Vassal

by Sterling D'Este

  Even when she looked at Etienne, he who saw every detail, he said nothing.

  So Alphonse was over the snow and past the cave entrance first, as quickly as possible. She wanted to flee before the reek of her blood in the cavern filled the air. How could her companions not detect that sour metal tang?

  As they resumed their trek up the mountain path, Alphonse glanced back only once. Perhaps it was her mind playing tricks on her, but she could have sworn she could see a swath of her blood pooling through the snow from the cave mouth, as if not a cup of Alphonse had been spilled, but her entire body.

  As if she had died there.

  Chapter XXII

  Eighth Moon, New Moon : Thloegr

  Excerpt from the Journal of Etienne d’Etoiles

  Eighth Moon of the Year 1819, somewhere in the Northern Brig’ian Mountains

  After the delay caused by Tristan’s inadvisable taunting of Enyo, the rest of the seventh moon passed with damnable slowness. Everything, it seems, has become more difficult.

  The roads now are steeper, winding tracks that slip around the rough faces of the mountains, growing less kempt with each day. Despite the fact that it is high summer on the gentle planes of Ingola, the air here is continuously colder. We wake to rain and sleet more often than sun, and a few times, it has even snowed, though not with the fervor of Enyo’s blizzard.

  My companions are greatly unchanged, though the Cabot, Delyth, has become even more distant. She says little, especially when Enyo is present. Useless, unless it becomes necessary to separate the Goddess from Tristan. She, at least, still works to preserve that bit of Alphonse.

  Tristan is consistent if nothing else. He strives to irritate those around him, cruel and smirking. He has learned, though, not to treat Enyo to the same teasing that beget the blizzard. Wonder of wonders. More worrisome, is the new tendency for him to whisper inaudible conversations with Enyo. I’ve not been able to overhear anything they are saying, and don’t dare to try and separate them myself, given Enyo’s propensity for physical harm and the chance that she might again destroy my meager magical supplies. Delyth, of course, has done nothing but ignore this.

  Conversely, the changes in Alphonse grow more noticeable every day. She no longer seems to have the ability to fight the Goddess. Enyo is in control more often—as many as 6 hours on a given day and can only be stopped through bribery and cajoling, often with the use of Delyth’s blood, sickening though it is. Alphonse no longer expels these offerings but becomes somnolent with them.

  When Alphonse is in control, her temper has become very evident. It seems as though the incident in which she slapped Tristan in the cave was not an isolated occurrence, but evidence of a deeper, more sinister change. The cost of sharing her body with Enyo, no doubt. Even her physical form is changing, losing the softness that has characterized her face and motions for as long as I have known her. She is almost gaunt now, her cheeks hollow, her fingers all but skeletal. Possibly it is a purposeful attack from Enyo, to make my friend easier to control.

  My own temper is little better than Alphonse’s, I find, though I have not tried resorting to violence. It is hard to think clearly in this bloody cold, and the Goddess’s tendency to target me has not made it any easier.

  Even after moons of observation, I can discern no patterns in the way Enyo will act at any given time. Often she is a simple hedonist, dancing or drinking the wine Tristan procured from passing travelers, but this is just as likely to turn into sexual advances—most often directed at Tristan, though occasionally with the aim of seducing Delyth as well. I am never sure if a moment of appreciation for nature will turn into revelry, calm meditation, or sudden cruelty, and there are times when she does none of this at all.

  Just a week past, our party came upon a man on the side of the road, his leg broken. Enyo approached him, and though I feared for the man’s life, she only commanded him to be healed and spread the word of Enyo’s return. Somehow, she had managed to access Alphonse’s healing abilities without allowing the healer control over their shared body. It is unclear whether this greater control is due to Enyo’s growing power or Alphonse’s new lack of ability to fight her.

  For now, I can do nothing but observe and prepare the binding spells I will use when we reach the temple. Hopefully, when the time comes, Alphonse will be able to aid me. I must confess, however, that the closer we get, the more sure I become that it will be me alone facing the others.

  Gods aid me. Alphonse cannot be left to suffer any longer, for all I fear that the changes wreaked by the Goddess will be permanent, the cost of her paying for my mistakes.

  ⥣ ⥣ ⥣

  * * *

  All day, Alphonse was plagued by a creeping feeling down her spine. They had come through a small village, poor and struggling, their crops having failed from an unseasonably dry spring. The company had bartered with very little success and left.

  Enyo was eerily quiet, perhaps cowed by the apparent suffering of her people. Whatever the reason, she made herself scarce and left Alphonse to walk alongside Delyth for the entire afternoon. Their hands would brush against one another as they climbed the little pass and into a valley that should have been full of fruit and vegetables. Sometimes, she would share a smile up at Delyth, her stomach clenching in a most agreeable way whenever Delyth’s ice-blue eyes smiled back.

  Despite these moments of happiness, Alphonse could not shake the feeling of being watched, the trees whispering with dry winds…

  But she couldn’t understand what they said. Not like Enyo.

  It still felt like a warning.

  Time and time again, she would glance up at the rocky mountainsides and see a flicker of movement. But she’d look again, and nothing would be there.

  A light humming was distracting Alphonse as they came to a sharp bend in the path. “What’s that sound?” she asked Etienne. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use. It had felt important to keep quiet for some reason. He didn’t seem to know what she was talking about, frowning at her like she was now insane, like she was hearing things that weren’t there.

  The humming persisted, and Alphonse lagged behind, trying to find the source.

  It wasn’t until Delyth was about to take the turn that Alphonse realized what the sound was.

  Calamity, strapped to Delyth’s back. It was vibrating excitedly.

  ༄

  Delyth could feel Calamity’s whine against her shoulders, but for long minutes, she ignored its steady climb. She had no desire to touch it, to let it inflame the battle-lust that lurked behind the bars of her rib cage.

  The sword set her on edge. Was it vibrating so out of a lack of use? Did it need regular blood-letting to be appeased? Recently, she had avoided using it even to bribe Enyo with blood. Should she have just gritted her teeth and borne the sword’s desire then?

  Then again, Calamity had never had to be sated while it hung on the walls of the temple at Glynfford. It had not moved until the summoning of Enyo had sent it falling from its perch, and in the long moons since, it had never vibrated like this. Delyth alone knew of the blade’s true sentience… could it be a warning? It was her duty to be sure.

  Still, she hesitated, glancing back towards Alphonse. It had been so nice, so peaceful just to walk with the healer for a time, reveling in secret touches and smiles. Calamity would pierce that simple joy as easily as it did flesh.

  And yet, it had to be done. As she rounded a bend in the road, Delyth reached up to grip the sword hilt. Later, she was never sure what had hit her first: the sword singing of blood soon tasted, or the sight of the road blocked by a group of poorly armed townsfolk.

  The warrior’s vision dimmed. Her very blood was a battle cry, and somehow, Calamity had become unsheathed, hanging almost casually in her white-knuckled hand. She forced herself to take deep breaths, long and shaking. No one had attacked yet. There might not be a need for battle.

  ❀

  Alphonse stumbled to a halt, unable to stop herself from emitting a
small gasp of fear. She immediately saw the armed villagers and understood.

  Their traveling group seemed rich beyond compare when she saw the hungry faces and crumbling homes of the locals. Of course, the villagers would feel the need to take what Alphonse and the others had.

  After all, they were not starving. Their children weren’t hollow-eyed. It wasn’t excusable, to turn to thievery and banditry, but…

  She understood.

  Even if it frightened her. Even if she didn’t know how they would possibly get out of this unscathed. As desperately as the bandits needed food and clothes and coin, she too relied on the contents of her pack to survive every day.

  The silence grew between the two groups before a large man, barrel-chested and strong despite hard times, stepped forward.

  “Put down your things and go.” The threat was unspoken, and Alphonse shivered, gripping her satchel and thinking she would do as he said.

  ⚄

  Tristan had been near Alphonse in the back of the group when Delyth and then Etienne stopped in front of him. He stepped around the two, striding out ahead, his grin and casual demeanor unchecked.

  “Well, that's a right difficult thing to ask a poor group of travelers, isn’t it?” He kept his voice light but stopped a foot away. Plenty of space to draw his daggers should the man choose to attack. “We’ve a long way to go yet, and would just as likely die to the elements as to your… eh…. fine weapons.”

  Tristan made a show of looking the man over and finding the results lacking.

  “Look, boys, why don’t you all head back to your farms like the nice, simple folk you are. No one need die today.”

  The man said nothing but looked back at his companions. One of them nodded, put his fingers to his lips, and emitted a piercing whistle. Tristan cocked an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be some kind of agreement? The all-call home?”

  Of course, it wouldn’t be so simple. Behind him, Alphonse shrieked, the sound sharp in the thin, mountain air. When he turned, it was to find her trapped in the arms of another villager, her legs flailing at his calves. At least until she noticed the blade at her heart.

  Tristan’s lips tightened into a thin line. So that was how this was going to go.

  There were at least a dozen more behind Alphonse, but the rogue had no intention of getting between Delyth and the man holding the girl, so he turned instead to the man in front of him.

  “Let’s see what sort of dances they teach in peasant villages these days.”

  ༄

  See? They’re listening to Tristan.

  Delyth wasn’t sure if the thought was directed to herself or the sword. She didn’t have the strength to wonder. Calamity was vibrating in her hand; her blood was singing. She kept still only out of the fiercest display of will power.

  And why? The sword had never been so hard to control before. Not since the very first time she had touched it.

  There was no telling, no time to think. She could only breathe.

  Until Alphonse’s voice cut through her already fraying grasp on reason.

  Delyth swung around, her vision narrowed to the man holding her little bird. He was strong and weathered, likely from years of laboring to eke a living out of the rough mountains.

  But he was no match for Delyth and Calamity.

  Her fingers made irons around the wrist that held the knife to Alphonse’s breast, and with a care that belied her savagery, the priestess pulled the arm away and up.

  Then she sunk Calamity to the hilt in the man’s armpit, piercing heart and lungs in a single thrust. He fell away from Alphonse like so much meat, dead before she could pull the sword free.

  There was no stopping after that. A dozen or more men from the village had crept up behind them in what some distant part of Delyth recognized as a trap.

  She didn’t care. They would all bleed.

  The next closest bandit took Calamity in the throat, the one after that was cleaved from collar to waist, sliding apart in a gruesome unmaking. With the initial surprise of her attack wearing off, the others turned to face her, but it made no difference. Delyth felt no pain, saw nothing but bodies in a red haze. She killed them when they fought. She slew them when they fled.

  There was nothing but the wild strength coursing up her arm and the spray of blood to bathe in.

  ❀

  Alphonse fell to the ground with a resounding thud, the air knocked from her lungs. She opened her mouth to gasp, but there wasn’t room in her chest for breath. She choked and rolled onto her back, trying to regain the ability to breathe.

  Around her, people screamed and shouted, metal groaned against metal, and the road became a dust cloud as people tussled against one another. Delyth was pure grace and power as she wheeled away from the man she’d saved Alphonse from. Her eyes were distant and cold, her motions flawless as she slid Calamity through one bandit’s torso, across another’s thigh.

  Blood spilled, splattered, dribbled, and oozed…

  A clawed hand yanked on Alphonse’s mind, and she screamed in pain, clutching her head.

  Enyo wanted out.

  NOW.

  “No! No! You’ll hurt them,” Alphonse said through gritted teeth and thick, fear-wrought tears.

  Let me out. Let me out. Let me out!

  “No!”

  The hand took Alphonse by the heart and squeezed until she fainted.

  ✶

  Etienne whirled around at Alphonse’s first shriek, his heart banging to escape his chest. His oldest friend was wrapped in the arms of one of the farmers-turned-bandit, a decrepit blade clutched to her heart.

  And he could do nothing.

  Nothing but watch as Delyth slew the villager with a single thrust and a spray of blood.

  Then, there was blood everywhere, the halfbreed cutting down farmers like they would the wheat in their fields, a grisly reaping. On his other side, Tristan had drawn his knives and moved to attack the leader of the bandits. At first, it seemed as though the rogue would lose to the bigger man, but no. He proved too quick, dodging and cutting until, at last, he reached the man’s throat.

  Etienne could only back away, horrified.

  Gods, he did not want to kill these people.

  He didn’t want to die.

  Etienne reached out a useless hand to a screaming Alphonse, the words of helpful spells dying on his lips. He grabbed handfuls of his own hair, tugging. There was nothing to cast, nothing to do.

  He was too afraid.

  Etienne turned pleading eyes towards Alphonse, looking to her for some kind of clarity, some sort of understanding, even as her eyes rolled closed, and her limp body crumpled to the earth. As quickly as she fell, she was up again. Snarling and vicious, springing to her feet as if this were some jaunty dance.

  Enyo.

  She rocketed towards the last man, where he cowered and scrambled to flee. She didn’t slow to grab up a weapon of any kind, demand Calamity back, or take one of Tristan’s daggers. Instead, she honed in on the man and came to a sudden stop behind him.

  Unaware of the most dangerous foe lying in wait, he continued to scuttle backward, trembling, eyes wide and darting between Delyth, who had turned his way, and Tristan, who was wiping his red-soaked blades on the dead men’s worn clothes.

  “Don’t!” he choked out, dropping his rusted spear and holding his hands up in surrender. “Please! I have a family. You have so much, and we were starving. We were ashamed to attack you when you brought fair trade, but we needed—” His words ended in a painful yelp as fingers gripped the back of his neck.

  Despite her size, Enyo yanked the man off his feet, as Alphonse had been, his toes barely brushing the ground. Without waiting for the others to intervene, she dropped the man onto his back.

  He looked like a beetle turned on its hard shell, legs kicking futility and arms outstretched to stop her as she bent down. Fingers already dripping with his blood made a strange and vicious cup, and then she struck.

  A horrific crunching
echoed through the empty valley, the sound muddied with screams of terror. Enyo’s hand had gone through the man’s ribs and into the chest cavity, but by some horrible twist of fate, the man was still alive, moaning and praying to Rhan to change his lot.

  Enyo chuckled richly and leaned close. It nearly looked as if she’d kiss him.

  “Wrong Goddess,” she murmured, her voice raw power; silk and fire, honey and ice, screams of pleasure and moans of despair.

  And then she ripped his heart from his chest.

  Etienne couldn’t tear his eyes away. She was laughing. Chuckling as though the gruesome death of some desperate farmer was the sort of gently amusing thing that made for fine entertainment, breathing in his despair.

  And then she was standing over him, his still heart clutched in her red-soaked fingers, the stuff of his life dripping down her arm in viscous crimson ropes.

  His Alphonse… his oldest, kindest friend standing over the body of a dead man, her face as gleeful as he had ever seen it.

  Etienne fell forward and vomited between his feet until tears streamed freely from his eyes. When he stood up, Tristan was mere inches away.

  The rogue hauled Etienne up by the collar of his shirt and thrust him hard against the rough bark of a pine behind him. Immediately, the mage tried to flee, to get away from this mad man, this man who wielded knives and felled those well over his size and strength. Tristan didn’t let him. He pinned Etienne with one gloved hand, gripping his face just below the eyes.

  “That,” Tristan said, gesturing towards Enyo with his free hand, “is your fault. If you had killed one—just one of the marauders, she’d not have had the chance.”

  He tightened his grip viciously, teeth bared and fingers digging painfully into Etienne’s cheeks.

  “You couldn’t save her today. Couldn’t ever save her. Alphonse is lost, and it's your fault, you useless, cowardly sack of shit. You will never be able to change this.”

  And he was right.

  Etienne had failed.