In only a few marks, they were gliding down into the dark of a butcher’s cellar, one of the more intact structures left standing, even if the shop above was ruined. The left behind tools would also prove useful.
When the two ruvak next opened their eyes, they both glanced around dazedly, terror soon overcoming all else as they realized their predicament.
Captured.
Bound and gagged.
Facing each other as they dangled on creaking chains.
Held off the ground by meat hooks.
Draevenus stepped between them, into a shaft of moonlight coming in through a rent in the ceiling. He hadn’t asked Tassariel to participate in this. Only to watch.
Only if she could.
My own soul is stained enough. But not so stained that I would wish to share it.
“I have some questions,” he said, looking them each long and deep in the eyes. “The speed and accuracy with which you answer will determine how swiftly I will allow you to die . . . and how much of you will be left, at the end.”
He watched closely, gauging for a reaction, and found . . .
Nothing.
This was his first time dealing with the ruvak—in something other than death, that is. Perhaps it was their inhuman faces that defied his scrutiny. Perhaps some training that worked to defeat interrogation.
Or perhaps they simply need a different form of motivation.
He flipped daggers into both his hands. Snapped the points up to tickle their chins.
“I’ll let only one of you speak. If you wish to be whole upon your death, I suggest you make your intentions plain.”
He moved the edges to their necks, felt pulses shimmer up the steel as not-quite-similar blood flowed in not-quite-similar veins.
“If you wish to be heard, nod your head now and I’ll remove your gag. I won’t ask nicely a second time.”
Again, he watched. And again—other than a slight deepening of their fear—there was no obvious reaction. No . . . comprehension.
“Stop,” Tassariel said forcefully, stepping into the light opposite him. “Don’t you see what’s happening?”
“I don’t see anything!”
“Neither do they.”
She moved between their prisoners, forcing him to either back up or get pushed out of the way. He retreated a single step, lowering, but not replacing, his blades. Lifting hands to both faces, she pried out the gags from their mouths. The cellar filled with ragged screeches in an instant.
All of it completely incoherent.
“Listen!” Tassariel said. “We just have some questions. Will you please answer? Do you even understand me at all?”
Their unintelligible sounds continued unabated. If anything, they grew louder and more nonsensical.
“This,” Draevenus said, “is not what I expected.”
Tassariel put the gags back in, tempering the cacophony. “Why wouldn’t you? Have you ever heard a ruvak speak in words you understood?”
“Yes, actually. And so have you.”
“What are you—?” Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. You mean . . . Flumere.”
He nodded. “If she could communicate with us, I thought they all might be able to. An incorrect assumption, I now see. Trying to interrogate them was a waste of our time.”
“There’s no need for that. At least now we know for sure. I imagine only the spies took the time to actually learn our speech.”
“I suppose. But I wouldn’t call this night a victory yet.” He glanced at both prisoners, then at her, then back at the prisoners. “We move on to the backup plan.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ll go get my things.”
Draevenus waited until her back was turned.
Then drove a dagger into each prisoner’s heart.
The slightest creak in the chains as the two suddenly limp bodies swayed from the impact.
It was enough of a warning.
Tassariel spun back around, eyes wide. Though with what, he could not tell. A mix of things, it seemed, all fighting for dominance: surprise, anger, sorrow . . .
. . . relief.
Another mark and she would have begun asking what they were going to do with the prisoners. Once the concern was raised, he knew she would never have allowed him to do as he just had. To do what was necessary. And despite her inevitable protest, he knew he would not have done any differently.
I saved you that, at least. I didn’t give you a chance to take the burden of their souls upon your own. As your nature demands.
He didn’t know if everything within his mind was conveyed in the look he gave her, but she said nothing and turned away once more. She moved to the rear of the cellar and began retrieving her weapons, strapping them back into the sheaths beneath her cloak with exaggerated, careful motions. Taking time to gather her thoughts, most likely.
He didn’t blame her. He wiped his daggers clean on the sleeve of one dead ruvak, then looked down to watch each sliver of black steel slide home, himself moving with equal lack of haste. She could have all the time she needed.
Draevenus lifted his head to find her standing only half a pace away, clutching her spear beneath white knuckles.
“It’s not the killing,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“We’re at war. The ruvak are trying to wipe our kind from the surface of this world. And they’ve been succeeding. I just wanted you to know that I’m not opposed to fighting them. I never have been. But this . . . talent of yours. Assassination. I don’t know if it’s necessary or not, but to me it just feels too cold. It feels . . .”
“Inhuman,” he said.
Gulping, she lowered her eyes and nodded.
Draevenus sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve been around war for far too many days of my far too long of a life. I’d like to say I tried every alternative, but too many moments were never committed to memory, too much of it lost for me to say for certain if that’s true. Maybe my life’s been too stained by blood to see any other way.”
“Then why don’t we try a different way for once? Just to see what happens.”
“What did you have in mind?”
She twirled her spear. “I’ll show you when we get there.”
In moments, they were on the rooftops again, hopping from one to the next with only a faint whisper of wind, the slightest scuff on crumbling structures to mark their passing. He was surprised, happily, at how little disturbance Tassariel made. For all her resistance to his methods, she’d progressed in matters of stealth quite nicely.
Like wraiths, they dashed from shadow to shadow and came within sight of the stronghold unseen.
They crouched, shielded from the moon’s silver glare by the wreckage of a belltower that had once stood above their position. Two stories from the ground, he could just see over the wall opposite them and into the sprawling grounds of the estate that the invaders had taken as their own. No one living was left to debate their claim.
“All right,” Draevenus said. “What’s your plan?”
She pointed to the mansion sitting at the center of the compound. “Since we can’t speak with them, there’s only one way to uncover what’s going on in that house.”
He peered towards the structure, four floors tall and two hundred paces on a side. Ruvak caravans had been bringing prisoners there from the surrounding territories. He and his apprentice had come to find out why.
“Go in there ourselves?” he asked.
“Precisely.”
“That won’t be easy. There’s four groups of guards, each twenty strong at least, around all four approaches to the building. I can’t see a way to eliminate any of them without alerting the others,” Draevenus said.
“Then we alert them.”
“Are you mad?”
“We’re trying a different way, remember? My way.”
Draevenus sighed. “Right. Sorry. Please, continue.”
She pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes as she gazed on the scene below. “There’s noth
ing else to it, really. I don’t want to overthink things. Just stay in the shadows until it becomes . . . opportune.”
Draevenus opened his mouth to ask what she meant by that, but didn’t get the chance to say it.
Tassariel stood. Shed her cloak and let it fall. Energized. Unfurled her wings.
Draevenus squinted, blinded by the lavender flare. Heard the rush of air as she stepped off the roof and glided over the wall across the street. He blinked until his vision cleared, and saw her standing in the estate’s courtyard, wings now tucked safely away.
In full view of two sets of ruvaki guards.
For what seemed an eternity, no one moved, each of the forty or so ruvak studying her with the same wide-eyed astonishment as any human. And Tassariel? She glared right back, completely lacking any apparent fear.
Draevenus felt enough of it on her behalf.
She planted the butt of her spear between the pavestones, leaning the sharp end against her shoulder. Lifted her arms one to each group. Beckoned tauntingly.
The ruvak screeched curiously. Fury filled those voices, but also amusement. They began sauntering close, forming a haphazard ring around her as they readied weapons in loose hands.
Draevenus felt a surge of energy explode from her position, but saw no visible effect. A self-blessing, he guessed.
When next she moved, she moved like lightning.
Her spear thrust out three times in a beat, taking a trio of ruvak through their chests. Their bodies were still falling as she cartwheeled across the line, smashing two faces with her booted feet, landed and swept a leg to knock down two more, parried an attack with her spear in one hand and stabbed a dagger into the throats of those she’d toppled with the other.
She pounced upward, kicking out to both sides. The two ruvak catapulted backwards, bringing half a dozen others with them to the ground. She threw her spear forward like a javelin, impaling the largest ruvak of the group, then withdrew her axe and morningstar all before touching down.
Twirling, she crushed those who tried to parry and chopped through those that didn’t. Six more fell in the span of a breath.
The ruvak as a whole withdrew several steps, fury having fled from their voices along with their previous amusement. All that remained was dread.
Tassariel put her weapons away. Lifted her hands again, pulling in more energy . . .
The courtyard around her erupted in fire.
Spellbound by the flames, licking flesh that began cooking in scents all so sickly familiar, Draevenus nearly missed his cue. Out of the shadows on the periphery of the fight, the other two groups of guards poked their heads around the corner of the mansion. They took in the scene for a beat, then all began rushing in to join the fray.
Opportune, she said. I’m fairly certain this counts.
Draevenus stood, flexing his back, groaning on the edge of ecstasy as his own black wings sprouted from his spine. He leapt off the roof, feeling gravity threaten to claim him—but fail.
On wings that seemed as if they’d been a part of him his entire life, Draevenus soared above the battle. He reached into special slots sewn into his cloak and retrieved four daggers that he’d prepared ahead of time. Aiming at the rightmost group of ruvaki reinforcements, he thrust his hands forward. Two pairs of metal spun down, glinting in the moonlight.
Energy exploded upon contact, the cold antithesis of valynkar light.
The dark that scythes.
The groups reeled, cut down to manageable numbers, and those that remained were dazed by the onslaught. Draevenus turned to the left.
Energizing, he dove, blessing himself—as his partner had—just before landing in a crouch at the second group’s back. His pulled his thick-bladed combat daggers from their sheaths and danced forward through their formation.
Everywhere he moved, he cut.
Blinded by the fire in front of them, they had little chance of finding—much less facing—the shadow from behind. Tassariel could fight in the light all she wanted.
This is where I belong.
It seemed only beats later that the enemy around him thinned. Half were down, if not dead, and few had made it to engage the valynkar. The rest had scattered. He spared Tassariel a glance, found her fighting now with her sword, using the flaming bodies around her as obstacles to keep her foes from swarming and countering every attack against her.
He captured that image of her. Surrounded by foes and fire, effortless grace abundant in every motion, making her opponents seem slow and clumsy. A valynkar warrior unleashed.
Draevenus could recall few things more beautiful.
He swept his gaze around the surrounding darkness, spying those that had fled. He began shadow-dashing to each one, killing on the exhale, and streaking off towards the next on the inhale. Seventeen breaths later, those parts of the estate grounds less illuminated were empty of anything living but him.
When he came back around, Tassariel was waiting by the mansion’s front door. Splashed by orange blood, her chest heaved as she cleaned off her weapons. Flames reflected off eyes wide with exuberation.
“So,” Draevenus said. “Your way.”
“What about it?”
“It has . . . appeal.”
She smiled.
Then kicked in the door.
Together, they raced through the house as cautiously as they could, unknowing what dangers might be lurking within, or what they were even looking for, but still moving quickly. Though they encountered no resistance, their destination soon became apparent.
They just had to go towards the smell.
Following it down to the lower level, then again to a cellar—a strange mirror of their earlier activities—the odor grew increasingly rank. And Draevenus grew more certain with every step that at its source they would find no good thing.
At last they came to a sturdy door, from which the smell came. Locked tight. Tassariel kicked this one too, but it didn’t budge. Something was propped up against the other side. Draevenus energized again and blasted the hinge and lock carefully with darkness. They pried open the ruined door, revealing what lay beyond.
Piled nearly to the roof were mutilated human corpses.
Tassariel spun away from the sight and sickened onto the floor. Even Draevenus felt queasy, and he’d seen more death than any soul ought.
But very little of it like this.
He had only a moment to wonder what kind of person could cause such torments to victims that must have been living at the time, for he heard motion deeper in.
And a whimper.
He sped into the chamber, trying to ignore the crunch and squish that came with every step across a floor blanketed by discarded human flesh. He ran around the largest pile in the room’s center, and saw an open doorway into an adjoining chamber. From there, he heard the whimper again.
Dashing forward, he stopped in the portal as he saw what lay on the room’s far side.
A woman, strapped to a table, already ravaged in ways he couldn’t imagine—but still breathing.
A ruvak man, slim and withered, standing over her.
A curved blade in his hand, which now began to fall.
No space to shadow-dash. The distance too great to run. Draevenus felt the world slow to a crawl as he surged forward, already mourning another life he failed to save.
He tackled the man a full beat after the ruvak had stabbed the woman through the heart.
Draevenus pinned him down, straddling the inhuman chest.
“You bastard!”
The ruvak smiled. “You . . . not first . . . to call me that.”
Jasside finally found the place.
The ruvak hadn’t exactly given up the attack, but they seemed content to herd them as of late, never pressing for decisive actions. She’d used the extra tolls of each day to search for her erstwhile mistress. It hadn’t been easy.
Vashodia been masking her signal, making it impossible to find her through commune, and she’d been keeping her physical loca
tion circumspect by changing it, supposedly, every day. With functionally infinite space in which to disappear, finding her had seemed a futile task.
But Jasside had long ago ceased being intimidated by infinity. After all, she had learned from the best.
She had been forced to follow the rumors of the woman’s activities, which Vashodia hadn’t bothered to conceal to those nearby. Stories of strange sounds emerging from a large, unmarked tent, which appeared one night and vanished the next, had led Jasside on a chase spiraling all around the rolling encampment, seemingly at random. Vashodia, however, was not ruvak; not a creature of chaos. Her life was defined by patterns, by logic, by making sense of things most would call senseless. Jasside, who knew her better than anyone else, living or dead, had been able to follow the signs, if not with haste, then with a certainty for inevitable, eventual success.
Her own signal masked to avoid spoiling the surprise, Jasside pushed through the tent’s loose, taunting flap without making a sound.
“Good morning, apprentice,” Vashodia said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Though the interior was lit only by what little sunlight could force its way through the thick canvas on all sides, Jasside’s eyes adjusted almost immediately; another symptom of her dark energy use, so constant it sometimes seemed an addiction. Vashodia sat crossed-legged on a cushion before a curtain that obscured the rest of the massive tent, concealing whatever . . . activities . . . she had been getting up to.
Jasside had half a mind to simply march past; an impulse more interested in how Vashodia would react than in what she might find beyond.
“Highly improbable,” she said instead, answering her mistress. “I’ve been masking myself during my approach. And you told me yourself the technique cannot be defeated.”
“Perhaps I lied. Or perhaps I’ve learned, since my lesson to you so long ago, a new way to detect that which wishes to remain undetectable.” Vashodia giggled. “Or perhaps there are other ways than commune to keep track of who approaches.”
Jasside began to sort through her mistress’s statements, attempting to untangle the truth hidden somewhere among the skein of words. Vashodia was rarely ever apparent with her meanings, though she rarely spoke without them.
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