Chapter 15

 

The Enemy Within

 

The skull-amulets around the Thugs’ throats enabled Jarix Rinthurin to ride their minds. When he concentrated he could experience their senses; see through their eyes, hear through their ears and feel their emotions. A small increase of effort - and he could communicate with them and even deliver some of his boundless power.

He had anticipated sacrifices, but Kali’s holy assassins were only too pleased to die for what they believed in. Thus when Raven managed to slay the defiant woman in his room Jarix wasn’t overly disappointed; the assassins outside would kill him instead.

As the Thugs closed on the sweating, bleeding bounty hunter, Jarix checked on the other killers. The priest’s protection had alerted him to the Thug’s presence and woken him, but the killer still managed to tighten his rumal around his throat. The paladin also woke and managed to grab his runesword and fight back. The German tracker also seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Fortunately, the four Thugs on the dwarf and blonde warrior looked like succeeding; the two adventurers still woozy from alcohol consumption. Raven’s squire succumbed quietly in his sleep.

Jarix smiled, tasting his assassins’ killing lust. He had rejoiced in that hunger many times during his younger years as a paladin for Kali. That’s it, my Thugs, kill them all! he told them. Show the accursed English Queen that not even her finest adventurers can stop us!

Then, abruptly, Jarix’s Thugs began falling unconscious and dying. When two killers spun to meet the new threat, the dark elf saw that two humans had appeared; a robed warrior and a ... female mage?

Since when did humans allow female wizards? the horrified high priest wondered. They rarely approved of male ones!

The tall, elfin woman spat spells with deadly accuracy. First Jarix felt his Thugs’ surprise, then their alarm. Where did these two come from? They would ruin everything! Anguished, he clenched his hands into trembling fists, nails gouging his palms.

One by one his assassins’ minds began to flicker and die. Jarix considered teleporting to his Thugs’ aid, but soon realised that would be an irrational move. Outside his temple his unholy strength would fade, giving Raven’s adventurers a chance of defeating him. Howling in pain and rage, he drummed his fists on the tiled floor as the newcomers helped the remaining adventurers overcome his assassins. The female wizard even managed to save the Christian priest!

“Damn you!” Jarix spat, “Damn you all!” He hated failing, but most of all he hated failing Her.

Only three Thugs lived at the end of the battle. The German tracker had stripped, bound and gagged them for later questioning. Jarix knew they would die before revealing information, but this failed to console him. Where is my advantage now? he wondered. Raven’s men have discovered my Thugs’ strengths and weaknesses, and now they have a mage working for them! What is my next move? He clasped his hands in prayer. Oh Kali - forgive me - I didn’t mean to fail You! How could I have known about the newcomers?

As though in answer, he felt a shudder pulse through one of the amulets. Refocussing his concentration, Jarix realised that the German tracker had lifted one from a killer’s throat and was staring thoughtfully down at it.

Jarix felt the Thug tense, readying to spit in the tracker’s face.

I have my answer, Jarix realised. Calling on more power, he thundered into the Thug’s mind. No! Let him take it!

But Master - how will I- the assassin protested in worry.

Jarix wasn’t accustomed to disobedience, especially from a lowly assassin. He lashed out with a savage mental fist, crushing the Thug’s mind. Kali take you, assassin! You have failed me and Her, and outlived your usefulness! He felt the killer tense as agony engulfed his brain - then relax in death. Without the necklace he couldn’t resist interrogation, charms and mind-probing spells. Death was therefore necessary.

Jumping into another Thug’s mind, Jarix watched the tracker yank the amulet free and examine it. It would be throbbing in his fingers, bursting with power.

He slipped it around his neck.

Jarix smiled and thrust into his mind, occupying it. Always working on the very edge of the law, the taciturn warrior had been easily swayed by the skull’s unspoken promise of power. But in return for its gifts he would become Jarix’s prisoner, a mere extension of the Lord High Priest’s will. A small reward for the loss of my killers, but a reward nonetheless, the dark elf thought as he rubbed his ebony hands together.

Not needing Farrel’s assistance right away, he withdrew from his mind and sought out the consciousness of his Indore contact. Leave the city! he ordered him. Because the plan had failed, the spy would undoubtedly be discovered and killed. Too many fingers pointed in his direction. Hurriedly the Thug scrabbled his things together, transformed into a shadow, and slipped out under a door.

Returning to his body Jarix sat back to regather his stamina. The battle had taken a lot out of him.

Clasping his hands he gazed up at Kali’s towering image, fires dancing in her gemstone eyes. “Oh Goddess - please accept my humblest apologies - I did not mean to fail You.” He bowed his head in shame. “Did I fail to properly read the signs You sent me? Please tell me what I did wrong.”

He looked up. The statue’s eyes flashed.

Beware the One who is Two, Jarix - beware the One who is Two! Her deep, sibilant voice seemed to emanate from the entire temple.

“One who is ... two?”

Her eyes flashed again. He is coming for you!

Jarix waited for more information, but none was forthcoming. “Kali - what do You mean? ‘One who is two’? Who is this? Raven?”

Your nemesis chosen by the Creator Itself. Her eyes died, and suddenly Jarix felt horribly alone. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“My nemesis,” he murmured. “Surely You can’t mean Raven!” Suddenly he remembered the warrior who had accompanied the female mage, and realised with a jolt that he’d looked a lot like Raven. In fact, he’d even possessed the same scar...

 

Every time Jeanne blinked back tears, new ones arrived. She couldn’t accept the truth, but it lay in front of her; pale, flaccid, lifeless. In death Netta looked even more like a sweet, teenage boy, far too young to be dead. Frantically Jeanne hunted through the voluminous encyclopaedia of her spells, but found nothing that could bring the dead back. Did Giltherion’s book even contain something that powerful?

She heard a footstep behind her and jumped. The old priest she’d saved stepped into the room, running a gnarled hand across his balding pate. “You and I need to have a long talk after this,” he told her in a quiet but firm voice.

“I don’t care what you do to me!” Jeanne grabbed Father James by his upper arms and shook him. “Just save my poor twin brother, for pity’s sake!”

“I’ll try.” He sat down by the limp body, closed his eyes and pressed his hands together in prayer. Then he ripped open Netta’s shirt, baring the evil purple-black bruises marring her throat. Jeanne held her breath, expecting to see Father James recoil from Netta’s femininity. Instead, she stared as Father James laid his hands on a flat male chest.

Did Netta have an illusion cast over her? the young mage wondered as he grief faded into confusion.

“His soul is hanging on by its metaphysical fingernails,” the priest murmured, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Aye - despite the crushed windpipe he wants to live. But he can’t do it on his own.” He took a deep breath, tilting his head back. “I touch... God heals.”

Beneath his shaking hands, Netta’s bruises faded and disappeared, weeks of healing in seconds. Watching with her breath caught in her throat, Jeanne became conscious of a presence behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see Raven, fully healed but caked with drying blood. Others had gathered behind him; Bobby, a dwarf, a handsome blonde warrior, and the big red-haired man with the rune-marked sword.

Suddenly, Netta jerked up onto her elbows, coughing convulsively. Clots of blood sprayed from her lips. “Everything’s all right,” the priest soothed, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

Blinking, Nat managed to gain control over the painful itch in his throat and look around. His vision was blurred, and his head felt heavy and stuffed with cotton. He tried to remember a dream, but it skittered out of reach and bolted into his subconscious. “Wh-what’s going on?” he croaked. “Why’s everyone in my room?” He clawed at his throat. “Why do I feel like someone’s tried to remove my tonsils with a fishhook?”

Raven stepped forward and sat down beside him. Nat grimaced at the stench of fresh blood. “We were attacked by the Thuggee. Two assassins broke in and tried to strangle you in your sleep. They... they would have succeeded if Bobby and Jeanne hadn’t arrived.”

“As assassin tried to - waitaminute! Did you say Bobby and Jeanne are here?” Nat spun around. On seeing them he squealed with joy, leapt from his bed and flung his arms around Jeanne’s neck.

Relieved beyond words to see Netta alive, Jeanne returned the ecstatic hug. The flatness of her chest pressed against her own. Must be a damn good illusion to fool touch as well! she thought. I wonder what spell’s been cast over her?

Nat hugged Bobby as well. “You look just like Raven, only paler!” he exclaimed. “But he would never wear Indian garb. How did you get here?”

“It’s a long story,” Bobby answered.

“And we don’t even know half of it,” Jeanne added. Wait a minute - now I have a crystal ball, I can find out the rest! I can even call Master Giltherion! Excited resolve filled her. “But we have some very important news for you.” She scanned the surrounding faces, unsure whether to reveal Stormwalker so soon. It would be like rubbing salt into all the wounds the assassins had inflicted. “But we’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Raven grunted. “Very well. But I doubt we’ll be able to sleep now, knowing Prince Bahadur is in league with the Thuggee!”

“Mayhap the prince doesn’t know,” Oberon suggested. “Mayhap only one of his advisors is in league with them, and the attack was all his doing.”

“Mayhap,” Raven agreed, for once seeing the paladin’s point. “But we’ll never find out speculating.” He drew a dagger from his arm-greave and marched from the room. Adventurers followed, wondering what he was going to do. “Someone get some servants up here,” he ordered over his shoulder.

Hrothgar darted for a bell-pull and yanked it down. A distant bell started clanging and echoing through the halls.

Out in the hall two of the naked, bound Thugs looked up as the adventurers surrounded them. Golden skull necklaces gleamed around their throats. The third Thug lolled as though dead, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. Father James whispered a prayer, then lifted a shaking hand to his mouth. “Nal wore a chain just like those!” He pointed.

Farrel shifted uncomfortably, touching his throat.

“Well, that proves it,” Raven snarled. “As soon as I find that blackguard I’m going to feed him his own genitals!”

One of the assassins muttered something.

Raven knelt down, holding his dagger so the two Thugs could see its clean, sharp blade. “What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

The assassin hawked and spat. The saliva struck Raven’s cheek. “That was very unwise,” he growled as he wiped it off on his arm. Slowly, he started to draw his knife’s point down the Thug’s face, opening a deep cut. The killer shrieked in pain.

“Raven - no!” Oberon caught the mercenary’s arm before he could inflict any more agony. “Torture is not our way!”

“It’s my way!” Raven yanked his wrist free. “Now leave me be so I can get some real information from these pusboils!”

The assassin snarled something in Hindi, his dark eyes flashing.

“That was probably very informative,” Thorgud muttered.

“No.” Oberon stepped between Raven and the assassin. “Besides, the Queen told us that old-fashioned torture methods would not work on these vermin. We’ll let Indore’s city guard hang them in public so the people can see what becomes of evil-doers.”

Raven rose to his full height in front of Oberon, his odd eyes blazing. After all he had been through he didn’t want to be deprived of a little savage pleasure. “If I want to torture these scumbags, I will. And you can’t stop me.”

Oberon drew his sword, its enchanted runes seeming to glow in the half-light. “I will not stand by, watching you be as wicked as the creatures we are trying to stop!”

“For pity’s sake! We do not have time for silly quarrels over ethics!” Father James intervened. “We are supposed to be working together. Besides, Oberon is right. We do not torture people, no matter how bad they are. Now we have several important things to do and matters to discuss.”

Raven sheathed his dagger. “I’ll let you win this one, Oberon. Let’s lock these bastards up.” He began hauling the naked Thugs to their feet. He slapped the unconscious assassin’s face, but he failed to respond. “By God’s Blood - this one’s dead!”

Everyone looked at Farrel. “He was dead when I found him! I swear I didn’t kill him.”

Father James examined the body. “Farrel’s right - I cannot find any sign of injury. This assassin could have died of apoplexy brought about by shock.”

“Very well.” Raven looked around. “I wonder where all the servants are?”

“I’ll give them another call.” Hrothgar pulled the rope again.

After imprisoning the assassins in one of the bedrooms, they searched the remaining bodies, hoping to find some useful evidence. All were surprised to learn that at least a third of the killers were female - including the one in Raven’s room.

“Lady assassins?” Thorgud cried. “I don’t believe it!”

“One nearly killed me,” Raven muttered. “Do not underestimate the fair sex.” He looked meaningfully at Nat and Jeanne. Father James caught the direction of Raven’s stare and nodded.

“The servants still have not arrived,” Raven muttered more to himself than his companions. “I think we’re alone here.”

“Shall we collect all the assassins’ amulets?” Farrel asked. “We can use them as evidence.”

“Nay - we are not going to touch those accursed chains!” Oberon announced. “We have no idea what kind of evils are contained in them.”

Farrel crossed to the church-knight. “So you detected evil from them, did you?”

“Aye. They stink of it.”

Farrel pressed a hand against his chest again. “Do you know what they do?”

Oberon turned. “Do?”

“Aye.” Farrel spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “If all these Thugs wear them, mayhap the rest do, too. If we knew what kind of abilities the amulets give their wearers, we could use this knowledge to our advantage ... to remain one step ahead of them.”

“That’s a very good idea.” Raven straightened from the body he’d been examining. “Father - can you examine the amulets Magickally?”

“I can try,” The priest prayed for protection from evil, then gingerly picked up one of the necklaces. He winced; it had quite a powerful aura, but he managed to remain in control. His hands trembled as he divined, forcing his mind through dark, distant realms. Then, a few minutes later he sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Concerned adventurers surrounded him as the skull fell from his fingers.

“My God,” he croaked, face pale and gleaming. “It took - the last of my strength. Before I can do any more... I must rest.”

“Of course, Father. Can you tell us what you found?” Oberon asked gently.

Licking his lips, Father James nodded. “Aye. First and foremost, the amulet is a ... a mind-link that opens the wearer’s mind to ... the power of an outside consciousness.”

“What does this mean?”

“Help me up and I’ll tell you.”

Oberon and Raven lifted the old priest to his feet. “The wearer’s mind becomes an open bowl, waiting for a controlling mind to put suggestions into it,” he wheezed. “He is effectively under that person’s power.”

Farrel sucked back a gasp of horror. “Really?”

“Aye. Which means the entire Thuggee Cult is literally - a cult of slaves.”

“Does the amulet do anything good?” Farrel asked in concern.

“It provides the wearer with resistance to interrogation, charms and mind-probing spells, and grants him the gifts of Darkvision, Trackless-Passing, Silence and Shadow-Walk - perfect for assassins. No wonder we didn’t receive any warning of their arrival.”

“Can you explain Trackless-Passing and Shadow-Walk?”

“You are very inquisitive tonight, hunter,” Father James croaked.

“I only want to help. Those Thugs almost killed us.”

The priest nodded. “Aye. Well, Trackless-Passing allows the assassin to move without leaving footprints, or any sign of his passing, and Shadow-Walk enables him to become as dark and insubstantial as a shadow. Using this power he can slide across the ground, up walls and over ceilings. He can even pass under doors and closed windows.”

“Wow,” Nat breathed.

“If you do not have any more questions for me, then I’ll be going to bed ere I fall over. I’m sorry.” Father James trudged back to his room.

“I’ll guard him,” Oberon suggested, marching to the door and positioning himself beside it.

“You do that.” Raven turned to the others. “The Father’s evidence helps us, but still doesn’t tell us anything about the Thugs’ origins. We need to find something that’ll tell us where they came from.”

The adventurers agreed, and together they examined the Thugs’ bodies. Unfortunately their search revealed nothing. Because of Trackless-Passing, the assassins’ soft-soled boots didn’t even have any dirt on them.

“Nothing,” Thorgud muttered and yawned.

Raven grunted. “Very well. You all get some rest. I suggest you cram into two rooms and post watches. I’m going to visit the prince.”

“What about sleep?” Nat asked.

“I’ll survive.” Gathering his cloak close, he strode off down the hall. The other seven did as he’d asked and filled two rooms. But despite their exhaustion, they couldn’t sleep.

Invisible, Raven searched the Lal Bagh for servants. But as he’d suspected, he didn’t find any. The palace was deserted.

Using flight, he headed back to Prince Bahadur’s Manik Bagh. He managed to sneak inside and explore several floors. But of Ravi Nal he found no sign.

Of course he’s not here, Raven realised. As soon as the Thugs’ controller saw that we were going to prevail, he would have ordered Nal to leave.

Raven left the Manik Bagh’s grounds, dispelled his enchantments and marched up to the gates as though he’d just arrived. When Indian soldiers levelled their crossbows, he lifted his hands. “‘Tis I, Raven! A guest of Prince Bahadur in the Lal Bagh. I wish to report that we have just been attacked by the Thuggee!”

The prince didn’t like being disturbed in his sleep, but on hearing that Thugs had been inside one of his palaces, he leapt out of bed, sent a large party of guards to secure the palace, and then he met with Raven.

“If two good friends of mine hadn’t arrived in the nick of time, the Thugs would have killed us!” Raven finished.

Bahadur lifted a fat hand to his lips. “I still do not believe it - Thugs in my palace! Why didn’t servants come to your aid?”

“Because there were no servants. Someone went to great trouble to make sure the killers wouldn’t be disturbed.”

The Prince paced his study in confusion. Raven could tell he knew nothing about the attack. He was no more than a stupid puppet in a larger game. He wanted to mention Nal, but couldn’t without solid proof. Or maybe he could. Evidence did exist. “Do you have any idea who could have been responsible?” the prince asked.

“A member of your personal circle,” Raven answered with conviction.

“By the Gods, how can you come to that conclusion?”

Raven detailed Father James’s findings. “All you need to do is match the Thugs’ amulets with Nal’s.”

Unfortunately, when everyone met in the prince’s study a few hours later, Bahadur revealed that Ravi Nal had disappeared during the night.

“That proves he’s guilty,” Raven declared. “But we still have no idea where to start looking for the Thuggee Cult’s hideout.”

“You may stay here in the Manik Bagh as long as you need to,” Bahadur offered, still shaken.

“Thank you your Highness, but we must be off,” Raven informed him. “Mayhap we’ll discover more on the road to Jabalpur.”

“As you wish.”

They departed Indore after breakfast, the low eastern sun blinding their tired eyes. Raven and Nat brought up the rear with Bobby and Jeanne. No-one had disputed their right to join the party and use the spare tent carried on Nightwind’s back.

“Bhopal, the next big town, is at least four days’ ride away,” Raven began. “That should give you and Bobby enough time to explain yourselves.”

Jeanne laughed. “Just. We’re still having trouble believing it!” They began with the sudden, mysterious appearance of the Eidolon Portal in Central Park. Raven and Nat listened attentively.

“I wanted to come back for adventure - Jeanne didn’t. But now she’s enjoying herself just as much as I am!”

Jeanne grinned. “I must admit that much.”

But after that positive note, their story became more sombre. As they began their first encounter with the resurrected Stormwalker, Raven interrupted. “What?!”

“‘Fraid so, Raven,” Bobby murmured.

“What makes you so sure it was him?” Nat cried.

“Just let us continue,” Jeanne answered softly. They detailed their trip to England, discovery of Stormwalker’s first hideout, visit to the Queen, voyage to Bombay and finally, what they found in that fetid little cellar.

As Raven listened he slumped in his saddle as though his entire internal structure was crumbling. His face paled to a rugged grey-white. “No,” he whispered at the end. “I still don’t believe it! We all saw him die!”

“Don’t ask us how he came back. But believe us when we tell you that he is back. We’ve been following his trail of bodies for months.”

“Like some grisly trail of bread-crumbs,” Nat muttered. “I’m finding this hard to swallow as well! I was the one who actually saw that lightning-bolt come down!” He shivered as the memory returned. For some reason he thought of the dream he’d had the previous night - the one he still couldn’t remember.

Raven dragged an arm across his brow. Despite the heat his body was in the grip of a cold, clammy sweat. “It took two years to find and kill that bastard. Shit.” He punched his thigh. “Stormwalker - he who walks with the Storm. With a name like that he’s probably immune to lightning!”

“Er - maybe,” Bobby answered.

“Mayhap he used its power to transport away, leaving his Magick items behind to make us think the blast disintegrated him.” Raven mused. “That cunning son of a whore!” He smacked his leg again. “Jesus - what are we going to do now?”

“Finish the mission at hand, then focus our attention on Stormwalker,” Jeanne answered wisely. “So far, he hasn’t threatened anyone important.”

Raven sighed. “You’re right.” Spurring Nightwind, he trotted to the front of the party to be alone with his tumbling thoughts. Nothing made sense any more. Why is Stormwalker alive? Why did he travel from America to England to India? Is he following me? Does he finally want to kill me?

Or is he involved with the Thuggee somehow?

An icy shiver danced the length of his spine as he realised how similar Stormwalker and the Thuggee Cult were. Both liked to kill and mutilate their victims. They were deceivers who worked under the cover of Magick, and served unholy beings. The Thugs followed Kali, and Stormwalker worshipped... himself.

“You really pulled the rug out from under him,” Nat declared. “He’s going to be pissed for weeks.”

Jeanne bowed her head. She hadn’t enjoyed revealing the bad news. “But he had to know.”

“Yes... we all did.”

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes, listening to the jungle sounds, then Jeanne scanned her surroundings, making sure none of the other party members were within earshot. Oberon rode behind Raven, Father James followed with Farrel, and Thorgud and Hrothgar pursued them, the jokers unusually quiet. “Netta?”

Nat looked around, smiling. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for months. But I’m afraid it’s no longer appropriate.”

“It doesn’t matter - none of the others can hear us.”

Nat sighed, somewhat wistfully. “So - what did you want me for?”

“I’d really like to know what kind of spell’s been cast over you, to make you look - and feel - like a boy.”

Nat smiled sadly. “You might have heard of it. It’s called Transformation.

Jeanne fingered her Pegasus amulet. “Transformation? No. Can’t say I have.”

Nat gave a thin, twisted smile. “It’s a long, complicated spell, requiring a lot of practise and stamina.”

“Wh-what does it do?”

Nat continued to grin unpleasantly. “Transforms a female into a male, and vice versa.”

“What?!” Jeanne almost screamed. Bobby simply stared, agape. Netta - now a boy?

“Don’t be mistaken - it wasn’t my choice or Raven’s.” Nat explained the whole thing.

“Holy shit,” Bobby gasped after Nat’s description of the spell. “Raven must have hit the roof when he found out!”

“That’s putting it mildly. He stormed out to have words with Abelard Kellet, and then the mage’s laboratory exploded! Although I don’t think Raven was responsible for that.”

“You’re right about that!” Jeanne interjected. “We happen to know that Stormwalker blew up the tower while retrieving his sword.”

“That huge black thing that stops him from dying?” Nat squeaked.

“Yes.”

Nat swore. “Christ I really hope we don’t run into him now!”

“So how have you and Raven been since the ... transformation?” Jeanne asked.

Nat sighed. “We’ve had our ups and downs. Mostly downs, actually. But we still get along as friends. Hopefully after all this is over, we can track down Master Giltherion and get him to reverse this spell.”

“I might be able to help you there.” Jeanne produced the crystal ball she had taken from Stormwalker’s hideout. “I can contact him with this.”

“Really?” Joy leapt into Nat’s heart. He hadn’t dared to hope for so long.

“Actually, I’m thinking of calling him within the next few days, and asking him to clear up all our questions. Like why the Eidolon Portal appeared when it did, and what Stormwalker’s doing … alive.”

Nat clapped his hands. “Oh Jeanne - you don’t know what this means to me! I used to think being a female was a pain in the neck, but being trapped in a man’s body is worse! Raven hates it when I crawl to him for affection, and Father James had a go at me because he thought I was gay. Well, I guess I am!”

Jeanne gaped. “You mean you don’t... feel anything for women?”

“Not really, because I’m still a girl inside, filled with female feelings.” Nat lowered his voice. “But because I thought I was missing out, I went with Thorgud and Hrothgar to an Indian brothel - and ‘did it’ with a very attractive prostitute named... Madhur!”

“Netta!” Bobby gasped in horror.

“Nat, please,” Nat insisted. “Yes, I’m afraid I did.”

“Wh-what on Earth did it feel like?” Jeanne asked, trying and failing to imagine herself in Netta’s position.

“I don’t think we need to know!” Bobby cried, still unable to come to terms with his ex-girlfriend’s new sex.

A snort from behind sent them twisting in their saddles. A winged colt was walking about ten yards behind the party, unsure whether to approach because of the newcomers.

“Oh my God,” Jeanne whispered. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Morpheus!” Nat cried. He leapt out of his saddle and ran over to the Pegasus, slipping his arms around its muscular neck and burying his face in its voluminous mane. “In the chaos, I completely forgot about you!” He turned to Bobby and Jeanne. “Guys - I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine.”

After a short break for lunch a few hours later, Jeanne found herself riding alone. Nat had talked Bobby into helping him break Morpheus for riding. Each time the spirited colt bucked him off, Bobby helped him scramble back on. Lunatic - he’s going to get himself killed! Jeanne thought.

But... Dear God, I hope I get a ride! She stroked her amulet, the symbol of her almost forgotten title.

Finally, Father James fell back to ride beside her. At last he’s gathered up the courage to confront me, she thought.

“Jeanne De Laney, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Lord Johannes De Laney’s daughter?”

“Yes. Only my poor father is dead now.”

The priest bowed his head, his wide-brimmed hat shadowing his weather-beaten features. “I know. But he may rest easy, knowing Stormwalker is dead and burning in Hell where he belongs.”

Jeanne gulped. We’ll have to tell everyone the horrible truth soon! “Er - do you... wish to speak with me, Father?”

“Aye, but please bear with me. This will be difficult.” He took a deep, shaking breath. “How long have you known Magick?”

“About two years. I started learning on the voyage to America, where we met Stormwalker for the... last time.”

“And who taught you?”

He’s not going to like this, but at least I don’t have to say Satan. “An elf-mage named Master Giltherion.”

Father James’s face darkened. “Jeanne De Laney - you are an intelligent girl. Surely you know that it is illegal and dangerous to learn such arts - and from such... questionable creatures!”

Jeanne shook her head. “Father, I know about the danger. People like me are burned as witches and sorcerers all the time! But my own father was killed by an evil wizard, and at the time I could do nothing for him! I was as helpless as a newborn babe! I thought if I learned Magick, I could help Raven track down Stormwalker and destroy him.”

Father James nodded. “I understand. But what about the consequences of your actions?”

“I didn’t care about them, Father. I knew in my heart that I am doing right, and believe I can keep my knowledge secret. Master Giltherion, contrary to what everyone believes, is a good, kind person. He didn’t teach me any Sorcerie. If you like, I can show you the grimoire he gave me.”

The priest lifted a hand. “That will not be necessary. I know you are speaking the truth.” He sighed heavily. “If you had not saved my life last night, I would have acted like all the rest and condemned you without hearing your defence.”

“You are very fair, Father.”

“Because of your noble action and my numerous life experiences, I must be. Now you have revealed the truth to me, I feel... relieved. You are not a witch or sorcerer, and have mastered spells that have aided, and will continue to aid our quest.” He took a deep breath. “I regret following some of the Church’s out-dated traditions. Raven has proved me wrong, and so have you. Guilt is a very painful emotion.”

Jeanne felt tears sting her eyes. Father James was truly a priest among priests. “Th-thank you Father.”

“I only ask one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Try not to reveal your powers to Oberon. I fear he will not be as understanding as I.” He took a deep breath. “But that means you and your companion will have to think of a story to tell the rest of the group. They have accepted you, but soon their curiosity will rise.”

“We have been telling people that Bobby is the mage, The Queen and Lord Lovat believed us.”

“I fear that will not work here. Firstly, Oberon will not even accept a male wizard, and secondly, he saw Bobby fight. I doubt he will believe in another warrior-mage like Stormwalker.”

Jeanne nodded solemnly. “So what do you suggest we say?”

Father James scratched his small, receding chin. “Being a priest, I’m not much good at lying.” He gave a wan smile. “But you could say you found a mage in Bombay, who teleported you in time to save us.”

“Very well. Thank you Father.”

“Gangway!” someone shrieked from behind. Jeanne and Father James turned in their saddles to see Nat, clinging onto Morpheus’ back for dear life, thunder past at a reckless gallop. The Pegasus’ batlike wings flapped wildly.

“That boy is going to get himself killed,” Jeanne muttered as horse and rider plunged into the jungle, disappearing from sight. They returned a few minutes later, Nat dishevelled but intact, his face red and chest heaving.

“Did you take off?” Jeanne asked.

“No. But at least Morpheus can handle me on his back now.”

Eventually the sun set behind a bank of rumbling cloud. Lightning flashed in its dark depths.

“It looks like the monsoon season is finally starting,” Raven observed. His stomach squirmed uneasily. Did Stormwalker wait nearby, sizing up an appropriate victim?

They managed to set up camp before the storm struck. Rain sheeted down as they huddled in their tents, cursing the heat and clouds of strong-smelling sweat that made everything unpleasantly damp. Dinner consisted of cold rations. After the appropriate spells had been cast and watches set, an early night followed. No-one demanded any explanations from the newcomers, not even Oberon.

 

As Farrel Karlthor settled down outside his tent to begin his watch, Jarix Rinthurin reached in and tasted the swirling maelstrom of his emotions. Guilt, regret and power-lust mixed to create disharmonious confusion. Unlike his companions Farrel couldn’t speak English fluently. Although Thorgud and Hrothgar hailed from Scandinavia, they had started adventuring when very young, and quickly picked up the Imperial tongue. Now they conversed without discernible accent, veterans of English colloquialisms and slang. On the other hand, Farrel had spent much of his youth in the Black Forest, and only picked up the bare essentials. This set him apart from the others, silent and aloof.

But beneath his cool exterior burned a hot desire for power. He yearned for Raven’s fame, and wanted “Farrel Karlthor” to be spoken alongside the mercenary’s name.

Now he battled with himself over the amulet’s powers. He wanted its wonderful abilities, but not the remote control. The thought of bowing to a distant will frightened him, and he placed his hand over the skull. But he didn’t remove it, didn’t even try.

I’m afraid you have to take the good with the bad, my new disciple, Jarix thought, seated cross-legged before his altar. Smiling, he rode Farrel’s mind as the hunter tried to get comfortable beside the fire. He sweated in the humidity, and mosquitoes whined around him. Angrily he stripped down to the waist, letting the cool breeze dry the moisture from his lean, muscular torso.

The rain had ceased, but water still dripped from the surrounding trees. The stormclouds had broken apart to reveal a half-moon and hundreds of pinprick stars. Having nothing better to do, Farrel decided to experiment with the amulet’s powers. His confusion soon faded into joy.

Most hunters could only dream of powers like Darkvision, Trackless-Passing, Silence and Shadow-Walk. These abilities, coupled with his ability to read tracks, had the potential to make him one of the world’s most powerful rangers. Maybe he would even excel Raven in skill! The mercenary couldn’t pass without trace or travel with the darkness, could he?

Jarix let Farrel have his small pleasure, then clamped down.

Farrel Karlthor!

The semi-naked hunter froze, looking around. Jarix could hear the sudden throbbing of his heart. “Wh-who said that?” he whispered.

I did. Now shut up or you’ll wake the others. I’m inside your head, and speaking to you through the amulet.

“Oh - oh no!” Farrel gasped. “No!” He grabbed the skull and tried to yank it off. But the will-power drained from him as soon it left his chest. In despair he let it drop.

Your mind is now an open book to me. I am Jarix Rinthurin, your new Master, and you must do as I command.

“No.”

Jarix lashed out with a savage burst of power. The tracker reeled, whimpering and clawing at his skull. That is an infinitesimal taste of the pain I can inflict on you, Farrel. Should you continue to disobey, I will sear your brain, boil your blood and shatter your bones!

“No, no,” he groaned, on his knees in the mud, fingers scrabbling at his temples.

Jarix softened his tone. But if you do as I say I will reward you. He filled Farrel’s mind with exquisite pleasure, twenty times the intensity of orgasmic ecstasy. The tracker rolled onto his back, moaning and stroking himself. Pleasure coursed through his body, filling every particle of his being. The stars spun as he became the centre of the universe. Suddenly, everything he used to consider important faded into insignificance. Then the ecstasy rolled from him, leaving him like a piece of quivering flotsam. Worship the Dark Goddess, and you will receive pleasure like that again and again!

“M-more, please!” he croaked.

Jarix smiled. How easy it was to bend flexible minds to his will! No. Not until you do something for me.

Slowly, Farrel picked himself up, unable to think of anything but the pleasure he’d just experienced. “Wh-what?”

Jarix told him.

A fragment of the original Farrel protested, but the newly created Thug thrust it down. He would do anything to get that pleasure back! Breathing heavily, he crawled back into his tent and rummaged through his belongings. His trembling fingers closed around a sharp dagger and drew it from its sheath.

Using the amulet’s Silence ability, Farrel stole from his tent, bare feet hardly touching the ground. Slowly he skirted the camp. Jarix, whose eyes could see holy enchantments as ghostly, colourless glows, kept Farrel well away from Father James’s blessed circle.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Farrel paused outside the tent Father James and Oberon shared. Crouching he thrust his dagger through the oiled canvas. It dug in and cut without a sound, aided by the amulet’s enchantment. Soon, Farrel had made a hole big enough to push his upper body through.

Father James slept below, snoring softly. A mosquito buzzed around his head.

No! you mustn’t do this! the old Farrel protested. Father James is your friend! The hunter wavered, dagger hovering above the sleeping priest’s chest.

Jarix nudged Farrel with a ghost of the pleasure he’d given him. Do it, and you will have more. Don’t - and I will make you wish for death. He hit him with a sharp stab of pain.

Farrel knew which he preferred. He thrust his knife into Father James’s ribs, twisting it so it snapped bone and tore his heart open. The priest’s eyes flew open, staring in shock at Farrel’s face. He trembled for a few seconds, spewing frothy blood onto his chest, then fell limp.

Now kill the paladin! Jarix screamed.

 

* * * *