Death Masks

Goon B got his gun out and pointed it at Shiro. The old man bobbed to his left and then smoothly rolled right. The gun went off, and sparks flew up from two of the walls as the bullet ricocheted. Shiro drew Fidelacchius clear of its wooden sheath as he spun closer to the goon, the movement so fast that the sword looked like a blurred sheet of shining steel. Goon B’s gun went flying through the air, his shooting hand still gripping it. The man stared at the stump at the end of his arm as blood gouted from it, and Shiro spun again, one heel rising to chin level. The kick broke something in the wounded goon’s jaw, and the man collapsed to the damp floor.

Shiro had taken out three men in half as many seconds, and he hadn’t stopped moving. Fidelacchius flashed again, and the chair beneath Deirdre collapsed, spilling her onto the floor. The old man promptly stepped on her wealth of dark hair, whirled the sword, and brought its tip down to rest against the back of Deirdre’s neck.

The room became almost completely silent. Shiro kept his blade to Deirdre’s neck, and Nicodemus did the same to mine. The little old man didn’t look like the same person I’d talked to. Not that he had physically changed, so much as that the sheer presence of him was different-his features hard as stone, weathering the years only to grow stronger. When he had moved, it had been with a dancer’s grace, speed, and skill. His eyes flashed with a silent strength that had been concealed before, and his hands and forearms were corded with muscle. The sword’s blade gleamed red with blood and torchlight.

Nicodemus’s shadow edged a bit farther back from the old man.

I think the freezing water was blending in with my sudden surge of hope and making me a little loopy. I found myself drunkenly singing, "Speed of lightning! Roar of thunder! Fighting all who rob or plunder! Underdog!"

"Be quiet," Nicodemus said.

"You sure?" I asked. "’Cause I could do Mighty Mouse if you’d rather. Underdog had this whole substance-use issue anyway." Nicodemus pressed the knife a bit harder, but my mouth was on autopilot. "That looked fast. I mean, I’m not much of a fencer, but that old man looked amazingly quick to me. Did he look that quick to you? Bet that sword could go right through you and you wouldn’t even realize it until your face fell on your feet."

I heard Nicodemus’s teeth grind.

"Harry," Shiro said quietly. "Please."

I shut up, and stood there with a knife at my throat, shivering, aching, and hoping.

"The wizard is mine," Nicodemus said. "He’s through. You know that. He chose to be a part of this."

"Yes," Shiro said.

"You cannot take him from me."

Shiro glanced pointedly at the goons lying on the floor, and then at the captive he held pinned down. "Maybe yes. Maybe no."

"Take your chances with it and the wizard dies. You’ve no claim of redemption here."

Shiro was quiet for a moment. "Then we trade."

Nicodemus laughed. "My daughter for the wizard? No. I’ve plans for him, and his death will serve me as well now as later. Harm her, and I kill him now."

Shiro regarded the Denarian steadily. "I did not mean your daughter."

I suddenly got a sick feeling in my stomach.

I almost heard Nicodemus’s smile. "Very clever, old man. You knew I’d not pass the opportunity by."

"I know you," Shiro said.

"Then you should know that your offer isn’t enough," Nicodemus said. "Not by half."

Shiro’s face did not show any surprise. "Name it."

Nicodemus’s voice dropped lower. "Swear to me that you will make no effort to escape. That you will summon no aid. That you will not release yourself quietly."

"And let you keep me for years? No. But I will give you this day. Twenty-four hours. It is enough."

I shook my head at Shiro. "Don’t do this. I knew what I was doing. Michael will need your-"

Nicodemus delivered a swift jab to my right kidney and I lost my breath. "Be silent," he said. He focused his attention on Shiro and inclined his head slowly. "Twenty-four hours. Agreed."

Shiro mirrored the gesture. "Now. Let him go."

"Very well," Nicodemus said. "As soon as you release my daughter and lay down your sword, the wizard will go free. I swear it."

The old knight only smiled. "I know the value of your promises. And you know the value of mine."

I felt an eager tension in my captor. He leaned forward and said, "Swear it."

"I do," Shiro said. And as he did, he placed his palm lightly along the base of his sword’s blade. He lifted it to show a straight cut on his hand, already dribbling blood. "Set him free. I will take his place as you demand."

Nicodemus’s shadow writhed and boiled on the ground at my feet, bits of it lashing hungrily toward Shiro. The Denarian let out a harsh laugh, and the knife left my neck. He made a couple of quick movements, cutting the rope holding my wrists.

Without the support of my bonds, I fell. My body screamed in pain. It hurt so much that I didn’t notice him cutting my feet free until it was done. I didn’t make any noise. Partly because I was too proud to let Nicodemus know how bad I felt. Partly because I didn’t have enough breath to whimper anyway.

"Harry," Shiro said. "Get up."

I tried. My legs and feet were numb.

Shiro’s voice changed, carrying a quiet note of authority and command. "Get up."

I did it, barely. The wound on my leg felt hot and painful, and the muscle around it twitched and clenched involuntarily.

"Foolishness," Nicodemus commented.

"Courage," Shiro said. "Harry, come over here. Get behind me."

I managed to lurch to Shiro’s side. The old man never looked away from Nicodemus. My head spun a bit and I almost lost my balance. My legs felt like dead wood from the knees down, and my back had started cramping. I ground my teeth and said, "I don’t know how far I can walk."

"You must," Shiro said. He knelt down by Deirdre, rested his knee on her spine, and wrapped one arm around her throat. She began to move, but the old man applied pressure, and Deirdre went still again with a whimper of discomfort. That done, Shiro gave Fidelacchius a flick, and the beads of blood upon it sprinkled against one wall. He sheathed the blade in a liquid movement, drew the cane-sheath from his belt, and then passed the hilt of the sword back toward me. "Take it."

"Uh," I said. "I don’t have a real good record with handling these things."

"Take it."

"Michael and Sanya might not be too happy with me if I do."