Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (13 page)

A more fantastic possibility was that she was in the presence of an elaborate flesh golem. She’d discovered with Stagger that the remnant souls that animated golems could retain aspects of their former personalities. Short of tearing open this man’s chest and seeing if it held a golden cage instead of a heart, she was unsure how to test her theory. When cut, he’d bled. Would this be true of a flesh golem?

She uncrossed her arms. “Did you find the food in my pack? Have you eaten already?”

“I found the food,” he said. “But I’m no thief.”

“It’s good that you know that about yourself.”

“I was greatly tempted,” he said. “I was delirious when I first woke. I felt... I felt a pull that drew me to this place. I didn’t think of food, or clothing. Thou must think me quite the savage, wandering through the jungle nude, little more than a beast.”

“You’ve more manners than a beast,” she said, slithering over to the pack. She dug out a package bound with string and tossed it to him. “Here’s some jerky.”

“Aren’t thou also hungry?”

She shook her head. She felt hollowed out inside, but could still taste snake bile on her tongue. “It might take a while to recover my appetite.”

She watched as he untied the string and her heart froze as he laid the open package on his lap, lowered his head, and clasped his hands together. He closed his eyes and sat a moment in silence.

“Are you... praying?” she asked.

He looked confused. “I don’t know. I just... if I’m praying, I can’t remember who I’m praying to. But the motions... felt natural.”

She looked up at the ruins beside them. “Like coming here felt natural?”

He shrugged. “I... was delirious. I was dreaming as I walked. I imagined a fortress, resplendent with banners. I found only these ruins.”

She pressed her lips tightly together. This was certainly tilting the scales toward him being Lord Tower.

“Are you a knight?”

He tilted his head, looking slightly surprised by her question. He nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said. “Aye. I believe I am.”

She resisted the temptation to curse. Just because he was a knight didn’t mean he was the Witchbreaker. A knight who couldn’t remember the god he served might be a valuable commodity.

“If you’re a knight, I happen to be a damsel in distress,” she said. She felt cheap describing herself in this fashion, but she knew it was the truth. “As you may have noticed, I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She waved her hand along the length of her body.

“Once I saw your scalp, I assumed you were a bone weaver. They often alter their forms.”

She wondered how he knew this, but decided not to press the issue. “I didn’t voluntarily choose this form,” she said. “I’m dealing with a little bit of a curse right now.” Neither statement was completely true, but neither was completely false. “I’m hoping to find Avaris, Queen of the Weavers, so she can help restore my human form. Will you aid me in this quest?”

“Aye,” he said. “I cannot deny a damsel in distress. I pledge my strength and my sword to thee, my lady.”

She smiled, almost despite herself. “Thank you.” She extended her open hand to him for a handshake. “All this serious talk without a proper introduction. My name is Sorrow.”

He surprised her by taking her outstretched hand in his and kissing the back of her fingers. Ordinarily, she would have been repulsed by a gesture with such romantic undertones. But his face seemed so innocent, she couldn’t find it in herself to be offended.

“I fear I’m at a loss,” he said, as he released her hand. “I don’t know what you shall call me.”

“Slate,” she said, looking into his dark gray eyes. “In honor of your eyes.”

Though, in truth, it was because, if his mind was a blank slate, it would be her hand that filled that empty void with knowledge, shaping him into the ally she needed him to be.

I
T WAS WELL
past sunset the following evening before Sorrow slithered once more into Commonground. Slate was at her side, dressed in glass armor similar to her own. She’d returned with him to the Witches Graveyard, telling him she needed to gather the raw materials to outfit him. In truth, she’d wondered if the sight of the grave where he’d been buried might stir further memories. The hunt for memories had proven unsuccessful, but she’d cut up the fabric of her tent to fashion undergarments for Slate, molded glass to fit his form, and equipped him with a fresh sword. He looked quite formidable in his black armor.

When she’d last walked these docks, no one had given her a second glance. Now all eyes were upon her and her muscular companion. But unlike a town in more civilized parts of the world, no one seemed afraid or repulsed by their appearance. They were being sized up as competition. They were rough customers in a city of rough customers.

They arrived at length at the floating saloon known as the
Black Swan
. She’d spent several weeks here not long ago, designing and building a body for the eponymous owner. The Black Swan was the unofficial queen of Commonground, a woman so wealthy she could purchase the loyalty of anyone she wished. She also had a reputation as a powerful sorceress, a reputation only enhanced by the fact that she continued to oversee her business concerns after death as an animated skeleton. It had been rumored that the Black Swan was a weaver, but Sorrow had held the woman’s skull in her hands and saw no signs that it had ever been punctured by nails. Despite the rather intimate connection she’d had with the Black Swan while fitting her skeleton into a new iron shell, she’d been unable to learn the true nature of the woman’s abilities.

Sorrow pushed open the doors of the saloon and slithered into the room. Few people even looked up from their cards as she entered. She wrinkled her nose at the cigar smoke combined with the strong perfumes of the painted women who accompanied the men at the tables.

The fact that no one found a woman blended with an enormous serpent more interesting than their cards was partly the blame of the man tending bar. Battle Ox was a half-seed, an eight-foot-tall minotaur with broad shoulders and iron-clad horns. Despite his fearsome aspect, during her time at the bar, she’d discovered that Battle was actually a rather gentle soul.

“Battle,” Sorrow said, drawing up to the bar, her head just above the level of his own. “Good to see you again.”

He looked up, his brow furrowed. She could see her black helmet reflected in his eyes. She pulled her helmet off and his expression changed.

“Sorrow! This is a new look for you. Are you on stilts or something?”

“Something,” she said, realizing that most of her lower body was hidden by the bar. “My additional height is one reason I’m here. I need to see the Black Swan.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Pretty sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ever since you left, the boss has been griping that you cheated her.”

“What gall! She complained about a thousand completely fictional defaults in my workmanship and tried to avoid paying my wages. She was the one who attempted to cheat me!”

“But she did pay you. And now that she’s had time to adjust to her new body, she hates her voice.”

“She’s lucky to have any voice at all,” Sorrow said. “She has no lungs or throat. That I was able restore her power of speech using bellows and reeds borders on the miraculous.”

“In any case, when you see her, you’ll get an earful.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Fine. But don’t laugh when she’s chewing you out. She hates that. It’s just... she does kind of sound like a duck.”

“If people think that, I’m hardly to blame,” said Sorrow. “She’s the one who chose to name herself after a waterfowl.”

Battle cast his gaze toward Slate. “Who’s the big guy?”

“I’m called Slate,
half-seed
.”

“He’s agreed to help me with a problem I’m trying to solve,” said Sorrow.

Battle nodded. “Let me go tell the boss you’re here.” He disappeared behind a curtain that covered a door behind the bar.

Sorrow turned to Slate and said, “Try not to sound so contemptuous.”

“Contemptuous?”

“The way you said ‘half-seed.’ It sounded judgmental.”

Slate shrugged. “His mother sullied herself with animal seed. His inhuman soul was fated for damnation from before his birth. How can you not judge such a beast?”

“Considering you don’t remember who your own parents are, you might want to keep an open mind.”

“I may not remember them, but the evidence of my own eyes testifies that they were human.”

Battle returned a moment later and said, “She’ll see you. But your bodyguard stays here.”

Sorrow had expected as much and made no protest as she slithered around the bar.

“So,” he said, as he finally saw her full form. “You’ve, uh, got an interesting new look.”

“Indeed,” she said. “It’s given me a new appreciation for the plight of your kind.”

Battle tilted his head. “Plight?”

“You didn’t ask to be born half-animal,” she said. “It’s a cruel fate, and it disgusts me that you’re treated with contempt by thoughtless fools.”

“You know what I hate more than contempt?” Battle asked. “Condescension. I happen to be proud of who and what I am. I’m bigger and stronger than any of the pathetic pink-skins who think they’re better than me. And I’d wager I’m better hung than anyone else in this port.”

“There’s no need to be crude,” she said as she felt her cheeks go red. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I just... I’m certain you’ve had a difficult life. I was trying to convey my empathy.”

“You don’t feel empathy. You feel pity. That’s just another form of judgment.”

Sorrow started to say that it was possible that a lifetime of poor treatment had left him unable to realize when someone was actually being nice, but decided to hold her tongue.

Battle opened the door at the end of the hall. “Madam, Sorrow is here to see you.”

“How delightfully ominous,” said a reedy, squawking voice.

Battle stepped aside and Sorrow slithered past. The room beyond was lit by lanterns. When last she’d been here, the room had been stripped bare, but now it was crowded and cluttered with old dusty furniture that must have been quite lovely in its day. On a low velvet couch, the Black Swan waited, stretched out in what might have been a relaxed pose, if her body were still capable of looking relaxed.

Sorrow had been hired by the Black Swan to build an iron shell to encase her old bones. Any fair-minded person would have judged Sorrow’s handiwork to be a masterpiece of sculpture. The Black Swan’s new skin was, of necessity, much less flexible than a body of flesh. The lacy black dress that the Black Swan wore over her iron limbs somehow made her look even stiffer. She brought to mind a manikin that had toppled over. Still, with her slender limbs and long fingers, the old witch possessed pleasant echoes of the female form. Indeed, her face might even be thought beautiful, though her eyes were made of glass and her eyelashes fine wires. But one had to admire the symmetry and proportions of her visage. The plates that formed her cheeks slid silently as the Black Swan’s iron lips parted. Her polished teeth chopped the squeaking notes produced by the bellows and reeds inside her chest into a voice that was eerily musical.

“I know why you’ve come,” the Black Swan sang. “You’ve found a letter.”

Sorrow raised her eyebrows. “How could you know that?”

“Because Brand arrived yesterday. Only I had the resources to negotiate a fair price for such a large hoard of dragon bones. When he recounted the story of their discovery, he mentioned that you’d found a letter signed by Avaris herself.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Brand. Do you know if he’s still in port?”

The Black Swan shrugged. “He seemed eager to depart for the Silver City. Perhaps you’ll meet him there.”

“Doubtful. I was merely curious as to his whereabouts. I’m hardly going to follow him to a city full of my worst enemies.”

“You will if you wish to have the letter translated.”

“You can’t translate it?”

The Black Swan shook her head. “Why would I know the lost script of the weavers? For this, you need an authority on dead tongues. The person best fitting this description is Equity Tremblepoint, who resides in the Silver City.”

“Tremblepoint? Why do I know that name?”

“Given your upbringing, my dear, I’m surprised by your ignorance. Lord Tremblepoint was the author of a dozen of the world’s most beloved plays. Equity is his descendant.”

“Oh,” said Sorrow. “You’ll have to forgive me. I fear I’ve limited education in the fine arts.”

The Black Swan released a string of squawks that might have been laughter. “I would hardly describe Tremblepoint’s work as fine art. He was a horrid playwright, possibly the most dreadful of all time. He acquired his family name because, in each scene, his stage directions require the actors to tremble and point as they deliver their melodramatic soliloquies.”

“I thought you said his plays were beloved?”

“Indeed. While his works are meandering, long, and riddled with inconsistencies, they’re also rife with the lowest forms of humor. The public has a hunger for jokes involving bodily output and the most shameful forms of sexual congress. His works have been popular for centuries. Equity Tremblepoint makes a healthy living as a thespian due mainly to the fame attached to the family name.”