The Night Parade

Fourteen

The news struck her hard. Myrmeen thought of her private talk with Lucius and the revelation that he had a family that even the Harpers apparently knew nothing about. Who would tell them? she thought, and who would be there to comfort his children when they woke in the night? Myrmeen forced such thoughts away. She could not deal with them now. “Where’s his body?” she asked. “I don’t know,” Alden replied innocently. “Alden, we have to take Shandower’s weapon and leave. Have you seen Erin or Reisz?”

“I haven’t,” Alden said, lying expertly. Krystin touched Myrmeen’s arm. “The glove was fused to his arm. If that’s the glove, then his hand is still—”

“I know,” Myrmeen said in disgust, “but it has to be done.” Breaking from the others, Myrmeen closed the distance separating her from the gauntlet, which had become encased in a sphere of blue-white energy that crackled with strands of green fire. The power within the glove was blossoming out of control, and Myrmeen realized that Shandower had not been summoning the power, but had been holding it in check. She knelt before the weapon. The glove was empty. If they had taken his arm to separate him from the gauntlet, no trace of meat or bone remained. Myrmeen was afraid that her own flesh would melt away if she touched the arcane weapon, then decided that she had no choice if she was going to safeguard her daughter’s life.

She reached out and touched the glowing metal. It was warm, but it did not burn her. Snatching the weapon from the ground, she turned and motioned for the others to follow.

“Alden, do you know a place where the Night Parade will not follow? They know about you now. It must be a place you would not normally go.”

“Yes,” he said absently. “I can think of a place.” She took a step in his direction and he moved back suddenly, absently cutting a glance at the weapon in her hands. Krystin and Ord had not moved at all. Alden shuddered as he looked around. “I suppose we should get out of here before more of those things arrive.”

“Hold this for me,” Myrmeen said to Alden, her instincts alerting her that something was very wrong with the young man. She held out the gauntlet, and Alden shrank away, raising his hand before his face.

“Go on,” Krystin urged. “Take it. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Alden said softly, sweat breaking out on his pale skin. A blanket of ochre hung above the city, beneath the clouds, and a soft breeze had gathered at the companions’ backs. Alden ground his hands together. “I don’t want to touch it. I’m afraid.”

“Why should you be afraid?” Ord asked, suspicious.

Unexpectedly, Alden ran, waving his right hand over his head. He was signaling someone, Myrmeen realized. She heard shouts and turned her attention to the crowd that had gathered nearby. A dozen men dressed in the armor of the local guard broke through the crowd, ordering them to disperse or face a penalty. The crowd broke up swiftly and the soldiers shouted a command that Myrmeen did not recognize as they broke into a dead run, charging at Myrmeen with weapons drawn. She turned to run and saw a half dozen men who had been fighting at another table standing close, bows drawn, arrows nocked.

They were trapped. Alden had stopped less than twenty yards from the group. He watched his former allies with his lips pressed together, his hands wringing anxiously, his expression dark and cold.

“This could have been simple,” he said. “Why didn’t you just go along? They promised it would be quick, no pain. But they needed a human to carry the glove.”

His fingers were twitching so quickly that they had become a blur. Alden shifted back and forth on his heels, moving with such incredible speed that he seemed to wink out of existence in one position and reappear in another. His teeth chattered, and his body shook with his inner conflict. He struggled not to say the words that had been left in his mind by Lord Sixx, but failed.

“My masters have instructed me to give you a message before you die,” he said. “Death is only the beginning. We will take your souls and they will live on in torments worse than any found in Cyric’s kingdom.”

“Bastard!” Krystin shouted as she flung herself at Alden. Ord grabbed her by the shoulders and held her back, noticing the bloody gash in her arm for the first time. The soldiers were coming closer.

Ord glared at the young man. “What about your fancy words—sticking with your own kind?”

Alden smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Myrmeen thought of the ceremony they had performed, with all the Harpers touching the gauntlet. Alden had revealed himself afterward and had never touched the weapon.

The blond youth’s expression suddenly changed. His cruel sneer dropped away and was replaced by a desperate, frightened look. “I only learned of my true blood today,” he said in a strangled cry before he turned and ran off, leaving them to face their enemies alone.

“We’re going to die here,” Ord said without emotion.

Beside him, Krystin fingered her locket, anger and frustration overriding her fear of death. The mysteries of her past would go unresolved. Standing in front of Krystin, Myrmeen stared at the gauntlet in her hand. Her body quivered as she slipped her left hand inside the glove and felt a sudden surge of energy rush into her body.

The soldiers of the guard stopped four yards away. Several had raised their faceplates, revealing their inhumanity. They were Night Parade beasts, using the armor to disguise their true appearance. The sight of the glove on Myrmeen’s hand made the soldier in the lead raise his hand and issue another command in their strange language.

The archers, she thought, and knew that within seconds she would be dead, her heart pierced by an arrow.

Instead, she heard the roar of thunder and saw a brilliant flash of light. Before her, the soldiers covered their eyes. She turned as the light, as bright and strong as an exploding sun, suddenly faded, and she saw that the archers had been incinerated. A hundred feet behind them stood three figures. One of them, a man, had red hair and spheres of flame for hands. Behind him were two others. Myrmeen recognized only one of them. “Lucius!” she screamed.

The mage’s hand was upon the throat of a tall, dark-haired woman. His features were contorted in pain and he struggled to maintain his concentration. Although he had no weapon, he had his spells, and Myrmeen guessed that he had spoken all but the last syllable of a spell that would, if completed, take off the woman’s head at the neck. Lucius’s clothing was soaked with his own blood and he barely had the strength to stand. By threatening the woman, Lucius had turned the fire lord into a weapon for the humans.

The red-haired man turned and raised his hands in the direction of the second battery of warriors, those dressed in the armor of the local guard, obviously intent on burning them. Then the flames that had consumed his hands suddenly died away. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he collapsed. Lucius stared at the doomed man in surprise. He had no idea what had caused him to fall like a marionette with cut strings. The woman Lucius held screamed and twisted out of his arms, no longer mindful of the mage’s threat. She knelt beside her lover, taking his head in her hands. Her flesh suddenly became dark, covered with thick black hairs. When she looked up, her eyes were no longer human, but large, multi-faceted blood-red ovals, and her teeth were longer, sharper. She forced down the change and became human once more as she registered that her husband was alive but unconscious. She pointed at the soldiers who hesitated before the group.

“They are the ones who have deprived us of our homes!” she screamed. “They are the ones who have driven us into the light. Take them, damn you, and feed upon their souls!”

Near where the archers had been burned Myrmeen saw that the soldiers needed no further urging. She glanced back to where Lucius had stood and realized that the mage had vanished. Then there was no more time for conscious thought. The energy trapped within the gauntlet spread through her, infusing her with a rage that bordered on madness. She did not bother drawing her sword; she knew that the glove was all she needed.

Eight members of the Night Parade advanced on her, faceplates down to hide their deformities and protect their vulnerable flesh from the magic radiated by the gauntlet. Myrmeen was vaguely aware that there were others with her. From the edge of her vision she noticed Krystin and Ord, who battled the creatures that surged around her. Myrmeen thrust out her leg and tripped one of the creatures. She drove her hand through its chest, the armor collapsing inward to worsen the damage to its body. The monster shuddered once, then was still. Before Myrmeen could free her hand from the corpse, she looked up to see a sword descending at her neck. Another sword intercepted the first mere inches from her flesh, the impact strong enough to push the defending blade against her neck, leaving a small cut.

She looked up and saw Ord grimace as he kicked at the armored stomach of the monster that had almost taken Myrmeen’s head. Another creature flung itself at Ord, impaling itself on his blade as they both fell to the ground, the monster on top of Ord and still very much alive.

“Mother, save him!” Krystin shouted.

Myrmeen ignored the girl, even though she had heard the creature’s inhuman squeals and had seen it beat and claw at Ord, whom it had pinned down with its weight. Rage colored her thoughts, fueled by the gauntlet’s magic. Ord had nearly cost Krystin her life. Let him fend for himself.

Screaming, Myrmeen turned her back on Ord’s dilemma. She described a wide arc with her brilliantly glowing hand, forcing several of the creatures back, then she plunged the weapon into the back of another soldier’s head, this one approaching Krystin with a drawn sword. The creature convulsed as she withdrew her hand. Spinning, she realized that the monster Ord had impaled now was poised to crush his larynx with its heavy, misshapen hand. Her murderous thoughts cleared. She knew she had to help Ord, but too much distance separated them.

Krystin, closer by two yards, screamed a curse at Myrmeen and leapt at the creature’s hand. She grasped the monster’s wrist as she flipped in midair and yanked the hand in the other direction. There was a sharp crack as the bones in the monster’s arm snapped and the sword impaling it was dragged several inches through its gut. Myrmeen ran for them and punched her fist through the wailing creature’s faceplate. The beast shuddered and died quickly. Myrmeen dragged the body from Ord as another pair of creatures glanced at each other, hesitated as if evaluating their odds of survival, then ordered their comrades to retreat.

Myrmeen watched the creatures run. With considerable effort, Myrmeen forced the gauntlet’s flames to recede. The fighter helped Ord to his feet and Krystin sprang at her.

“Get away from him!” Krystin screamed. “You were going to let him die!”

Krystin shoved her mother out of the way and took her place beside Ord. Myrmeen knew there was no time to argue or explain; that would have to come later. She led the others from the field of battle. They passed through several winding side streets, then came to the place the group had designated as a rendezvous in the event that they were ever attacked. Shandower and Lucius had insisted on these contingencies whenever they left the safe house. They entered the boarded-up temple, and Myrmeen nearly wept when she saw Reisz and Shandower waiting.

“Give it to me,” Shandower hissed, pointing at the weapon with his remaining hand. The smell of burned flesh came to her suddenly and she realized that Reisz had made a small fire that they had used to cauterize Shandower’s wound.

Myrmeen looked down and saw her flesh beginning to melt, her skin fusing with the weapon. She yanked the gauntlet from her arm, restraining a scream as small sections of her flesh were torn away. Shandower grasped the weapon and threw it to the floor.

“It’s meant for the other hand,” Krystin pointed out as she saw Shandower slide his hand into the glove, “It won’t—”

There was an explosion of blue-white light and, when it faded, the gauntlet was snugly fit upon Shandower’s remaining hand. Somehow, the weapon had reconfigured itself.

“Lucius?” Reisz asked.

“I don’t know,” Myrmeen said. “I pray he survived, but his injuries were great. He vanished at the battle. We couldn’t search for him.”

“We also can’t stay here,” Shandower said. “You may have been followed.”

“We weren’t,” Ord said confidently. “I was checking the entire time.”

Shandower laughed bitterly. A few backward glances and the boy felt secure. Shandower had been deprived of the magic from the apparatus for less than an hour, and in that time he had been overcome with the old, numbing fears. For a brief time he was able to see the threat of the Night Parade for what it had been all along, an unstoppable nemesis, an enemy that he could hold at bay for a time but never destroy. Now that he had the gauntlet back, he realized he had been foolish to entertain such dark, hopeless thoughts. His nose itched, and he raised his hand to scratch it.

The hand was no longer there. Grinning, Shandower set his head back and closed his eyes.

Myrmeen stared at his face and thought of the sensations that had coursed through her for the brief time that she had been empowered by the gauntlet: The magic had flowed through her, making her feel invulnerable, forcing away her fear and her doubts, helping her to focus on her single, driving goal, to destroy the Night Parade. Shandower was overcome by its power, she realized. If he had not been, he would have gone insane years ago.

Then she thought of Lucius, of the warm, caring man he had revealed himself to be. He would survive, she thought. He had to survive. Myrmeen shifted her gaze to Krystin, who held her arm where she had been wounded. Myrmeen went to the girl, pried her arm away from the gash, and realized that they were already risking infection.

“We have to clean and dress the wound,” Myrmeen said.

“I’m fine,” Krystin argued, looking to Ord for support. He shook his head and looked away. “Don’t treat me like a child. Erin lost his arm, and he’s not crying for help. I’ll live, all right?”

“You’ll live, both of you will, because I’m going to see that you get help,” Myrmeen said.

“There’s a healer I trust,” Shandower said softly, “not far from here. We should see him before we leave the city. It seems we have stirred up too great a storm for even the Harpers to weather.”

Suddenly, Myrmeen heard a scurrying in the shadows. She drew one of her blades and flung it in the direction of the sounds. A tiny squeal came from the temple’s ruins. She walked past the overturned pews to find a dying rat in the corner. Shoving her boot against its quivering body, Myrmeen withdrew her knife.

Had she looked up, she would have seen a familiar pair of red eyes that she had glimpsed many times in nightmares. “Rats,” Myrmeen said. “They’re everywhere.” The figure clinging to the ceiling moved carefully, making no sound as it crawled out through the broken skylight and vanished into the cold, clean air of twilight.

Lord Sixx had been watching the battle from a distance. All had not gone according to plan, but he had made the best of a steadily deteriorating situation. The humans knew they had been found out, and so their attacks against his people’s lairs would end. This might have been enough to solidify his standing with his subjects, but the perpetrators had survived, and only their blood would answer the need he shared with his people for retribution.

There were easier ways to deal with them, of course, than the ones he had chosen so far. With the mage dead, they would be much more susceptible to his spies. All he had to do was find them in one place and have Imperator Zeal unleash his power upon them, as he had the archers during the battle.

Sixx grinned. Zeal had killed a half dozen of his own kind to protect his lover’s life. He had made his personal allegiance very clear. If Lord Sixx had not used his own power to put Zeal down, he would have taken out the false members of the local militia, too. According to the stories Sixx had overheard concerning the battle this day, if Zeal had been a rival for his power, unwittingly or not, he had just lost his standing.

There were more pressing concerns for him to think about. He knew the Slayer’s identity. His name was Erin Shandower, and many had seen his face. The man had been grievously injured. It was more than likely that he would retreat to the where he had secreted the apparatus. Sixx had driven the man to ground and would follow him as he went. Sixx found this course of action preferable to a direct confrontation with the man who had felt the energies of the apparatus circulating within his own body as if it were his life’s blood.

Following would be difficult. The Night Parade would be expected. He felt like a fool for having allowed Alden to reveal himself. An ally within their ranks would prove invaluable just now.

Sixx thought of the girl. He remembered the distant manner in which she had treated the Lhal woman and the curse the girl had hurled at Myrmeen when the woman had not tried to save her Harper friend. She obviously was falling in love with the boy, though she had not yet admitted that to herself. The girl had proved herself in battle, and, more importantly, she had proved herself to be human. Alden had been an outsider. They would not expect betrayal from one of their own.

Ideas were forming in his mind when Tamara returned to him and told him what she had overheard at the temple. Alden had remained behind to continue the surveillance. Suddenly, Lord Sixx knew exactly how to manipulate events so that everybody would get what he or she wanted—everyone except the Harpers, who would die, but not before revealing their secrets to him. When this was over, his agents would track them across the Realms if need be and end their threat before it could even begin.