rustle not far from us;
there must have been an entire clan of muskrats living here.
At last the trees gave way, and we stumbled
out into the clearing around the standing stones.
And it was a clearing. The forest had begun
to encroach upon it, but someone had removed the saplings, trimmed
back the branches, and cut away the brambles. The place might not
look as well used as when the Brotherhood conducted their unholy
rituals here, but it had obviously been tended to recently.
“Not the best of signs,” Iskander
remarked.
“No,” Griffin agreed. “Neither is this.”
He directed the beam of his lantern onto the
altar stone. The dark stains on it were too fresh to have been made
when the Brotherhood occupied the estate.
“The site is on an arm of the maelstrom,
just as the other standing stones were,” Griffin said. He stepped
further into the clearing, his body tense and his revolver in his
hand. “And these stones are infused with power as well.”
The undergrowth rustled again, louder this
time. A dark shape emerged and scampered up the altar stone. For a
moment, I thought it a giant rat. Matted brown fur covered its
misshapen body, and the naked tail trailing after it was scabbed
and unhealthy. Did the thing have some disease, to show itself to
us so boldly?
Then it reached its perch atop the altar and
turned to us. In place of a rat’s muzzle, it had the twisted,
leering face of a man.
Chapter 22
Griffin
“Good gad!” Christine
exclaimed in revulsion. My own gorge rose at the sight of the
abomination on the altar stone. I’d seen enough to think myself
inured to horrors, but there was something so profoundly wrong about the creature
that I could hardly stand to look at it.
But look I had to, because it raised
forepaws that more closely resembled human hands. A strange,
tittering sound issued from its distorted mouth which sounded like
a chant.
A chant to which voices responded from all
around us.
We’d been expected, it seemed.
Four men appeared, one at each of the
cardinal points. Each held a wand of some sort before him, a
twisted skein of magic glowing from the polished wood. Within
moments, they were joined by another man—one with an eye patch, who
wore an odd, loose-sleeved shirt and held a dagger in his visible
hand.
“It’s the thief from the museum,” Iskander
said.
Whyborne didn’t waste time
with words. He burned in my shadowsight, the power of the arcane river beneath his
feet flooding into him as he called upon it. Blue fire lit his
eyes, and the scars on his right arm showed even through his
clothing, lines of power inscribed upon his skin. He thrust out his
hand toward the one-eyed man, and the world responded to his
will.
His spell twisted through the air in my
shadowsight, like a needle piercing the warp and weft of the
universe itself, tugging on the very threads of reality. The wind
leapt up, howling over the open water, shaking the trees—
Then the edge of the dagger found it. The
spell shattered, broke, threads snapping and fading into
nothing.
Damn it.
The monstrous rat creature still called from
the altar, the cultists responding to it. Light glinted from
Iskander’s blades, and Christine hoisted her rifle and sighted on
the abomination. I raised my revolver, intending to put a bullet
through the head of the one-eyed man.
The chant reached a crescendo, and the magic
in the wands flared. The web of a spell spread out from each,
racing across the ground like a sudden frost, lines intersecting
and tangling with one another. I tried to shout a warning, but the
magic reached me first.
Dizziness swept over me, and my revolver
grew unspeakably heavy. I tried to aim it, but instead my arm fell
slowly to my side. Lethargy gripped me, and I swayed on my feet. I
thought Christine moaned, but I couldn’t turn my head to be
sure.
I had to move. Had to break free. We were
defenseless otherwise, easy prey for the one-eyed man approaching
with his knife.
Weariness
there must have been an entire clan of muskrats living here.
At last the trees gave way, and we stumbled
out into the clearing around the standing stones.
And it was a clearing. The forest had begun
to encroach upon it, but someone had removed the saplings, trimmed
back the branches, and cut away the brambles. The place might not
look as well used as when the Brotherhood conducted their unholy
rituals here, but it had obviously been tended to recently.
“Not the best of signs,” Iskander
remarked.
“No,” Griffin agreed. “Neither is this.”
He directed the beam of his lantern onto the
altar stone. The dark stains on it were too fresh to have been made
when the Brotherhood occupied the estate.
“The site is on an arm of the maelstrom,
just as the other standing stones were,” Griffin said. He stepped
further into the clearing, his body tense and his revolver in his
hand. “And these stones are infused with power as well.”
The undergrowth rustled again, louder this
time. A dark shape emerged and scampered up the altar stone. For a
moment, I thought it a giant rat. Matted brown fur covered its
misshapen body, and the naked tail trailing after it was scabbed
and unhealthy. Did the thing have some disease, to show itself to
us so boldly?
Then it reached its perch atop the altar and
turned to us. In place of a rat’s muzzle, it had the twisted,
leering face of a man.
Chapter 22
Griffin
“Good gad!” Christine
exclaimed in revulsion. My own gorge rose at the sight of the
abomination on the altar stone. I’d seen enough to think myself
inured to horrors, but there was something so profoundly wrong about the creature
that I could hardly stand to look at it.
But look I had to, because it raised
forepaws that more closely resembled human hands. A strange,
tittering sound issued from its distorted mouth which sounded like
a chant.
A chant to which voices responded from all
around us.
We’d been expected, it seemed.
Four men appeared, one at each of the
cardinal points. Each held a wand of some sort before him, a
twisted skein of magic glowing from the polished wood. Within
moments, they were joined by another man—one with an eye patch, who
wore an odd, loose-sleeved shirt and held a dagger in his visible
hand.
“It’s the thief from the museum,” Iskander
said.
Whyborne didn’t waste time
with words. He burned in my shadowsight, the power of the arcane river beneath his
feet flooding into him as he called upon it. Blue fire lit his
eyes, and the scars on his right arm showed even through his
clothing, lines of power inscribed upon his skin. He thrust out his
hand toward the one-eyed man, and the world responded to his
will.
His spell twisted through the air in my
shadowsight, like a needle piercing the warp and weft of the
universe itself, tugging on the very threads of reality. The wind
leapt up, howling over the open water, shaking the trees—
Then the edge of the dagger found it. The
spell shattered, broke, threads snapping and fading into
nothing.
Damn it.
The monstrous rat creature still called from
the altar, the cultists responding to it. Light glinted from
Iskander’s blades, and Christine hoisted her rifle and sighted on
the abomination. I raised my revolver, intending to put a bullet
through the head of the one-eyed man.
The chant reached a crescendo, and the magic
in the wands flared. The web of a spell spread out from each,
racing across the ground like a sudden frost, lines intersecting
and tangling with one another. I tried to shout a warning, but the
magic reached me first.
Dizziness swept over me, and my revolver
grew unspeakably heavy. I tried to aim it, but instead my arm fell
slowly to my side. Lethargy gripped me, and I swayed on my feet. I
thought Christine moaned, but I couldn’t turn my head to be
sure.
I had to move. Had to break free. We were
defenseless otherwise, easy prey for the one-eyed man approaching
with his knife.
Weariness
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