“Alas, Lillian, your detour has been for nothing. Tell the Pilgrim to follow his first impulse and I will meet you in the ruins of Silversnow. Make sure
Aden
makes it if you can. I
apologise
for the theft but better me than Kalip! The Tinker has no intention but mischief.”
Nathaniel reads the short note out for her benefit.
“I should warn you, my master would not take well to having his work called mere tinkering. Still, content aside, do you still deny knowing Yorick?”
“Yes, and I don’t know anyone called
Aden
for that mater!”
“I was afraid of this. It seems we will need to take you somewhere more conducive to obtaining truthful answers…. You may come now,” the Pardoner calls out into the hall behind her, triggering the tell tale groan of many doors.
Lillian takes a great gulp of air, there is no more point in playing for time; her eyes can make out shapes, if not details and that will have to be good enough. A sudden lunge sends her flying across the small room towards the Chief Inquisitor, who braces himself to fend off the ineffectual attack of a frustrated girl. His master had been clear that no significant harm should come to the baron’s daughter, which had made using the flash bulb a risk but there was little risk in slapping the girl about a bit; his master would understand that, she is too full of herself for her own good. A few blows ought to soften her up for later questioning, in fact the Chief Pardoner is now regretting calling his men from hiding, had he known the wretched girl wasn’t going to try to make a break into the corridor he might have kept his men in reserve and had more enjoyment himself.
These thoughts evaporate suddenly, as Nathaniel registers the flash of steel in Lillian’s hand. With the speed of a startled cat Lillian ducks under the blurry shape of the Pardoner’s hand as it tries to ward her off and slides into position behind him, with the knife at his throat, just in time to face the Inquisitors suddenly bursting through the doorway across from her.
“Back!” She shouts, squinting to see the men hovering indecisively in the doorway. “Where do you think you can go now?” Nathaniel asks, regardless of the thin, cold line crossing his Adam’s apple. Lillian ignores the question and instead backs up to the window dragging her captive with her.
“I hope you are not planning to do anything foolish, my lady,” the Chief Pardoner warns, “at the moment I can promise that you will not be harmed, however, my men are under no such instructions, if something were to happen to me, they might do something regrettable.” Once again Lillian refuses to be drawn. Instead she uses her free hand to open the window and call a single word into the street.
Sam has only just succeeded in pulling the wounded mutant into the protection of the alleyway, when he hears his name called from one of the windows on the upper story of the inn. The call was not entirely unexpected, even with the large numbers of Inquisitors in town it was too much to hope that so many watching this particular inn could be a coincidence. He was almost grateful to the man in his arms for having precipitated the fight rather than having it sprung on him when the Inquisitors were good and ready. Many of the men who had been camped in the opposite building were now dead and only the very bravest dared to peek above the window sill, in the hope of getting another shot at the mutant or the ex-Crusader.
“Can you still fire a gun?” Sam asks the mutant, thrusting the rifle into his seven fingered hand.
“Yes and the name’s
Aden
.”
“Mine’s Sam.
Aden
I need you to keep the windows covered, keep them pinned down and don’t let anyone cross the street.”
“What are you going to do?” The three-eyed gunman asks, heaving his body into a firing position, ignoring the pain from the bullet wound in his side.
“There’s a friend of mine inside and it sounds like she’s run into trouble. I have to go and get her.”
“Go, then. I don’t know how long I can keep their attention so be quick.” His words are punctuated by a shot from the rifle and a screech of pain from across the road.
On cue, the Inquisitor’s gunmen send anther volley of bullets into the corner of the inn but the mutant quickly rolls back into the shelter of the alleyway, cursing at the pain blossoming from his wound. Sam does not bother to see if
Aden
makes it back to his position. Instead he is already running, bent double, towards the back of the inn and the unlocked pantry door. He plunges through into the kitchen, ignoring the startled cries from the chefs huddling below the counters and runs through into the common room. Here and there men look up from their hiding places but none dare challenge him as he sprints through the room.
Blake sees the first Inquisitor as he steps over the body of the innkeeper at the foot of the stairs. Before the man can bring his gun to bear or yell a warning, a heavy knife twirls through the air and finds his eye. The Inquisitor stiffens as the steel laces into his brain then falls forward already pale and dying. Blake has ascended the stairs before the rest even know he is upon them; within seconds two more men are dead, cleft by his darting blade then the first shots ring out as mortal reactions try to keep pace with the blurred movements and unholy determination of this wild eyed killer. The Inquisitors left in the
room with Lillian and her hostage freeze, unable to decide whether to stay with their lord or join their fellows in the hallway beyond. They have only a few brutal moments to wait, before a figure, holding a dripping sabre and drenched in the blood of their fellows, is framed in the doorway. The foremost Inquisitor raises his pistol but before his finger can even squeeze the trigger, the razor edged blade flicks out again and a severed hand rolls into the corner, leaving a slick trail on the carpet. The other men fall back before the onslaught, each one confronted by a secret terror that leaves him no option but to cower before the gruesome butcher.
Blake pays no attention to the men fleeing past him. Instead he steps forward to stand in front of Lillian and her captive, raising his dripping sword to replace the knife at the Chief Pardoner’s neck and allowing Lillian to step away from the still grinning man.
“Captain Blake! It is good to see you unchanged since Golifany,” Nathaniel says mockingly, “I should have known that you would not be idle at a time like this. What have Yorick and the girl promised you? I am sure that I can match whatever offer they have made.”
Recognition creases Sam’s brow and he steps back, his sword still leveled.
“Yes, you were at Golifany,” he says studying the other man’s features, “you are the leader here, now?” It is more a statement than a question.
“Indeed, though I thought you would know more of me. Have they kept you so in the dark?”
“I have spent most of my time in the western desert, I have not bothered with politics…”
Suddenly, the weariness hits Sam. Without the support of his Berserker’s rage and the necessity of saving Lillian, he feels his fatigue pulling down on him, like heavy chains rooted in the earth a storey below him. It has been too long since he last fed and if Rydal’s blood had not been so potent, he might already be feeling the hunger of his stolen years creeping over him, slowing the muscles, stretching the skin, bringing a year’s worth of degeneration in less than an hour. The memory of how it had happened the first time fills him with an all consuming dread; he had lost his youth in a single day and had thought he would lose everything, until the scent of his first victim had drawn him away from the Church, where he had first looked for salvation and then into the desert. It was what had first made him realize how close his damnation was. The sight of his face virtually melting in the glass of the Church windows as the years crept upon him was something that had driven him from one end of the desert to the other; always swearing he would find redemption but always prepared to do whatever it took to stave off the day of that
judgement
. In spite of all his bitter orisons, he would rather suck that slow flowing black blood until he could taste the marrow than feel those cold years creeping over him or face the uncertain mercy of an undeniable god.
Somewhere, beyond the demands of his hunger, he can hear the Pardoner droning on but
he cannot listen properly. Yorick? He knows the name and he knows that it has significance but there is something more immediate that he must attend to.
The scent rising from the Pardoner’s mouth holds the Pilgrim’s attention far more than the Pardoner’s promises and attempts at persuasion. It pours dark and rich into the room, the sent of vital death borne on the breath of the Inquisitor and Blake knows that this man, a man who had ridden on the plains of Golifany against the evil that slept there, had known the overripe, almost rotten taste of undead blood. This man was a servant, as he had been, and therefore contained within his veins some small measure of his master’s gift.
“I am sure you would be allowed access to the Gate, once my own master has made use of it…” Nathaniel rattles off his list of promises but he breaks off as he notices the deadly need in Blake’s tired eyes. Too late he tries to avoid the Pilgrim’s wild lunge but there is no resisting that animal hunger and Blake’s teeth close on his neck. Not sharp or elegant like his master but blunt, brutal, tearing their way to the vein and drawing in mouthfuls of pumping arterial blood.
Lillian chokes on a scream at the sight of blood erupting from the side of Blake’s mouth; but Blake keeps tearing at the throat, oblivious to anything but the elusive strength woven into the servant’s blood by his master. It is some indication of the potency of that blood that Blake is able to release the Chief Pardoner while his heart is still beating.
“We must go,” he says, his voice thick with the blood still trailing from his mouth. Without waiting for Lillian’s response, he thrusts out a gory hand and drags her from the room.
Spreadeagled
on the carpet behind them, Nathaniel Tenichi struggles to control his ragged breathing and the wretched pounding of his heart. As his master has taught him, he draws on his own reserves and the power that the Elder had given him, from what few shreds the Pilgrim has left. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the blood at his throat begins to scar and the veins bind themselves back together. Nathaniel has garnered strength from the
Stregoi
blood for less than five years but even that short a time is more than a body should bear in a few moments, especially a body so close to the brink of death. The pain he feels is more exquisite than any he has ever doled out and for all his reserve, he cannot help but whimper; his pitiful sobs leave small bubbles of spit and blood on the surface of the damp stain covering the carpet. Before he blacks out, Nathaniel promises himself that the Pilgrim will know a similar pain over many years, growing older and older in fits and starts until even crawling is beyond him and at the moment when his Lord opens the Gate, he will leave the Pilgrim, only meters away from his salvation, unable to do more than bake and shrivel in the sun. This is the thought with which the Pardoner sooths himself, as he is dragged down by the shuddering coils of pain and weakness, that, when he is done, Samuel Blake’s ghost will be the most tortured soul to ride the wind between the sun burned desert sands and the frozen stars.
Aden
starts, causing himself to yelp in pain, as he registers the two people hurrying up behind him. The few muted shots and screams he had heard from the building in the short time since his benefactor left, could not prepare him for the blood drenched figure that greeted his eyes now. How many could the man have killed for Christ’s sake? The look on the face of the youth behind him told him some of that story but he suddenly hoped he wasn’t getting himself into more trouble by keeping company with this man. As if that were possible, he thinks, bitterly, trying to suppress the lingering nausea leeching from the wound in his side. What choice do I have?
“We should be going, Sam. They didn’t like the shooting up there in the building, they’ll make a rush any minute if I’m any judge and we won’t be able to hold them off.”
I just hope he doesn’t try to take them all on anyway,
Aden
prays. I’ve ridden with wild ones before but this man is obviously insane. To
Aden
’s relief Sam merely nods and helps him climb up on the same horse as the young man. Wait, hadn’t Sam said ‘her’? They had done a good job of hiding her sex but there are too many signs to fool him once he knows what to look for, particularly when she puts her delicate arms around his waist to hold on and presses herself against him so that they can both ride low on the horse. Worse than the pain caused in his side by this uncomfortable position is the dull, never forgotten itch of sexual desire burned and torn away from him by ‘pure’ men like those even now making their way across the street or pouring from the back of the inn. The first bullet to whistle past his head sparks that resentment into a flame and with a cry of defiance, he returns fire, blood blooms from a hole in an Inquisitor’s forehead and two madmen spur their horses out of the alley and into the main streets of
Olstop
, challenging God or his devils to stand in their way.