This is for me.
Just as he released his pants, she drew her boot knife and rammed it, to the hilt, into his stomach and left it there.
The man was stunned, transfixed by the knife protruding from his paunch. He grasped it with one hand and fell to his knees with a gurgling scream. Woody spat out his wooden teeth as he hit the ground and they bounced off Merigold’s boot. Heavier than she would have expected.
A strange thought to have.
Paran, who hadn’t noticed the exchange until the scream, knocked his chair over as he jumped up. The door flew open as Musk entered, also alerted by the scream.
The hawk, back in Dunmore, had only fought one opponent. And he’d still been grievously wounded by the end of it. Merigold had no hope. Her hands began to shake as Paran pulled out a hapler, its wicked, razor edge gleaming in the lantern light of the room. Musk had pulled a curved dagger from his belt.
“What happened?” asked Musk, locking the door and gesturing at Woody. The man was now on the ground in a growing puddle of blood and intestinal filth, curled around Meri’s knife like a fetus around its umbilical cord.
“This cunt stabbed him! I told him not to be greedy,” said Paran, squinting at her, his scar stretching on his pale dome.
“What do we do?”
Musk seemed uncertain. Could she jump over Woody’s form and make it past Musk, through the door? Probably not, unless she wanted that curved dagger to pierce her flesh. The same way that her own knife had torn through Woody.
“Woody drew his own lot, but we need to teach this cunt a lesson,” said Paran.
Woody moaned and sobbed. Paran stepped up next to him, not looking down. “Bitch, take off your clothes.”
“I have more money,” said Merigold, her voice quavering. Maybe greed would save her.
“Pft. What you’ve given us already is more than enough.”
“She gave us money, Sarg?” Musk licked his lips, looking at Paran.
“We took a few coins from her, it’s true,” lied Paran. Musk’s eyes darted to the pack still lying open on the table. He licked his lips again.
“That looks like more than a few. You holding out on me?” he demanded.
Paran darted a glance over his shoulder then. “You’ll get your share, Musk,” he practically growled.
“But, if Woody weren’t lying dead there, I’d be gettin’ nothing!” Musk gestured at the man writhing slowly in his own blood.
Woody moaned, not dead, but as good as. Musk again ran his tongue over his lips.
Two hawks, fighting instead of sharing. Please, Yetra, allow for some hope. Let her be the duck.
Paran turned his back on Merigold, perhaps realizing that the bigger threat was behind him. He twirled his hapler skillfully in one hand, the long-hilted blade whirring softly through the air.
“You want to try something, Musk, you shit-sucker? Remember what happened to Three-Fingers?”
Musk stepped back, hands up. “No, Sarg. I was just saying…”
“That’s right. And don’t forget who’s in charge here,” spat Paran, turning back toward Meri just as she crouched to reach her other boot knife.
“No, no, no, bitch. You think I can’t see you reaching for your boot? Toss the knife aside.” He levelled his hapler at her, stretching over the fallen Woody. Woody’s growing puddle of vileness and blood was now staining Merigold’s boots, and he was barely twitching. Still occasionally coughing and sputtering, but perhaps unconscious.
Dear Yetra! There was no other choice.
“Drop it, cunt!” snarled Paran, waving his weapon at her.
She tossed the knife into the corner.
“Thatta girl. Now, do the same with your clothes.”
This was just like the cabin, her prison. Dear Yetra, not again. Only, these men were likely to kill her after.
She took a breath and tried to find her empty place, her escape, just as she had with Saren, Chad, and Paul. Tried to send her mind somewhere else, and just leave her body—a shell of meat—here in this office room.
The emptiness eluded her.
She slowly removed her blouse, subtly moving her little nail-knife with it, leaving it covered by folds of fabric. The boots, pants, and underthings came next. She set the clothing down carefully on the table, leaving the weapon covered but easily accessible. As if that would help her against two armed mercenaries. Tears were starting to squeeze from her eyes. Unbidden, like a leaky dike.
“Come around this. I don’t want to step in that slime. Good.”
She was standing face-to-face with Sergeant Paran now, smelling strong liquor on his moist breath, so close that she could see each of the wrinkles around his cruel little eyes. He stroked her cheek with rough, calloused hands, resting his thumb and pointer on her chin.
“It’s a shame, girl. You are such a pretty little thing. All you needed to do was comply with Woody over there, and you’d be out of her safe and sound. Certainly much poorer, but you’d have your life,” Paran said, quietly, almost gently. Then, impossibly fast, he drew back his hand and cracked her across the face—knocking her against the wall, but not off her feet.
“But, instead, we’re going to hurt you. Pandemonium, when we are done with you, we might pass you around to the men. Haven’t they earned it?” Paran addressed Musk.
“Aye, Sarg. That battle in Sestra was quite tough. Quite tough, indeed.” Always licking his lips. Merigold wondered idly if they were chapped.
“Perfect. Get over here, cunt.” Paran grabbed her arm and jerked her towards him.
Thoughts of rape and darkness flashed through Meri’s mind. Cold, damp, alone, nauseous, abused.
No. This would not happen again. She would never again submit to the touch of a man, never again allow someone to use her in that way.
Merigold again delved inward to find her escape. But, this time, she did not seek a protective emptiness. She sought power.
And she found it.
It was as if the lights flared vividly to life in the room. She could see Paran’s disused vessel of power, cracked and drained, a dull sludge sunk deep inside of him. Glancing at Musk, she noted that his vessel was not as decayed, but lacked the shine that she had seen so many times in Dunmore and at the Duckling.
For a moment, time paused. If a fly had been in the room, Meri would have seen each individual wing flapping, would have been able isolate every spasmodic leg twitch. Drool was dripping out of Paran’s mouth, suspended in the air like an aborted raindrop. She gripped his pale, bare arm with all of her strength, and then she began to draw from him, flinching as his filthy maenen coursed into her own vessel, overflowing, sullying her, contaminating her. But she continued to draw, despite the filth.
Paran’s pupils dilated and he made as if to strike her. But instead, he fell slowly to his knees.
“What the f–” he wheezed, air escaping from a tea kettle.
He went fully to the ground, Merigold crouching to maintain her grip. He was gasping like a fish stuck in the shallows when the water receded, his eyes bulging in the same way.
“Sarg! What’s happening?” cried out Musk, uncertain of whether to help or to flee. A coward. But, a coward with a curved knife.
Merigold tried to turn her attention to him but, all at once, it was too much. The maenen, Paran’s maenen, filled her body with a great, burning pressure. Such a pressure! It was as if the sky had settled directly on her body, crushing her against the earth. But, in a way that was also tearing her apart. The agony was unimaginable, almost unrecognizable as pain. She needed to discharge this pressure… she needed to…
Musk had taken a step toward her, and she glanced up from under her half-closed eyelids, eyes glowing both black and red. She raised her free hand, and with a long, piercing scream, released the putrid power from her palm.
A barely-visible, uneven beam of light streamed forth, tearing free from her hand like a rabid, cornered animal seeking escape. The beam, the dull black and red of Paran’s maenen mi
xed with the brighter turquoise of her own, slammed into a stunned Musk’s chest.
For a moment, Musk stood still, transfixed, watching with wide eyes the absurd, the impossible, happening just in front of him. He even slapped at the stream of light, trying to knock it away.
Then, Musk exploded.
His body was torn apart from the core, limbs shredded into pieces, torso rupturing, the mess shooting across the room. The fleshy parts of his head combusted as his skull launched through the air, ricocheting heavily off the wall before landing near Merigold’s feet. She didn’t even notice.
Too much! Just too much! It was a roaring river, caught against a wall with nowhere to go save a single egress. Not a river. A sewage pipe, ending in a mortared-stone barrier, a finger-width hole the only escape. The barrier could not hold against such vile pressure.
Dear Yetra. Dear, fucking Yetra.
Merigold fell to her knees, her nails drawing blood from Paran’s arm.
No, she wasn’t on her knees. She was standing over a man who resembled Paran, though with short, scraggly gray hair. More wrinkles around his face. And Merigold held the spear that was piercing the man’s heart.
It wasn’t a spear... It was a crutch that she was leaning on, watching as her brother was brutally lashed by the man she’d seen earlier, skin and flesh torn right off of his back. Her father? Her brother? No, that wasn’t right. She reached out…
…And was holding down a crying, bruised woman—a girl, really—as she fucked her virginity away. A spindle of drool hung from her mouth, straddling the area between her chin and the girl’s bare breasts…
This was wrong! This was so very, very wrong.
The hands around the girl’s neck. Scarred, with hairy knuckles and dirty fingernails. Not her hands.
Merigold tried to hold on to some semblance of self. Ragen, smiling at her from across the common room, his weary face wrinkled, primarily around the upturned corners of his mouth. Meri felt her own reciprocated smile turn into a mockery of a grin as she lunged at him with a sword.
No!
Sandra, brushing Meri’s hair as she cried into her hands, upset that no one had invited her to the Harvest Festival. Meri turned back to Sandra, reaching out as if to embrace her. Then she propelled Sandra’s head into the wall, the light leaving her eyes as she crumpled to the ground.
Taneo Marsh delivering a moving sermon, transfixed by an arrow released by Merigold’s bow. Marissa Punter hugging her in the chapel, stabbed through the throat by Merigold’s knife.
There was little of Merigold left. There was violence. There was Paran, and…
Saren. Saren, kissing her outside of the Duckling, a moon’s light dancing playfully across the misty evening. Saren forcing her legs apart, mouth opened in a slimy grin as he worked to penetrate her. Saren watching impassively as she washed over the bucket. Saren, hurling curses up at her as she closed the cellar door on him.
Merigold released her death grip on Paran’s wrist, power dribbling out of her other hand like a spent well pump—blue, red, and black dissipating on contact with the wooden-planked floor. She fell forward onto her hands, her disheveled braid resting on the bloody floor, soaking up crimson like the brush of a demented painter. She was gasping for breath, sobbing without tears as she fought to retain what remained of herself.
Just as Meri began to fade into unconsciousness, she had some vague awareness of the door slamming open, the sharp report of the lock snapping from the wall. She stared up then, without really seeing.
“What in the fuck–”
“–by Yetra and Ultner!”
“So much blood.”
“What is she..?”
“Who is she?”
Merigold Hinter.
Serving girl.
Quiet. Liked to listen..
Ragen. Papa. Taken.
Saren. Kidnapper. Rapist.
Merigold Hinter.
Killer.
Amidst confused and outraged voices, Merigold slumped to the wooden floor, her naked body warmed by the slowly congealing blood.
Chapter 28
“What in the fuck?” exclaimed Fenrir. He was kneeling in blood, having slipped after ramming his shoulder through the locked door and into the office.
“…By Yetra and Ultner fucking twisted genitals,” whispered Ferl, standing just behind Fenrir.
Fenrir’s stomach was a sour knot. He’d never seen anything like this. He imagined very few people had ever witnessed a such a sight.
It was a small room, identical to so many other cramped meeting rooms in random public buildings around Ardia. But this room was unique in that the walls were splattered in blood and gore. There were bits of humanity covering the room, some of them recognizable and others grotesquely ambiguous. Near Fenrir was what looked like a knee, and on the other side of the desk was, based on Martis’ description, a chunk of human intestines, somehow affixed to the wall like some gory, demented piece of art.
Off to the side lay a man, probably a mercenary, in a separate, more concentrated, pool of blood mixed with vileness. The stench of the whole ordeal made Fenrir want to vomit, his stomach being clenched by a great, imaginary fist. The merc must have been stabbed in the stomach or intestines. Martis had taught Fenrir about common battlefield wounds during their long talks together, and he didn’t need to see the source of the vileness on the floor to know where the wound likely sat—not based on the blood and the smell. It was possible that the injured man was still alive, but for his sake, death would be better. Fatal infection was practically unavoidable with gut wounds, and the pain would be immense—all for an inevitable passing in a day or two.
In the opposite corner was another absurd sight. A girl, completely naked, had just flopped forward as he’d broken in the door, and she lay face-down in the gore. She must have been the source of that piercing, pain-laced scream that he and Ferl had heard while walking back to negotiate the hiring of Ferl’s Company for Escamilla’s purposes. A man leaned on the wall near her, his glassy eyes fixed in a thousand-mile stare. Fenrir could see his stomach moving with his breathing. Alive, then, his wilted cock hanging from his unlaced breeches. So, his intent was clear enough.
Ferl, and one of his lieutenants, still stood behind Fenrir. The lieutenant had just finished vomiting loudly in the hallway. Fenrir was glad he hadn’t shown that weakness himself, though his body was tempted to betray him. Luckily, he had somewhat fortified himself with rum beforehand. But there wasn’t enough rum in the world to make this scene bearable.
“Sir, what do we do?” asked Lieutenant Christoph with an acidic cough. The scarred, graying mercenary squinted into the room. “I think that’s Sergeant Paran, there!”
“Fucking Paran,” mumbled Ferl. He was a wiry, athletic man, both shorter and younger than Fenrir would have expected of the leader of a rather infamous mercenary company. Even Fenrir had to admit that Ferl was a handsome man, too—his strong jaw, cleft chin, and ocean-blue eyes probably made him popular with both the ladies and clients alike. Right now, his face was twisted up with disgust and anger.
“Coldbreaker, Christoph, go in there and look around. Check on the bodies,” said Ferl. Ah, leading from behind. A true leader.
Of course, Fenrir was so accustomed to taking orders, he’d barely batted an eye when Ferl told him to break down the door. An idiot move, both because now Ferl would assume he had authority over Fenrir, and because who the fuck knew what could have been going on in this room?
But, considering that his breeches were already soaked in blood and viscera, Fenrir followed the order. Christoph stepped into the room, as well, but turned around immediately to dry-heave when his boot slipped on some unnamed internal organ. Some professional soldier. Though, granted, this was far from a normal battlefield sight.
Fenrir first checked on the man curled on the ground. He’d been stabbed in the gut, as Fenrir had suspected, and must have pulled the cheap boot knife free, curling around the wound. Then, he’d bled out and die
d.
Stepping around him, Fenrir’s foot knocked a couple of loose coins off of a rug. He crouched (with a groan as his knee clicked) and saw a small pack that must have been knocked to the floor by a chunk of human remains. In the bag was a wealth of coin.
Shit. Fenrir had already pawned the stuff he’d stolen from Brockmore, but this gold could make a flight much easier and more comfortable. If only he could smuggle it out of this room. If he had an opportunity. But, that was impossible. He instead grabbed a stack of yets and shoved it into his sock as he stood with the pack.
“Looks like we’ve got some money, here. A good deal of it,” he called to Ferl.
“Fucking Paran,” Ferl said, more loudly this time as he sullied his own boots by stepping into the room, motivated by the gold. He took the pack.
“Godsdamn. He was going rogue. Not unexpected. Check the bodies.”
Considering Christoph had never reentered the room, apparently the order was meant for Fenrir. He shrugged and checked on Paran first. As he’d thought, the sergeant was still breathing, though he was unresponsive.
“He’s alive.”
Ferl drew a dagger and casually, slowly, plunged it into Paran’s neck, the sergeant unresponsive as the dark red lifeblood flowed from his severed jugular.
“Must have been killed before we got here.” Ferl gave Fenrir a flat glare to accentuate the pronouncement. A dangerous look.
“That’s what I saw.” There was something of Tennsyon about this young mercenary captain. A willingness to do whatever needed to be done. The ability to consign a person to death with a word or a thought. And, a lack of remorse for doing so.
Fenrir wasn’t strictly scared of the captain, but he certainly would rather avoid crossing him.
“The girl?”
Crouching somewhat painfully again, Fenrir shifted the girl’s face out of the crimson liquid. She sputtered, coughing up some blood on reflex, but remaining unconscious. There was something familiar about her. When he’d walked in, she’d been on her hands and knees, looking up at him. Her eyes… she’d seemed to be in such pain, both physical and emotional. She’d appeared terrified.
Solace Lost Page 37