The Archon's Assassin (56 page)

“Don’t do this, Deacon,” Aristodeus said, nevertheless making a couple of practice swipes to gauge the balance of Galen’s saber. “Don’t let anger rule you. It’s what the Demiurgos does. It’s what he wants.”

“No,” Shader said, stepping back and beckoning Aristodeus to stand. “It’s what
I
want.” He’d made his decision: to cut down evil wherever he found it, and there was nothing more evil than this; nothing worse than what Aristodeus had done. Not only had he abused Rhiannon, but he’d abused the very laws of nature, damning Shader in the process.

“Kill me,” Aristodeus said, “and you kill yourself.”

“So?” Shader said. Anger took away his ability to care about that, and besides, how did he know Aristodeus was telling the truth? It seemed more likely the philosopher had as little idea as anyone else what would happen if either one of them died. Just being here together in the same room shouldn’t have been possible, and yet Aristodeus had tutored him since childhood and been there every step of the way.

“Suit yourself,” Aristodeus said. “After all, you are no longer indispensable. The threat of the Unweaving has passed, and now Rhiannon has exposed my secrets, you are more likely to be an aid to the Demiurgos than a hindrance. All this rage, this anger: you are already under the sway of his deceptions.”

“The only deceptions I’ve fallen prey to,” Shader said, “are yours. Now, shut up and defend yourself.”

Aristodeus did the opposite: he lunged, but it was a feint, and Shader saw right through it. The philosopher immediately aimed a head-kick, but that was also a ruse. He corkscrewed his body over his striking leg and went for a hamstringing cut with the saber.

With the barest of pivots, a deft flick of his wrist, Shader blocked. Aristodeus spun on his heel as he landed, slung out an elbow. Shader swayed aside—right into the path of the saber as it sheered round. The gladius deflected it before his mind caught up, then he was parrying left, right, up, down as Aristodeus launched a blistering sequence of attacks.

The philosopher established a frantic rhythm that allowed Shader no opening to counter, and then he brought his legs into play, kicking low, driving with his knees. He was fast, and more skillful than when he’d been Shader’s tutor. There was something preternatural about his ability, as if he’d honed it over the course of many lifetimes.

Shader’s anger cooled the instant he recognized he was outclassed. Instead, he gave the gladius its head, let his sword arm respond as if it had a life of its own. He danced, around the kicks, absorbed the knees as best he could, accepted the pain with growls and grunts. And all the while, he watched the philosopher’s eyes, bored into their fierce concentration, studied each flick, each shift of focus.

Aristodeus would begin to wonder why his saber blows weren’t getting through; why Shader was parrying with such poise and calm. A good defense will only buy you time against a competent attack, the philosopher had never tired of telling him. Sooner or later, you’d mistime a block, and then it was all over.

But that was only if it was defense with no other purpose.

Aristodeus’s pupils dilated a fraction, and Shader knew he had him. Rather than blocking this time, he grabbed the philosopher’s sword arm, and flung the gladius at his unprotected face.

Aristodeus screamed, and his eyes bulged—

—And metal-clad fingers snatched the blade from the air a hair’s breadth from finding its mark.

Nameless turned and offered the Archon’s sword back to Shader.

Shader was momentarily stunned. Not so much by the speed with which the dwarf had caught the blade, but by the fact he was able to hold it at all. Everyone else who’d touched it had been burned. Even Shader had, after massacring the soldiers back in New Jerusalem, when the sword had rejected him. He started to wonder why Aristodeus hadn’t used Nameless all along, if he could wield the Archon’s sword, if he had the necessary purity of heart or purpose or whatever it was.

Aristodeus had said something before, hadn’t he? About Nameless being the perfect choice, but for his brush with the Demiurgos. The malignancy of the black axe had conflicted him, left shadows in its wake. Had that changed now? Had the corruption passed?

But then he realized: it was most likely the gauntlets protecting the dwarf. Gauntlets made by the son of Supernal beings.

“I understand your anger, my friend,” Nameless said. “I feel the same way myself. But don’t let Ludo’s death be for nothing. Or Bird’s, or the doggy-chap’s.”

“Ekyls,” Albert said.

Galen grunted agreement.

“Yes, Ekyls,” Nameless said. “Do this right, Shader. Do it for them. Do it for yourself. And if you can’t, then do it for me.”

Shader’s calm had left him. In its place, he trembled with anger, wanted nothing more than to put down the sword and beat Aristodeus to a pulp with his fists.

The philosopher, though, regained his poise in an instant. He held out the saber for Galen to take, and nodded sagely at Nameless, like he wanted to give the impression he’d planned this all along; that he’d not for a single moment been terrified.

“One more quest,” Aristodeus said.

Shader threw a punch, but Nameless caught his fist.

“I need you to try, laddie. Please.”

Shader’s rage swelled within him, but none of it fell on the dwarf. Slowly, inexorably, it drained away, as if absorbed by the scarolite of the great helm. He knew it was more than that. Knew he could never fight with Nameless. Even if he could win, he wouldn’t want to. Nameless was a true friend, honest even when it hurt. And he was the bravest person Shader had ever met; if ever there was, a true hero.

Nameless released Shader’s fist, watched him through the eye-slit of the great helm, and then sighed. “I can’t remove these gauntlets. We took them from the fire giant, Sartis. They give me unimaginable strength, but my own hands are buried beneath them. And now, I can’t remove the Liche Lord’s armor. I knew it while I was putting it on, but something made me wear it all the same.”

“Hope,” Aristodeus said. “Hope that if you reach the finish line—”

Nameless carried on speaking, as if Shader were the only other person in the room. “I’ve already come too far. I allowed myself to be persuaded to make the attempt. To find a way to remove this helm. But each step I take on this path, I grow more uncertain. More afraid. It’s as if I need the gauntlets, the armor to protect me, though I don’t know what from. A voice keeps telling me if I find one more thing—this Shield of Warding the Cynocephalus is said to cower beneath—all will be well. The black axe’s hold over me will be broken, the helm can be removed, and the armor and gauntlets will slough away like old skin. But I don’t know, laddie. I don’t know truth from illusion right now. I don’t know good from evil. But you do. You always have known, and I see it in you now, clearer than ever. Come with me, laddie, this one last time.”

Shader looked away from the eye-slit. Looked about at the others.

Albert was cleaning under his nails with the cheese-cutter.

Galen nodded encouragement, but there was a hollow look in his eyes. He appeared to Shader a man devoid of purpose now Ludo was gone. Or a man in need of one. In need of some way to expiate the guilt he felt at failing the man he was sworn to protect.

Shadrak’s arms were folded across his chest. He, too, was nodding, though he was watching Nameless, and the nods seemed to be for himself.

Rhiannon—

Rhiannon’s eyes were averted, like she was too ashamed to face Shader. Too ashamed, or too angry he hadn’t finished Aristodeus off. The black sword hung at her hip, as wrong as cancer. He wanted to rip it from her, but he had no right. The old Rhiannon was still in there somewhere, he was sure of it. Like Nameless, she had to make her own stand, cast out her own demons. Only if she didn’t, if she couldn’t, would he step in and do something.

“Saphra,” he said, turning a glare on Aristodeus. His daughter? Theirs?

“Go with Nameless first,” the philosopher said. “Help him, and then we’ll talk. We’ll all talk.”

Rhiannon opened her mouth to protest, but Nameless said, “You, too, lassie. I need you, too. And then,” he said to Aristodeus, “you’ll give the girl back.”

Aristodeus’s eyes hardened. “We’ll see. But first things first—”

“No, laddie,” Nameless said. “You will.”

“Fine,” Aristodeus said. “Whatever. But before you go, assuming you are all going, and not just planning to hang around here debating, there’s something I think you should take.” This he said to Shader.

He produced a stoppered glass vial from within his toga and held it out. Something black and misty swirled within.

“First, you’ll be heading back to Earth, to the Great West. There’s a facility in the city of… I forget what they call it now, but it used to be Chicago. My homunculi have repaired a huge piece of Ancient-tech there, a particle accelerator; focused it so that it opens up onto the Abyss.”

“Why not just take the plane ship?” Shadrak said.

“Because the Abyss is no mere location,” Aristodeus said. “It’s not one plane among others. It is a state, an extension of being, of the mind of the Demiurgos himself. Even the accelerator you will be using would not be enough on its own. But calibrated by the homunculi, beings begotten from the Deceiver himself, it can open a passage. Other than that, the only doorway is death.” He gave a withering look at Shader.

It wasn’t something Shader ever wanted to repeat. He’d been utterly deceived, convinced he was in Araboth. And when the truth had been revealed, he would have been lost anyway, save for Sammy Kwane appearing under his own power and showing the way.

Aristodeus pressed the vial into Shader’s hands. “The Cynocephalus never lets the shield out of his sight. He’s sunk so far into his nightmares, his womb at the heart of Gehenna has subsided, until it is little more than an embolism in his father’s realm. If you are to retrieve the shield,” he said to the group, “then you must enter the Abyss.” To Shader, he added, “Deeper than when you found yourself in that illusory Araboth.” He held Shader’s eyes, beseeched him to understand, to forgive and move on.

“And this particle thing,” Albert said. “We’ll be able to come back the same way?”

Shadrak was shaking his head, eyes narrowed at the poisoner.

“Yes,” Aristodeus said. “But it will not be stable. In and out, quick as you can. If the accelerator fails, it’s game over.”

“Great,” Rhiannon muttered.

“Remember,” Aristodeus said, “this is not just about Nameless, and it’s not just about me, either. If we do nothing, if we don’t take the fight to the Demiurgos, his storm head will advance unimpeded, until Sektis Gandaw and his Unweaving will seem no more than a spell of light drizzle in comparison.”

Shader lifted the vial between thumb and forefinger. The misty substance within pressed up against the glass. He stared closer, then looked to Aristodeus for confirmation. It had two eyes. Pinpricks of crimson.

The philosopher nodded. “If you are going into the Abyss, you will need a guide, someone familiar with the ways of the dark. Deacon, my boy, allow me to reacquaint you with Dr. Ernst Cadman.”

A GAME OF COGNAC

Plane ship between Aethir and Earth

T
he plane ship’s sterile interior was anything but the sanctuary Shadrak usually found it. It felt more like the executioner’s cart taking him to the gallows. Not only that, but its silver walls acted as mirrors, showed him what he really was. Not that he’d minded in the past: he’d always been one to check his appearance, ensure his weapons were all properly situated upon his person. But now he didn’t see the perfect assassin he’d always thought himself to be. Now he saw a homunculus. Now he saw the pale skin and red eyes that marked him as a reject, even among his own kind.

The others had taken to their cabins, leaving him alone in the control room. No one, it seemed, wanted to talk. Talking only made it more real: they were going to the Abyss. But first, they were going back to Earth, this time to the Great West.

Shadrak had never been there. Never wanted to. The way he heard it in Sahul, the Westies were loud-mouthed braggarts who thought they still owned the world, in spite of the Templum putting paid to that particular boast centuries ago. Kadee said they brought it upon themselves, according to the stories the Dreamers told. Said they grew fat and lazy, and when the war came, they could barely get their lard-arses out of their chairs, never mind take up arms and fight. You’d never catch that happening to Shadrak. Even now, even with his world turned upside down, and him not knowing who the shog he was anymore, he still had his discipline, and he still kept up a training regimen that would have killed lesser men.

That said, he was bone weary. Verusia had taken it out of him. If it wasn’t the cold leaching away his strength, it was Blightey, and the insidious effect of his evil. Which reminded him: he’d left the bag containing the Liche Lord’s skull in his cabin. He needed to check on it. Again. There was no indication Blightey could do anything from within the bag’s limitless depths, but you could never be too careful.

Trepidation built as he made his way along identical corridors, navigating by the numerals on the lintels, and relying on his near-perfect memory. When he reached the door to his room, his anxiety blossomed, and his heartbeat sent ripples through the fabric of his shirt. Tugging his cloak about him, and resting his hand over a holstered pistol, he punched in the code, and the door slid open.

“I wondered how long you’d take,” Albert said.

The poisoner was seated in the half-egg chair beside the cot bed, glass in hand. There was another glass and a bottle of cognac on the table sprouting like a mushroom from the floor.

“That the one you gave me?” Shadrak asked. The one he’d warned Albert never to touch again. The bottle was half-empty.

Albert made a show of reading the label. “I knew you wouldn’t mind, not really.” He took a sip, closed his eyes, and swilled the cognac around his mouth before swallowing.

“Why are you in my cabin?”

Albert poured cognac into the other glass, set the bottle down, and tapped his foot twice. In response, a second chair rose from the floor.