As his enemies closed in, Caim leapt up onto the bed. He batted aside a cut from Ral and swung his other knife in a high arc as he dove from the bed to the tinkle of shattering glass. He landed behind his opponents, hit the carpet in a soft roll with a grunt, and spun around as he came to his feet. Burning oil rained from the ceiling. The bed's fine covers went up like tissue paper. In seconds the fire spread to a drapery on the wall and up the ceiling.

The cloaked man wheeled like an angry serpent as his shadowy minions flew across the room. Caim dove through the open window. He caught hold of a shutter as his legs cleared the sill. He hung there for a moment. Then, the silvery blur of a throwing knife sped past his face.

He let go and the pavement rushed up to meet him.

"Get down!"

Josey slid under the table as Kas tore the spear down from its mounts. Its steely head shone with an oily glint. He rushed to the door just as the latch broke and a mob of Sacred Brothers poured inside.

Kas skewered the first Brother through the door. As the soldier fell, Kas whipped the spearhead around and stabbed another through the arm. Bright spurts of blood splashed on the floor. For a moment Josey saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe the old man could fend them off. But as Kas yanked his weapon free for another strike, the press of bodies shoved him back. His spear seemed a pitiful weapon against so many swords.

Josey screamed as something crashed through the window. A heavily built soldier with thick arms and a scraggly yellow beard crawled over the sill. She reached up onto the table for something to use as a weapon. Her fingers found a smooth, cool surface. She grabbed the half-empty bottle and hurled it at the invader. It struck him on the arm and broke, drenching his uniform in wine. The Brother yelped and clutched his elbow. Heartened, Josey reached for more ammunition. She threw plates and cutlery, but he batted the missiles aside and leapt at her. He caught her by the ankle. She kicked and screamed as he reeled her in like a fish on a line.

Kas staggered in the middle of the room. Blood streamed down his clothes from a host of wounds. He plied the spear with failing strength until a blade smote him across the brow. He stumbled to the floor with a gasp.

Josey shivered in the embrace of her captor. Wine from his soaked arm wetted her dress. His horrid breath whistled in her ear. He chuckled and took liberties in the placement of his hands as he hauled her to her feet. She squirmed and tried to bite him, and was rewarded with a sharp slap across the face.

"Now, none of that, Josephine," a voice spoke from the cabin's entrance.

A shudder seized hold of Josey as Markus stepped into the cabin. Bandages peeked from underneath a striking new uniform: a white jacket and pants with golden insignia along the sleeves and stiff collar. It was the uniform of the grand master of the Sacred Brotherhood. Why is he…?

Josey's questions fled at the hideous sight of his face. The flesh of his sunken cheeks was rippled and crusted black. Drool leaked from the wet sores where his lips had been; they pulled back in a terrible grimace as he stood over Kas. The big man's eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused. Blood seeped between the fingers clutching his ample belly.

"Another valiant defender," Markus said. "You seem to collect them like pets."

"Leave him alone! Take me, but let him be."

Markus held up a gloved finger as the Brothers surrounded Kas. "Don't waste your breath. There's no rescue coming for you this time."

While their brethren stomped the old man with their hobnailed boots, two soldiers drew long daggers and approached Josey. A scream hovered in Josey's breast as the sharp instruments came toward her, but she refused to release it. She was a princess, heir to the throne of Nimea. She wouldn't debase herself with pleading or crying. She would show them how a lady of imperial blood could die.

Markus straightened his cuffs. "Do you like my new look?"

Josey hurled her most defiant glare at him over the shoulders of the soldiers. "How much gold did it take to convince you to betray your oath?"

"Times are changing, Princess," he said. "You would be wise to change with them."

"Go to hell."

He chuckled as the knives sliced off her clothing. "I was too kind before on the waterfront. This time, I'm going to take my time and enjoy it."

Josey gasped as she was lifted onto the table, the rough wood abrading her naked skin. Calloused hands pried apart her legs and exposed her intimate parts for all to see. She kicked and connected with something squishy. A gloved fist smashed into her mouth. Blood dripped from her lips, but she smiled through the pain. Let them do their worst. She wouldn't go quietly.

But a cold worm twisted in Josey's belly as Markus appeared over her. The scars on his face oozed clear pus.

"Don't worry, girl. I was told to return you alive and unharmed. We're not going to hurt you."

He unbuckled his trousers. "Just a little tickle."

Josey screamed as a lance of red-hot pain penetrated between her thighs. Golden starbursts filled the black space behind her clenched eyelids. So lovely, they carried her away from the horrors of the waking world.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

al spewed profanity with a vengeance as a troupe of table dealers from the gaming room downstairs battled the flames burning his suite. The blaze was under control, but it had reduced his rooms to a burnt shambles. Everything reeked of fire and ashes. Damn Caim! He had the Horned One's own luck. The sorcerer was gone as well. Good riddance to both as far as he was concerned. They could kill each other for all he cared.

As Ral paced across charred carpet, he considered Vassili's papers, tucked inside his jacket. He hadn't been able to make out everything on those yellowed pages, but what he understood spelled out dire implications, not only for the Church, but for the entire country. The archpriest had been involved in dirty dealings, even by his standards. Trucking with sorcery, deviltry, regicide… Vassili hadn't just wanted to rule Nimea; he had wanted to spread the Church's influence throughout the entire world. What boldness! In the end, the archpriest's sin had not been a lack of ambition, but trust in the wrong persons. Ral wouldn't make that mistake. He didn't trust anyone, especially his new ally. But knowing what to expect from the sorcerer-secrets, lies, and eventual betrayal-was better than trust. It was a certainty upon which to base his decisions. To rule an empire. It could be done, if he was bold enough.

Ral stopped beside the sideboard table. The wooden boxes had survived the fire with a few singes, a minor miracle for which he was almost prepared to bend knee and offer a prayer of thanks. He had seen for himself the kind of power a symbol could hold over common folk. Give them a hero, especially one raised from their own ranks, and they would follow him to the gates of Hell. Everything was almost in place. When Markus returned with the prize, they could proceed to the final phase of the plan. The last throw of the dice. Ral could barely contain his excitement.

A centurion of the Sacred Brotherhood, a grizzled veteran with more gray in his hair than blond and deep lines crisscrossing his face, appeared at the door and saluted with a fist pressed to his heart.

"The surrounding streets are clear, sir. But I sent a squad after the culprit."

Ral turned over his left hand. The tower-shaped blot gleamed on his palm like a patch of wet ink. He had tried washing it with lye, brine, vinegar, and bourbon, but so far the stain proved indelible. More to boot, in the fight with Caim he could have sworn it had started to tingle, barely noticeable in the heat of the melee, but a strange sensation nonetheless.