The Return of Daud Page 15

  It was a woman, her skin covered in small, deep cuts. Her eyes were open, but she was clearly dead. The three other hoses from the machine trailed over her body, a needle deeply embedded in her neck, her left side, and the calf of her right leg. Daud recognized her as one of the three vagrants from Porterfell who had ambushed him and Norcross behind the Empire’s End.

  Daud had seen all kinds of horror in his life—and had been responsible for a good deal of it himself. He had seen people tortured by the more vicious street gangs of Dunwall, back in the day. He had seen others torn apart by hounds for sport. He had encountered cannibals in the wilds of northern Tyvia, catching and eating travelers in the harsh tundra just to survive.

  But this? This was something else entirely.

  Norcross stepped over to the woman’s body and looked her up and down. “A remarkable process,” said the collector, “and one which, I am rather proud to say, is of my own devising.” He looked over at Daud. “As an admirer of the natural world, I had long sought a method of preserving specimens for my collection that was beyond mere taxidermy, which is effective, but results in exhibits that are somewhat… well, artificial. So I developed my own technique.”

  He turned and walked over to the machine, gesturing to it like an academic giving a lecture. “The exact methodology is complex, and I won’t bore you with the precise details. But with this system, we can extract the water from any organic specimen, and replace it with a mineral solution. This solution—again, of my own invention, after many years of experimentation—then hardens, perfectly preserving the specimen in a manner that leaves them exactly as they were in life.”

  Daud took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts amidst the terrible roar of the ancient music. He tensed his muscles, pulling just a little on his restraints, testing them rather than trying to free himself. The cuffs were heavy, but the metal was thin—they weren’t, he realized, designed to restrain a prisoner. They were merely designed to hold a body in place while Norcross used his process on them.

  A human body. Daud closed his eyes, his efforts rewarded with a deep, rolling nausea. Norcross spoke of collecting specimens like he was a zoologist, hunting exotic animals to mount in his private museum. But the tables were designed for people.

  Daud opened his eyes. “How many?”

  Norcross frowned. “How many what? Really, you are a man of intelligence. I was expecting a little more interest.”

  “How many people have you… collected?”

  “Ah. Well, I must admit my catalogue is somewhat incomplete. But it would be close to a hundred.”

  “And now you want to add me.”

  Norcross clapped his hands. “Why, yes, of course! What better addition than the Knife of Dunwall himself! Daud, once the most wanted man in all the Isles! Not only a notorious criminal and assassin but a magician, marked by the Outsider himself, wielder of remarkable abilities gifted by the Void.”

  Norcross stepped closer to Daud and pointed at his face with an elegant ringed finger. “You, my friend, will be the centerpiece of a whole new display. Yes! I can see the scene now!” He turned and swept a hand in the air, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “The dark streets of Dunwall! The year 1835! An assassin stalks the night, creeping up on his latest victim, knife held ready, the Mark of the Outsider already glowing on his flesh—”

  “You’re moonstruck,” said Daud.

  Norcross dropped his hand, his mouth twitching with annoyance. “I am a curator of history. The life and times of the entire Empire are represented in my collection.” He pointed at Daud again. “And that history includes you.”

  That was when the lights went out, the preparation room plunged into darkness, lit only by the blue glow of the whale oil tank under the trolley.

  The chamber was also silent. Instantly, Daud felt better—more awake, the fogginess in his head clearing. He craned his neck and saw that the automatic mannequin had stopped working. The music box was silent.

  Norcross gestured angrily at a guard, waving his hand toward the speaking tube.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Find out what—”

  He was interrupted by a shrill whistle—someone was trying to contact them. The guard picked up the end of the speaking tube, pulling the stopper out before bellowing into it.

  “Yes?” Then he pressed the tube to his ear.

  Norcross joined him, waving his hands. “Well? Well?”

  The guard shook his head, then spoke again into the tube, alternating the mouthpiece between his mouth and his ear as he awkwardly received the report from elsewhere in the castle.

  “Are you sure you… Well, have you checked… Send patrols five and six… Yes, he’s here… Yes, sir… right away, sir… Understood.”

  Recapping the tube, the guard looked at Norcross. “Intruders, sir. They’ve disabled the house’s whale oil tanks and have entered the main galleries.”

  Norcross looked at Daud, as though his prisoner had something to do with it. Daud narrowed his eyes as he watched the almost cheerful demeanor of the collector crumble and his eyes glinting with an altogether different set of emotions.

  Among them, fear.

  Norcross turned back to the guard. “Seal the galleries. Have the patrols flush the intruders out—”

  The guard shook his head. “No, you don’t understand, sir. The intruders have already taken out four guard patrols. It’s a large group, on the loose in the galleries.” He gently took Norcross by the arm. “Now, if you’ll come with me, sir, the guard captain has ordered you to the safe room.”

  Norcross blinked as if he was coming out of some kind of trance.

  “Very well.” Norcross turned to Daud, but the way his eyes moved over him and the body of the woman on the other table, Daud wasn’t entirely sure he was really seeing what was in the room. “We will resume this… ah, later.”

  The two men left Daud alone in the preparation room. Next to him, the motionless body of the woman was pumped full of chemicals as the machine on the trolley continued to whirr.

  Intruders? Thieves… or assassins? Daud didn’t care about the latter. But the former was a different proposition. There was plenty to steal in Norcross’s collection. The guard had said it was a large group—an organized gang, perhaps.

  Daud didn’t care who they were, so long as they didn’t take the Twin-bladed Knife. That was his.

  And now it was time to get it.

  With the music box deactivated, he felt his powers returning, although the sustained broadside of ancient music had drained him and he knew it would take a while to recover fully. He pulled against his bonds again. The cuffs shifted but remained firm, strapped to the table.

  He felt the Mark of the Outsider catch fire, but he dampened the urge to draw on it—it was too soon, and he was simply too weak.

  And he didn’t need supernatural power to get free from the processing table.

  Daud counted to three, then wrenched his right arm, tearing the metal cuff from the table. With one arm free, he made short work of the other bonds. Then, with one last look at the horrific remains on the other table, Daud drove his fist into the side of the preservation machine in anger, punching a hole clean through it, then tore the wheel off.

  Daud left the room, heading toward the tower chamber and Norcross’s private collection.

  Toward the Twin-bladed Knife.

  19

  THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL

  26th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “So, heed my warning, gentle reader. Should you or anyone you love witness some misshapen shadow fall across your path, or should you hear the slightest rumor of dark words whispered from rooftops, then flee. Flee with all haste.”

  —THE KNIFE OF DUNWALL: A SURVIVOR’S TALE

  From a street pamphlet containing a sensationalized sighting of the assassin Daud

  Morgengaard Castle was quiet as Daud came up out of the cellars and back into the entrance hall, emerging
from a set of stone steps hidden behind a small service door underneath the grand staircase that swept up from the huge double doors of Norcross’s castle.

  The rest of the castle was also dark, thanks to the reported sabotage of the house’s whale oil tanks. However long Daud had been unconscious, it was still night, the great windows letting in nothing but dim, grayish moonlight.

  Daud paused by the service door, cocking his head as he listened for something, anything. But there was nothing except the sound of his own quiet breath and the distant ticking of a grandfather clock.

  The guard had reported a large group of intruders; but Daud had no idea how many or where they were, but as he listened, he could hear no movement.

  But he wasn’t planning on taking the intruders on. They could help themselves—which was exactly what he was planning on doing.

  Getting his bearings, he headed in the direction of the tower stairs, sticking close to the walls where the shadows were darkest, the master of stealth once more in action.

  He saw the blood first. Daud paused, scanning the stairs, the landing above, and the wide open doorways that led out of the entrance hall. All were clear. He waited, counting, but after one minute, two minutes, there was still no sound. He crabbed along the wall, then ducked down and across to the other doorway, across which lay the body of the guard.

  The man was face down on the floor, his head turned to one side, his eyes open. A prodigious amount of blood was pooling beneath the body, the thick carpet soaking it up like a sponge and shining wetly in the moonlight. Daud glanced up, looking in the direction the man had fallen, and saw a line of blood traveling up the wall in a cone-shaped spray. The guard had had his throat cut with some violence, his back to his assailant. He hadn’t seen it coming.

  Daud moved on, alert. His progress was slow but sure, his senses alive to any movement or sound. He wondered where all the guards were—the intruders had come in, yes, and they had taken out some of Norcross’s men. But someone had sounded the alarm. Had they all rushed to fight? If so, where exactly was the fight? Daud still couldn’t hear a thing.

  He stalked through several dark galleries. Then he found the next body.

  And then the next. Soon he had counted twelve dead guards with their throats cut. One of them was still holding the brass end of a speaking tube in his hand, the torn end of the rubberized pipe hanging uselessly from the wall above him.

  Daud paused and took stock of the situation. Whoever had come in had not only been vicious, but highly capable, carefully staking out each target before silently dispatching them. Oh, they were good. Daud’s lips curled into a silent snarl. It was just what he would have done, back in the day. Take out the lights, stalk the targets, eliminate them one by one. Efficient. Ruthless. Professional.

  He proceeded with the utmost caution. He kept a count of the bodies he discovered on his path, and soon had tallied more guards than he had seen on his grand tour with Norcross. There were occasional signs of a struggle, as the intruders had penetrated further into the house after the alarm had been sounded. But the quiet of the building was unnerving. It was like walking through a mausoleum. Somewhere below, in his secure room, Norcross and his bodyguard hid. Daud began to wonder if they were the only three people left alive.

  That none of the exhibits showed any sign of damage was worrying. As far as he could tell, nothing had been opened or smashed—every display case was intact, the treasures within undisturbed.

  The intruders had come to steal from Norcross but Daud began to formulate a theory he didn’t much like; they weren’t just after treasure or art. No, they were here for something else.

  Daud’s blood ran cold.

  Norcross’s private collection. That was their target. The tower room, where the heretical artifacts were kept—those were worth a fortune on the black market.

  That was, if you even wanted to sell them.

  But what they wanted wasn’t his concern. The only thing that mattered was the Twin-bladed Knife.

  With no sign of the intruders and nobody in the galleries except dead guards, Daud threw caution to the wind. He sprinted through the remaining galleries and reached the tower stairs, pausing only to judge distance, angle and height before clenching his fist and summoning the power of the Void. He transversed onto the bottom step from across the passage, then he traveled up, his power carrying him up the curves of the wide spiral. He arrived in the lobby of Norcross’s private vault in just three seconds.

  There he stopped, the Mark of the Outsider burning on his hand, his own reserves of energy sapped by the sudden effort. He craved a vial or two of Piero’s Spiritual Remedy, but even as he wondered if Norcross had any in his collection, he saw that the black metal doors of the vault were open, two bloodied bodies—castle guards, both dead—lying on the floor in front of them.

  Daud’s eyes were on the black plinths at the far end of the tower room. He felt the tight grip of panic close around his chest, and without thinking he moved forward into the room, crossing the distance in a heartbeat. In his haste he came to halt a fraction too close to the plinth, his sudden reappearance knocking the ornate glass framework off the top. He watched it fall, moving almost in slow motion as it hit the floor and shattered. As the shards bounced around his feet, his heart thundered, a thousand thoughts screaming for attention in his mind.

  The Twin-bladed Knife was gone. The intruders, the thieves—whoever they were—had come in and taken it while he had been strapped to the table, ready for Norcross’s obscene entertainment. They’d left everything else exactly where it was. The cases that circled the room, filled with runes and bonecharms and other heretical artifacts, were sealed, their contents secure. They had wanted just one particular object.

  He had been close—so very, very close—to his goal. The Knife had been here. And now it was gone, the opportunity to acquire the weapon he had been chasing for months taken from him.

  He cursed himself for being so cautious, so slow to act. He had denied his instincts, his experience, even his training. He had been an assassin, a murderer, ruthless in the pursuit of his missions. And now he was on the most important mission of his life, and his own desire to flee from his past had resulted in failure. He had allowed Norcross to play his twisted games when he could have—no, should have—taken the Knife as soon as he’d set eyes on it, even if he’d had to kill everyone in the building on the way out.

  The one thing—the only thing—that could do the Outsider harm, that could kill that immortal bastard, the single essential tool he had spent so much time following whispers and rumors, tracking from island to island, country to country, was gone.

  Gone.

  Daud yelled in frustration. He kicked at the fragments of the shattered glass stand at his feet, sending razor-sharp pieces flying across the room. He curled his left hand into a fist, then spun around and punched through the glass-fronted cabinet behind him. The door shattered, the runes inside the case jumping on their shelves as the whole unit shook under Daud’s anger.

  Daud yelled again, feeling the power already swelling into a wave that threatened to crash down upon him. He didn’t even know what he was doing as he reached forward and grabbed the first rune he touched. The scrimshaw artifact began to glow in his hand—he could feel the heat of it through his glove, feel the power locked within the whalebone, and for a moment he knew he could take that power, use it to augment his own abilities. He hadn’t done it in years, but he still knew how, and with the object of his quest stolen right from under him, perhaps he needed more power now than ever.

  But as Daud drew on the rune’s power, the artifact grew hotter and hotter, the glow from within the whalebone soon a blinding white light.

  He fell to his knees, screaming in rage. It was a terrible roar from the very depths of his being. He felt the pain of the Outsider’s Mark flood over him like boiling oil, until he felt like he was enveloped in a cloak of fire.

  The rune in his hand exploded. The shockwave shattered the g
lass cabinets and knocked Daud back to the floor. The tower room was filled with exploding glass; Daud rolled onto his front, shielding himself as the debris rained down. His eyes were screwed shut, but he could see a blue light, so bright it was blinding, and all he could hear was the guttural roar of his own voice as he screamed and screamed again until his throat felt shredded.

  What had gone wrong? Had he forgotten how to use runes? Or had it been too long—had something changed as he had aged? Or had he simply lost control? Rather than channeling the power of the rune into himself, perhaps he had reversed the process, diminishing his own power and overloading the artifact?

  That thought did not sit well. If he needed power, then he couldn’t risk trying another rune. Norcross’s special collection housed dozens of them, and there were none he dared touch now.

  Finally, there was silence, save for the tinkle of broken glass. Daud opened his eyes.

  And found himself staring at his own face.

  He blinked, his breath catching in his throat even as his chest heaved. He stared at the face—the dark hair, streaked with gray, hanging across the brow. The beard, long and thick and black, the gray stripe down the middle; the whiskers caked in dust and wet with spit. The scar, running down the right side of the face, skirted the eye before vanishing into the beard.

  It was the face of an obsessive. A loner, standing apart from the world, years of running from his own history culminating in a new monomania, the all-consuming reason for his being.

  He blinked again, and reached for the large shard of black mirror that lay on the floor in front of him. He recognized it—the artifact from the other pedestal, some kind of heretical object worthy of displaying next to the Twin-bladed Knife. Despite the carnage of the tower room, the object was undamaged, and as he looked at his own image in its pure, metallic surface, Daud felt as though he could almost reach through the glass and the liquid surface would part for him, allowing him access to the Void itself.