Unchained, the Dark Forgotten (2010) (8 page)

Mac shook his head. “Yep, that sucks.”

“It’s bloody ironic.” Reynard’s rage ebbed a little, enough to feel the fear beneath. Amazing that he still fought to live, when hope was such a cruel joke in the Castle. “It’s bloody embarrassing. A man should be a bit less breakable.”

“How come you’ve never mentioned any of this before?”

“The prince had it right. The magic that rules the guardsmen binds us to this dungeon more securely than if we were one of the prisoners. We vowed to keep silent about the soul vessels for our own protection, and the secret unites the old guards like nothing else could. Nevertheless, that vow must have been broken, if every thief in this place has an eye on our vault.”

Mac clapped a hand to Reynard’s shoulder. “We’ve gotta get a handle on this. What was that Miru-kai was saying? There’s a collector involved?”

“Unless he was lying.”

“But if he isn’t, that means your life essence—soul, whatever—has left the building.”

Reynard took a deep breath, realizing Mac had somehow calmed him down. Directed his anger to a practical problem. He wasn’t the kind of superior Reynard was used to, but he was damned effective.

Reynard gave a tired smile. “I would bet all two and a half centuries of my overdue pay that there is a conspiracy in the Castle, and Miru-kai is in the thick of it.”

The two men shared a look. Demon fire smoldered in Mac’s eyes, a sign of temper.

“Yeah,” said Mac. “Okay. First, who or what else is in the forest that might have escaped? I’m thinking opposable thumbs here. Someone who could be a thief, perhaps coached by our fairy friend.”

“A demon would be the most likely candidate, but the forest is vast. There are thousands of hellspawn, and no means of checking to see if one is missing.”

Mac grunted unhappily, and Reynard could see him adding “demon inventory” to his mental list of projects.

“Perhaps a demon got out first, and then the phouka today,” Reynard added.

“That’s right. Someone had to let the phouka loose. A flunky demon had to open the lock to the guardsmen’s storage room. A sorcerer had to know how. And then someone else had to have a connection on the outside. While it’s remotely possible that was all one or two people, I highly doubt it.”

Reynard considered that. “And in the outside world, there is a collector and the vampire assassin hunting Ashe Carver. Two very different interests. There is more than one player beyond these walls as well.”

“See, I said you needed help tracking down all the answers.” Mac swore under his breath. “I’ll bet this is the tip of a nasty old iceberg.”

They began walking again. Reynard felt his sense of purpose trickling back. “When I’m done with the guards, I will begin questioning the known thieves.”

“Dude, I’ll cover the stuff inside the Castle. You’ve got to get outside and find your soul. We don’t know exactly when the urn was taken. I know it can’t be too long because you’re still okay, but . . .”

Reynard jerked, the words cleaving him like a broadsword. “Outside?”

“If it’s separation from your urn that’s the problem, you need to be wherever it is. If it’s left the Castle, you have to follow it.”

“Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful. How am I supposed to track the wretched pot through a world I don’t know anymore?”

“Ask for help. We’ve got friends. Ask Caravelli. Holly.”

Freedom
. A sudden chill seized him, making goose-flesh. Anticipation or fright, or both. If he left the Castle for too long, would he be strong enough to come back to eternal duty in a dark dungeon? Or would that much freedom drive him mad, like poor Killion? “This isn’t how I envisioned getting a few days’ leave.”

“Ain’t life a funny old thing.”

Reynard swore. “I’ll get the job done. I always do.”

As the spike of panic faded, he realized suddenly where they were. This was the place where Ashe had stood guard with her rifle, waiting for help while Reynard bled his life out on the stone floor. It looked like any other place where two corridors crossed. Nothing remarkable, except in his mind. What he remembered most was the pain of Bran’s ax wound to his gut, but through that he recalled Ashe’s cool touch. She’d given him water to drink. She’d held his head. It had been so long since anyone had shown him compassion, and when he needed it most, she was there.

Any more detail than that was the needless embroidery of his imagination. What counted was that, for once, someone had looked after him. Not the kind of woman he’d loved before, all soft sweetness, but the right woman for that moment: brave, strong, and fierce.

“Do you think Ashe Carver would be willing to help me?” Reynard asked with casual curiosity.

Mac opened his mouth to answer, but a bellow thundered in the stone vault of the corridor. As one, they sprang forward, racing toward the sound.

“That was human,” Reynard shouted. “One of the men!”

They were heading to a place where one corridor crossed another. A few paces ahead, Mac slowed, skidding as they reached the intersection. It was impossible to see around the corner, and the dark, blanketing shadows only increased the danger of being caught in a trap. Mac drew his nine-millimeter SIG Sauer automatic. Reynard slid to a stop and dropped to one knee, sighting with his musket and using the corner of the wall for cover.

For a moment, there was utter silence. Reynard could taste the dry dust of the stone, smell the faint scent of thyme still clinging to his clothes from his adventure with Ashe. His pulse was hard and steady.

Then he heard the scuffle of feet, an uneven rhythm that ended in another yelp of pain down the righthand—eastern—arm of the corridor. Reynard eased around the corner, trying to see without exposing his position. He exchanged a nod with Mac and rounded the corner, flowing silently into the shadows.

A tangle of shapes wrestled beyond the smear of torchlight a few feet ahead. The flickering illumination only made the corridor beyond twice as dark. It wasn’t light, but a mockery of it.

Behind him, Mac yelled and fired the SIG Sauer, the report a physical slap. Reynard slammed his back to the wall and turned enough to see two figures rushing Mac from the western arm of the crossroads. Another assailant burst from the north side, cornering Mac.

In one motion, Reynard sighted and fired. The Brown Bess banged, coughed smoke, slammed into his shoulder. The third attacker dropped.

As it fell, Reynard could see the maw of needle teeth where the mouth and nose should have been.
A changeling
. One of the hideous, twisted mutations of the vampire species. They had all the vampires’ appetite with no humanity left to temper it. Few things would kill a changeling, but blowing the skull to bone shards generally worked.

Mac kicked one of his attackers in the head. It was a green thing, a kind of frog-man with claws and teeth. A creature that grotesque had to be some kind of dark fey.
Miru-kai is behind this
.

Mac’s other assailant was a tusked goblin flailing a two-handed sword. Reynard dropped the musket, pulled out his sidearm and his sword. He’d trained himself to use either hand to fight with sword or pistol, but still preferred the blade on his right.

As he rushed to help Mac, the demon tossed a stream of flame into the goblin’s face. The creature fell back, raising its hands to protect its eyes. Mac kicked the sword out of its grasp.

The frog-thing scrabbled for it, but Reynard lunged, sliding his blade between the creature’s ribs and out its back. It screamed piteously, mouth opening wide to reveal fangs like a cobra’s, so long they must have folded up inside its mouth. Reynard pulled back on the blade, feeling bone and the pull of flesh against steel.

The screaming didn’t stop. The creature was a mercenary, a soldier, but it still felt pain and death. He shot it in the head, over and over, until the screaming stopped.

“Hey!” Mac dodged as the huge goblin swung with its tusks. The face was grotesque, man crossed with pig and decorated with a dozen piercings. Squares of metal were sewn to its tunic, overlapping like scales. Mac hoisted the sword, letting flame leap along the blade.

Reynard backed up, giving him room to swing.

“I’ve got this,” yelled Mac, who looked like he was starting to enjoy himself.

Now that the odds were even for his friend, Reynard turned and bolted the other way, back toward the source of the first cries. He had delayed only a moment to help Mac, but every lost second tore at him with frantic claws.

Abandoning stealth, he pelted through the torchlight. The cluster of figures who had struggled in the darkness beyond was gone. Something lay on the ground. Reynard paused just long enough to glance at the object. A circular silver pin decorated with a sprig of heather.
Stewart!
He had dropped it as a clue.

Or else it was a whole new trap, meant to lure Reynard deeper into the Castle.

Bloody hell
. There had to be more than one attacker, because Stewart was a good fighter. Reynard slowed his pace just enough to scan the ground as he went, searching for some indication of what he was up against. The bare stone told him nothing.

The next junction in the corridors was shaped like a T. Left or right? Reynard listened intently, letting his vision go soft, letting sounds come to him rather than seeking them out. Perhaps it was magic, perhaps not, but it was something he’d been able to do since he was a boy. He heard things that should have been impossible to detect.

Like the jingle of a goblin’s scaled armor along the left-hand passage. Reynard shifted his bloody sword to his left hand and put the Smith & Wesson in his right. If he was fighting a goblin, bullets were a better choice.

He sprinted down the corridor, willing himself to catch up. Stewart’s bride was waiting for him to come home, and Captain Reynard did not leave his men behind.

The passageway curved, the monotony of stone blocks and darkness creating a blind corner. He slowed to long, walking strides, gun ready.

They were waiting for him, a changeling and a goblin. Stewart lay like a huddle of laundry at their feet. His neck was savaged.

Suddenly Reynard’s mind was crystal clear, his anger snuffed out. Battle brought out his icy control, and he needed every strength he had right then.

Stewart needed it.

Reynard fired the gun. The changeling flew backward, but Reynard already knew he had missed the head.
Damnation!

The goblin fell back a step at the sound of the shot, but drew a bronze knife the length of a man’s forearm. The blade was serrated in long, wicked notches, meant to catch and tear as it sliced. Worse, the goblin handled it with confidence. Anticipation came into its piggy eyes. Its lower lip—stomach-churningly human—sagged a little as the upper mouth lifted, showing off the sweep of its gold-studded tusks.

Was that a goblin smile? Leer? Evil grin?
The devil only knows
.

It all took less than a second; then the goblin was on him. The thing was at least seven feet tall and smelled like rotten ham.

It crashed forward like a falling boulder armed with a knife. Reynard ducked, but not far enough. A tusk slammed the side of his head, making his ears ring and sending him stumbling to the side. They careened into the wall, their combined weight driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh.

Reynard sagged enough in the creature’s grip to bend his knees, then used the full force of his body to drive the heel of his hand into the goblin’s snout. Its head snapped back. He’d caught it by surprise.

Reynard shoved his gun into the soft flesh beneath the goblin’s jaw and fired three times. As the top of the goblin’s head sprayed the wall, a single, convulsive jerk smashed its bulk against Reynard. It felt like a seven-foot bag of stone. Reynard twisted, using the goblin’s own weight to send it crashing to the floor.

Flecks of blood and bone were everywhere, over the walls and floor, over Stewart’s still form, glistening in the torchlight.

The changeling was gone.

The Smith & Wesson was empty, and he didn’t take the time to reload. Swords were better with vampires.

Reynard spun away from his position, searching the shadow for the glow of pale yellow eyes.
Nothing. Nothing
. He dropped the gun and took a firmer grip on the sword.

Instinctively, Reynard looked up just in time to see the changeling drop from the ceiling like a massive, pale spider. Reynard sprang aside, but not quite fast enough. Claws hooked in his sleeve, pulling him forward. He landed hard, the shock of stone on his knees stealing his breath.

Reynard threw himself into a roll, knowing motion was his best defense against the changeling’s massive strength. A swipe of long claws missed his face by a whisper.

Then he was back on his feet. The changeling circled, its gait oddly crablike. Hunched, bald, barrel-chested, it looked frail and slow. It was anything but. Now it had picked up the goblin’s knife.

Blood stained its maw. Stewart’s blood.

“Who sent you?” Reynard demanded, more to buy time than anything else.

The thing hissed and pounced; Reynard ducked, bringing up the sword to block and turning into the motion. Not the most elegant move, but it put cold steel between his flesh and those needlelike fangs.

As he planned, the changeling landed against the sword’s honed edge. For the second time that night, Reynard felt flesh give under the blade. Claws tore at Reynard, raking through his hair, down his sleeve. The changeling staggered back, wrenching free of the sword’s bite. No scream of pain this time, just a wheezing gurgle.

Reynard straightened, raised the sword again. The changeling tripped on Stewart’s body, then fell backward.

Reynard took its head with a two-handed blow, feeling the crunch of the spine vibrate through the blade.

Lungs heaving, he stood a moment, half- drunk from the sheer savagery of the fight. Then he dropped the sword and pushed the changeling’s body aside.