The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet (23 page)

“But why should they stop me?” asked the malevolent figure, putting his monstrous palm to his face. As Uldyssian watched, stunned, the flesh moved to cover the revealed areas. In seconds, Malic once more completely resembled the merchant, even to the difference in height. The spell that allowed him to walk in Ethon’s flesh was an astonishing if grisly creation. “Why should they stop their dearly beloved
leader?”

Indeed, there was no reason and Uldyssian now saw that. The guards and any bystanders would be fooled just as he had been, especially in the dark.

“She must be with one of the others,” Malic went on, turning back to the question of Lylia. “Perhaps she is already seducing one of them to take your place—”

The high priest could not have said more terrible words in front of Uldyssian. His blood boiled and a mindless rage swept over him. He shoved back in an attempt to free himself from his guards’ grips.

But instead of the few steps back, steps during which he had hoped his captors’ feet would trip, Uldyssian and the two morlu
flew
across the study.

Across the study…and through the window.

Debris rained down on Uldyssian as he and the morlu fell. Despite their predicament, the bestial warriors clung to him as if their lives depended upon doing so. Uldyssian, in turn, tried to fold himself up as much as possible, aware that the ground was not all that far.

They collided with a thud and a rush of dirt. The crack of bone echoed in Uldyssian’s ear. One of the morlu let out a rasping cry and his fingers slipped from the captive’s arm.

Uldyssian immediately tried to pull free of the other warrior, but the morlu held fast. As the two rolled over, they came face to face. The night shadowed the morlu’s countenance much, but not enough at such close range to prevent the son of Diomedes from seeing the black pits where the eyes should have been.

A fist in the morlu’s chin did nothing. Uldyssian grabbed for the throat just as his foe did the same. The warrior’s fingers all but threatened to crush his windpipe, yet, for some reason, the morlu held back.

It took Uldyssian several precious seconds to understand why. They still wanted him alive after all this. Why else try to take him in secret?

However, while that gave him some hope, he could not completely discount the morlu forgetting orders and finally simply killing the man with whom he struggled. What stared at him from within the unsettling ram-skull helmet was not human, not anymore. At any moment, his foe might become lost in bloodlust.

With all his will, Uldyssian attempted to summon the same strength that had thrown him and his two bulky adversaries so far away. Gritting his teeth, the farmer swung at his foe again, this time aiming at the only target, the heavily armored chest.

The morlu blocked his wrist, slowing the strike. Uldyssian’s fist splayed open. His palm slapped lightly against the breastplate, hardly enough to do any damage.

The morlu went sinking into the ground as if a huge, invisible hammer had struck him. He sank so deep that there was not even a trace of him to see.

Another hand seized hold even as Uldyssian sought to recover. Shouts erupted from elsewhere, likely Master Ethon’s guards coming to protect their employer and his property. Uldyssian wanted to warn them of Malic’s horrific masquerade, but the remaining morlu, having recovered from the fall, now fell upon him in earnest.

Perhaps “recovered” was not quite the correct word, for as the warrior spun Uldyssian to face him, the son of Diomedes found himself staring at a head bent completely to the right. A good portion of the morlu’s neck stuck out in an obscene and impossible manner. Yet, none of this appeared to matter to the furious creature.

Once again, fingers clamped around Uldyssian’s throat. The morlu squeezed, but not enough to kill. Uldyssian’s air was cut off. He knew that all his foe had to do was wait for him to pass out. Then, Malic would have his prey…and no one would be able to save Lylia.

Reaching up, Uldyssian grabbed hold of one side of the morlu’s head. Gritting his teeth, he pulled as hard as he could.

With a horrible sucking sound, the head came free.

The morlu’s body shivered and the fingers released. They grasped blindly for the head, which Uldyssian pulled back.

Like something out of a ghastly puppet show, Uldyssian led the torso several steps toward the wall surrounding Master Ethon’s estate. Then, with as much strength as he could muster, he threw the head over.

The torso lunged, only to collide with the wall. It repeated the attempt, but with the same results. On its third try, the headless body stumbled, then slid to the ground, where, at last, it stilled.

Exhaling, Uldyssian quickly looked back at the house. There was no sign of any activity in the study, but around the grounds, guards scurried. Two of them closed on Uldyssian.

The moment that they recognized him, the pair slowed. He gestured at the house. “Inside! There’s more inside! Beware! You must cut off their heads!”

They looked at him with somewhat fearful expressions. Uldyssian did not care if they believed him. He ran past, already fearful that Malic had located Lylia…or any of the others, for that matter.

Bursting through the front doors, he stumbled over something in the dark. Twisting around on the floor, Uldyssian discovered to his horror a corpse that surely had once belonged to one of the merchant’s household servants. Once again, the contents of Uldyssian’s stomach threatened to come up, for the body had been completely and perfectly
flayed
.

First Ethon and his son, now this poor soul. Uldyssian was caught between revulsion and bitterness. Each of the horrible demises could be tied to him. Yet Uldyssian was not foolish enough to blame himself alone. Malic was the culprit who had done the foul work. Malic, at the bidding of the Primus.

Anger again overwhelmed him. There was nothing that Uldyssian could do about the mysterious Lucion, but he could try to see about making certain that the high priest troubled them no more, even if he had to sacrifice himself in the process.

The guards he had spoken to stopped at the entrance, the torch in the hand of one illuminating the grisly scene for them. They stared round-eyed at Uldyssian.

“Beware anyone in the house bearing a weapon or anyone with the semblance of your master and his son. If they are truly Ethon and young Cedric—” He had to choke back the emotions swelling up or else the guards would suspect the truth. “—then they will understand that you locking them away is for their own safety!”

“Lock them away?” blurted one man in surprise.

“For their own sake and yours! Trust me!”

If Uldyssian had been any other person, the men likely would have rejected his commands, but they knew of his miracles. Uldyssian cursed silently, wishing that more than a handful of people had exhibited some abilities akin to his own. At the moment, he would have been happy with Romus or Jonas at his side.

Or
Achilios
.

The archer was his only hope. Achilios had nearly slain Malic once and could have killed one of the morlu if aware how.

As the guards sought to catch their wits, Uldyssian raced up the steps to the next floor. Already he pictured Lylia lying dead in the corridor and the fear of that coming true urged him on despite his injuries and exertion.

The room he shared with her lay directly ahead. Mustering his strength, Uldyssian threw himself at the door.

With a crash, it fell open. Uldyssian immediately rolled to his feet, ready to face a hundred Malics.

But the sinister cleric was not there…and neither was Lylia. Instead, a frightened young woman huddled in the far corner. Uldyssian recognized her as one of the women Master Ethon had commanded to see to the noblewoman’s needs while she was his guest..

“Where is she?” he roared, ignoring her fear. “Where is Lylia?”

The woman wordlessly pointed at a huge oak clothing cabinet. In addition to what she had been wearing on her arrival, she now had other garments procured for her by their host. The same went for all of Master Ethon’s guests. The man had shown nothing but courtesy and care and what had happened to him was a true nightmare that Uldyssian would never forget.

And worse, he now feared that it had also happened to the woman he loved. Why else would the servant point at the shut cabinet and shiver with such horror?

Then, something struck a chord. A servant…a household servant…

Uldyssian recalled the false Cedric and how, despite his diminutive appearance, some spell surely hid from sight another monstrous morlu or the like.

Could it be?

He whirled around…almost too late.

It leapt across the bed at him, a thing swollen beyond the proportions of the skin it wore. Rips and tears spread through the fragile flesh and beneath them could be seen armor. The face was a contorted mask no longer fitting and even as the horrific figure fell upon him, Uldyssian could not help but again marvel at how Malic’s spellwork made size and shape of no consequence to the guise.

The two crashed into the cabinet, reducing it to splinters. Scraps of stolen skin dropping from his ghoulish countenance, the morlu raised his hand…a hand in which he now wielded a savage, curved ax.

With a grating laugh, he brought it down upon Uldyssian.

Achilios woke with a start. He reached for his clothes, throwing them on as quickly as he could, then snatching the bow and quiver from a nearby chair. The archer heard not a sound, but something set him on edge. He crept toward the door, pausing there to listen.

At first, all was silence, but then Achilios heard faint movement, either of someone very slight or very surefooted. Looping the bow over his shoulder, he retrieved the hunting knife he always carried on his belt. Then, with the utmost caution, Achilios opened the door a crack.

The dim light of a single weak oil lamp mounted in the wall gave his expert eyes just enough illumination to see down the corridor. Someone moved at the very edge of the lit area, but not a figure tall enough to be Master Ethon or one of the household servants.

In fact…it looked like young Cedric to him.

The boy slowly moved along, pausing now and then before various doors. He stopped in front of the one leading to Serenthia’s chambers, then moved on. For some reason that caused Achilios to exhale in relief.

What exactly the merchant’s son was doing, the archer had no idea. There was nothing normal in Cedric’s behavior. Achilios began to fear that the boy’s mind might not be all right…or that, considering the events of the recent past, something or someone had control of it.

That decided it for him. Moving as silent as a cat, Achilios stepped out into the corridor. He kept the knife ready…for what, he did not know. Not to use against the poor boy, certainly. Ethon’s son was an innocent.

Cedric continued to study the doors, but also peered at alcoves and even, at times, the ceiling. Achilios wondered what he expected to find above, then decided that he would prefer not to know.

Eyes well-adjusted to the dimness, the archer kept pace with his unsuspecting quarry. Achilios reached Serenthia’s door. He hesitated there, leaning his ear close. Within, the soft sounds of her steady breathing reassured him that she was unharmed.

Straightening, Achilios focused on Cedric again…or would have, if the youth had been anywhere to be seen. Somehow, in the brief seconds when the archer’s attention had been on Serenthia’s safety, Cedric had vanished from his view.

Frowning, Achilios pushed forward. Master Ethon’s son had to be somewhere ahead, unless he had managed to slip into one of the last rooms without Achilios noticing. That was highly unlikely. The hunter could not have missed such an obvious action.

But as he neared the end, it seemed to Achilios that entering a room was the
only
possibility to explain Cedric’s disappearance. Yet, the most likely of the doors proved locked and surely he would have heard the rattling of the handle.

A few more steps took Achilios to the far wall. Perplexed, he ran a hand across the area, thinking that perhaps there was a hidden door. Unfortunately, he discovered nothing. The wall was very, very solid.

Then, some inner alarm made him look up at the ceiling…only to find that, while it was dark there, it was also empty of any nightmare. Achilios frowned, briefly wondering why he had suddenly felt as if danger had lurked above him.

Still perplexed by Cedric’s disappearance, he turned back—

Master Ethon’s son stood only a yard away from him, gazing up solemnly at the tall archer.

Achilios all but jumped. “Ced!”

“I was looking for her,” the youth remarked quietly and steadily. “The one with Uldyssian.”

“Lylia, you mean? Why would she—”

“Lylia,” Cedric repeated, almost as if memorizing it. “Do you know where she is?”

“I’d imagine with Uldyssian, as you said, lad!” Achilios chuckled. “But I’d not disturb them now! Would probably be very inopportune!”

“She’s not with him.”

“And how would you know that?” For reasons he could not explain, the archer suddenly felt very cold. Achilios leaned toward the boy. “Ced, are you all—”

Master Ethon’s son shoved him against the wall with such force that the hunter felt the wood crack.

Giving silent thanks that it had not been his
bones
that had made such a sound, Achilios let himself drop to the floor. Just above his head, Cedric slammed a fist into the wall, wreaking further damage in a manner impossible for one his size…or even Achilios’s, for that matter.

The hunter kicked out, hoping to knock his attacker off balance, but it was as if Achilios struck solid rock. The impact vibrated through his body. Cedric appeared unaffected. In fact, Achilios could almost swear that the boy smiled at his puny effort.

As the small figure reached for him, the hunter reprimanded himself for still thinking that it was the merchant’s son with whom he battled. This was not Cedric; this was possibly not even anything human. Achilios recalled too well the demons in the wild. Surely, this had to be one of them.

With an agility born from keeping on the trails of the most wily animals, Achilios managed to avoid the grasping hands. He shoved himself forward, slipping past the false Cedric.

Unfortunately, as the hunter tried to get to his feet, one hand finally snagged him by the collar. With a triumphant grunt, Cedric threw Achilios down the corridor.

Achilios landed hard, but the sound of his collision was oddly muffled. He doubted that anyone other than he could have have even heard it. Clearly another spell at work and one which concerned Achilios as much as the creature masquerading as the boy. It meant that an army—led by the high priest Malic, of course—could walk the entire house and no one would even know until it was too late.

The villains would be after Uldyssian. It was possible that they even had him captive already. But why, then, would they want Lylia? He could only assume that either he was wrong and his friend had escaped the high priest’s grasp—which meant that they wanted to use the noblewoman for bait—or Uldyssian
was
a prisoner as Achilios had first supposed and Lylia was to be used to force him to remain compliant.

But whatever the reason, she had not been with him. Achilios gave thanks for that stroke of luck even as he scurried to his feet to avoid being fallen upon by his assailant. Her escape meant there remained some hope.

He had no more time to concern himself with Uldyssian and Lylia, for suddenly Cedric wielded in his hand a pair of vicious swords nearly the length of his body. Achilios had no idea where those weapons had come from, but the creature used them with tremendous skill, cutting arcs in the air and through a wooden railing too near. Fragments of wood went flying.

There was also something
else
different about the figure before Achilios. He was larger, bloated, as if something sought to burst free from under the skin. The cold Achilios had felt within grew worse as he imagined the fate of the boy whom he had befriended, the boy who had wanted to be an expert hunter like him.

Jagged tears spread all over Cedric’s face and form. The right side near the jaw snapped away, revealing underneath something as pale as death and clad in black metal. What had once been Master Ethon’s son now stood nearly as tall as Achilios and wider yet.

And even as the transformation took place, the blades came at the archer. Achilios dodged one after another, barely even able to draw a breath between leaps. Most other men would have long been cut to shreds and he knew that one lapse would see him dead. His concern was not so much for himself as it was for the rest and he worried what would happen to Serenthia and Mendeln if he failed. He dared not even warn them for fear that they would step out of their rooms and be slain. For that matter, it was possible that they might not even be able to hear his cry, if what he suspected about a spell was true.

One of the blades sank deep into the rail again, this time momentarily catching. The hesitation was all Achilios needed. His knife he had lost when smashed against the wall, but with practiced ease, the archer slipped free his bow and notched an arrow. At such a range, he could hardly miss, but the exact target was what mattered. This was surely a fiend similar to what had attacked Uldyssian in the street and so merely firing for a vital spot would not necessarily work. In fact, there was only one place Achilios was fairly sure would have an effect.

All this went through his mind in the matter of a single second. In the next, Achilios fired, aiming for one of the eyes. They now had an ominous darkness to them, as if there were no pupils, merely sockets. Still, the thing
had
to see…

He should have easily hit the spot. Even the creature seemed to think that, for it moved the twin blades up to protect the face. Yet, not only did the arrow miss the area of the eye, it flew entirely against all logic, burying itself deep in the wall
beside
his foe.

The bestial figure laughed. It tore away the last of poor Cedric’s countenance and, as it did, it expanded in height and girth again, becoming an armored giant upon whose head was a macabre helmet that looked like an animal skull.

Swearing, Achilios stumbled back a step and notched another arrow. Keeping the last bolt’s direction in mind, he fired again.

This time, it bounced off the armored shoulder.

The fearsome warrior grinned. “Not so good,” he mocked in a voice that sent shivers through Achilios, for it sounded of the grave and reminded the archer of that moment when he had touched the stone near Seram. “Not so good for you…”

The blades came like twin whirlwinds. This time, Achilios moved too slowly. One cut into his thigh. He let out a cry and fell to the floor.

“You would make a good morlu,” the armored behemoth grated. “Not as good as I, Damos, but still good. Maybe I bring your body back for the master…”

He raised both swords—

From behind Damos, someone quietly spoke. Achilios thought that he recognized the voice and yet, at the same time, there was that about it that made it sound as unnatural as when the morlu had spoken.

The huge warrior jerked as if a puppet tugged by the strings. With a hiss, he spun to face whoever stood there. Achilios reached for his bow, but did not know where to fire. The only open area was near the neck, a target where his arrow had failed to slay last time.

“Who are you?” demanded Damos. “What is it you speak?”

The other said something in a tongue Achilios did not recognize.

The morlu let out a howl. He doubled over, dropping one of the swords.

“Stop it! Stop!” Damos lunged with the remaining weapon, only to come up short. He gasped, then fell to one knee. The second sword joined its brother.

The dark figure beyond the morlu uttered a single syllable.

Damos let out a howl. His body shivered. A stench suddenly arose from the morlu’s direction, a carrion smell.

With a last, mournful sound, the armored giant collapsed in an ungainly pile. The stench grew stronger.

Covering his nose and mouth, Achilios stared at the one standing over the body.

“Mendeln?”

Uldyssian’s brother stared at Achilios as if seeing
through
him. There was a presence around Mendeln that made the hunter shiver almost as much as when he had realized what had become of Cedric. It was not evil, but so
different,
and it once more put Achilios in mind of the stone and what he had felt.

“Kyr i’ Trag ’oul discay,”
Mendeln finally said to him, as if this gibberish explained everything.

Rising, Achilios glanced at the morlu. From the smell and what he could glimpse, he would have sworn that the creature had been dead for many days, even weeks. The flesh almost seemed to be putrefying before his very eyes.

He looked again at Mendeln, pale as the corpse. The younger brother suddenly blinked. Life returned to his expression, followed a moment later by utter bewilderment and horror at the tableau before him.

“Achilios…what…where…?”

At that moment, the house filled with noise. There was a crash and voices both below and nearby. A tremendous thud came from the direction of the chambers shared by Uldyssian and Lylia, a place that the archer had assumed vacant from the false Cedric’s remarks.

A door nearby flung open and Serenthia, a dressing gown given to her by Master Ethon closed tightly around her throat, burst out. She saw Achilios first, then Mendeln, and finally noticed the grisly form on the floor. To her credit, the trader’s daughter smothered a cry and instead immediately asked, “Where’s Uldyssian and Lylia? Are they all right?”

Before Achilios could answer, there came another crash, this one from the very direction of Uldyssian’s chambers. The hunter spun about and headed toward the noise. As Serenthia started to follow, he shouted, “You two stay! Do as I say!”

He had no idea whether they obeyed or not, but hoped that at least Mendeln would have the good sense to keep Cyrus’s daughter out of danger. How Mendeln had done what he had to the vicious morlu, Achilios did not understand—nor did he understand
exactly
what had happened to the creature—but hopefully that same power would come into play if they were attacked. There was no telling how many more of the foul warriors there still were.

Two guards raced up the steps, obviously heading for the same destination. The first to reach the door gripped the handle—