path of the pilgrim?” she asked.

The knight flipped up the visor of his helmet. He was a square-headed man with bright blue eyes and a thick gray mustache that hung several inches below his jaw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am,” the knight answered. “I’m Sir Forthright Castlebridge, the Fist of the Book, the rightful protector of Utmost Humble, the Voice of the Book. For thirty years I’ve defended this sacred place with the power of my mighty steed, Sunracer, my legendary lightning lance, and my unflagging faith.”

“Horses don’t live thirty years,” said Sorrow.

“This is Sunracer VI, though that doesn’t matter,” said Castlebridge. “What matters is that the Voice of the Book is the sole authority to decide who may enter the temple, and I am the enforcer of his will. I command you both to lay down your arms and surrender.”

“We command you to take your lance and shove it up—”

“Sorrow!” Slate snapped. “Is there a reason you’re being so disrespectful of a duly appointed defender of the temple?”

Sorrow clenched her fists, then relaxed them. “I don’t like men bossing me around. You talk now.”

Slate lowered his coffin to the ground. He knelt and said, “Good sir, we come on a mission of peace. This coffin holds the mortal remains of Lord Stark Tower, the famed Witchbreaker. He was a great hero of the church. I’ve delivered him so that his bones may rest in a place of honor surrounded by his fellow saints.”

“Whatever your intentions,” said Castlebridge, “you killed an entire camp of Storm Guard yesterday. We received word of your crimes this morning. The Voice of the Book has decreed that you will be turned over to representatives of the Storm Guard to face punishment.”

Slate rose. “We killed only thugs who were molesting pilgrims unjustly. Is it not the duty of any knight to defend the followers of the Book?”

“The first duty is to defend the Book,” said Castlebridge. “This is a dangerous land. We are but an island amid a vast ocean of enemies. Our peace with Tempest is a fragile one. In seeking to punish a handful of greedy men, you place the most sacred ground of your faith in danger of invasion.”

“This is madness!” Slate cried. “Are there no men among you willing to stand up to evil?”

“Standing up to evil is a vice if it harms the greater good,” said Castlebridge. His eyes lifted from Slate to look down the road. Sorrow turned and saw a large group of men on shaggy horses loping up the trail.

“Grant me permission to speak to the Voice of the Book,” Slate said.

“Permission denied,” said Castlebridge, pointing his lance at Slate. “The only matter left for debate is whether the Storm Guard will take living men into their custody, or corpses. If you wish to make a show of defying me in order to provoke my attack, I understand. Storm Guard justice is known for its brutality. The death I unleash shall be swift and merciful.”

“How do you want to handle this?” Sorrow asked. “Should I devour him with flies, or do you just want me knock him off his horse so you can chop off his head and condemn his soul to hell?”

“I’ll not use the Witchbreaker upon a fellow knight,” said Slate.

“So, flies?”

“I haven’t come here to harm the defenders of the temple!”