“Answer, Sera—go on. I'm letting you.” Though no presence crouched beside her, Ledora's gaze continued staring sidelong. It seemed as if she spoke to a specter.
“She is kin.” A similar voice responded, Ledora's lips moving as if she were a puppet operated by a cruel puppetmaster. “We are powerless if I continue to act upon you as a parasite, Ledora. I must siphon blood from somewhere.”
Ledora's good eye blinked, the iris cloudy as a single eyebrow arched sharply downwards. “And you take the life-force of a child, hm? Kin or no—you said an older woman lived here, yes? Could you not wait for her to come snooping by?”
It was always strange when an apparition took hold of its host, no matter how many times Ledora allowed the Night Lady into her body as a foreign soul, Ledora could never get used to the feeling of the spirit taking over. Ice graced her skin, followed by the slimy touch of humid breath upon her face and neck. Ledora shivered as she felt the Night Lady's thoughts, the spirit's murmured words like coagulated blood dribbling through her earlobes as the Lady took hold. The spirit forcing Ledora to become a passenger in her own body as the Night Lady took the reigns.
The spirit's presence was pure ire, her soul black as night as it attempted to merge with Ledora's own. Twice Ledora tried opening her body as a vessel that could carry the both of them, and twice the Night Lady had attempted to kick Ledora out of her own form. As the Lady lingered, her soul gradually dissipating into something less terrifying and less powerful, her soul had become nothing more than a leech upon Ledora's own body. Siphoning the archmage's Power and blood as the Lady fought to become one with Ledora.
It would be strange being a dual-soul, but it had been done before—plenty of times, Ledora reminded herself. The Lady—Sera—would just need to have patience and cease trying to take complete control.
But Ledora knew her old friend knew better than that. Like all sorceresses of the Sybil, she craved power. Hungered for it in all of its forms. Ledora would need to be careful if she planned to share her body with the soul of Seraphina. The late High Sorceress hadn't been dubbed the “Night Lady” by the southerners for nothing.
Ledora felt her hands move against her will as Sera pressed Ledora's fingertips against the young lady's eyes. Forcing the young woman's eyelids down, Ledora felt herself sigh and hang her head. “You are weak.” Ledora heard herself spit. “Your guilt tastes like bile. Why do you feel in such a way? We are all born to die—why feel so guilty for this child?”
In her soul, Ledora felt anger as Seraphina chastised her. Taking hold of her own body once more, Ledora snatched her hands away from the cadaver and gritted her teeth as acidic bile rushed up her throat like a geyser. “Perhaps it is not I who feels guilt, Sera. Perhaps it is you—stealing the life-force of your kin. Perhaps it is you who is weak, no?”
Ledora felt Seraphina's soul slam into her own—like steel shields clashing, ramming up against each other with a crack of steel upon steel. She felt the slam ricochet up her spine with a twang. The slam hard enough to make her dizzy, her vision splitting into two as her bad eye moved and her right hand forced itself into the foliage beneath her. The mindful limb pushing her up from the cadaver, from the young woman laying prostrate upon a bed of gold.
The presence enveloped in the burning orb still stood in the clearing, watching. Waiting.
What does it plan to do?
As if reading Ledora's mind, Seraphina slipped her way inside the woman's mortal form once more. Taking hold of her body as she forced Ledora to become a passenger. “My domain has come to ruin—don't you see, Ledora? Baate Noir no longer describes my wood, my forest. It taunts me—having dethroned me only to do away with winter. Only to do away with the only season that kept the beasts and monsters at bay. Don't you see, Ledora? It seeks to rule this world by ending it!”
And? Ledora murmured within herself, a passenger still as she felt her body lurch forward towards the presence. Towards the man engulfed in sun. It almost took you away once. What do you plan to do? We are both weakened, Sera. We are nothing more than mortals against it—and you, you are no longer a god.
Ledora felt herself smile, felt her lips twist crookedly. “There is another. Past the Poudurac—there is another. And I shall contact the Confrerie to get to her.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Flattening herself against the dry dirt, Katell's eyes watered as a horde of surging bodies broke free from the thin forest of chalky-white trees. Stampeding steps kicked up dust and debris into a brown cloud of noxious fog as the ground itself seemed to shiver and quake beneath the multitude of charging footsteps. Raking her nails through the dirt, Katell forced her palms into the earth in an effort to push herself up—only for her body to be flattened back into the dirt by the weight of another as an iron chest plate rammed into the arch of Katell's spine.
Opening her mouth to cry out, a hand encased in blackened leather moved to silence her as the figure's opposite hand moved to slam her face into the dirt beneath her as the surging of bodies continued. The stampeding of an army, Kat guessed as her heart hiccuped. A scourge of people advancing at a breakneck pace like the streaming of blood from a newly opened vein.
Kat fought the urge to spit.
“What're you doing out here?” The figure straddled Kat as the surging of heavy boots upon crackling dirt erupted into whooping war cries that woke the other side of the river. “I saw you leave—with her! You both...disappeared!”
Kat gasped beneath the figure's weight as the chest plate moved from her spine, the woman rolling over as the charging force from Kat's left became a trickle of rushing footsteps accompanied by hollered cries. As the brown fog cleared, Kat caught a glimpse of smoke tinted scale mail and amber scarves. High above a thick fume of dust rose a steel pole bearing the telltale symbol of Montbereau's duke, followed by the demesne's Sonant of Liberation sigil; a sun burst accompanied by a dove clutching the thorny stem of a headless rose. Kat fought the urge to hold her head in her hands as dirt scuffed her elbows raw. Her eyes locked with the sun burst, her mouth agape.
“Is this what the Chaperon has come to?” she heard herself speak, her voice bubbling forth without her approval.
The sun burst affirmed it—the sigil of Montbereau as a whole, not just their leader. As did the sigil of the Sonants of the Southern Reaches.
Turning her gaze from the stragglers, her eyes locked with the surmountable force that had already crossed the river. A storm cloud of people wielding a plethora of weapons, from pike headed spears to towering shields of dinged metal thick with layers of dried grime.
In the darkening cloud of well armored Sonants, she caught no sign of her brothers or their sigil—a shield upon a thatch of white snow. Montbereau's guardsmen were no where to be found within that crowd, but Katell simply ascribed that to how slow moving Horace and the others would have to be with four riderless horses.
A harsh hand grasped her shoulder as strong fingers dug into the cords of her muscle. Kat snapped her gaze from the flow of soldiers and into the verdant eyes of Dechamps as the Vanguard hovered over her. The woman's sour mouth twisted with frustration and scorn. “How are you here?” the woman hissed.
Jerking her shoulder away, Katell scrambled to stand tall. Brushing dirt and dust from the mangled fabric of her thin chemise, Kat snapped an equally scornful gaze upon the taller woman. “I could ask the same of you, northerner.” she spat, crossing her arms upon her chest.
Kat felt a fire breathe to life within her chest as she stared Dechamps down, the taller woman's thin face twisting as color escaped beneath the pallid texture of her rough skin. Behind the scowling woman, the gathered men and women of the Sonant of Liberation continued to advance. The large force charging towards Labassette with enough war charged cries to wake the gods themselves.
Kat fought the urge to hang her head and turn away—is this what the Chaperon has come to?
Were her brothers involved in this? The Montbereau Guard? Blinking as dust pervaded her eyes—sh
e didn't remember the Montbereau Chaperon being so large and well-armored. She remembered a bulk of city-folk taking up the Chaperon's bloated midsection, while a handful of Sonants kept charge of the Chaperon's front. She didn't remember so many...
Perhaps this was why the demesne's duke had been so adamant on the Chaperon taking the long way around to Labassette? Passing through Remicourt and the Brandys—perhaps this was why...
Breaking Kat's reverie, Dechamps slammed a gloved fist into Kat's chest. Balling fabric between the gaps of her fingers, the armored woman dragged Kat towards herself before hoisting the shorter woman inches into the air.
Kat's feet dangled as she struggled, her hands gathering around the meaty fist as it brought her higher.
“Did you call the sun?” Dechamps hissed, verdant eyes ablaze. “Hours of planning—ruined by this sudden surge of daylight. Tell me, wretch,” tightening her grip upon Kat's chemise, Dechamps narrowed her eyes as her brow furrowed sharply, “did you call the sun?”
“Planning?” Kat choked as the collar of her chemise cut against the back of her neck, the soft fabric slicing through skin beading with sweat. “Is this—,”
“Answer me before I drown you.” Dechamps snarled, the river churning with a shallow roar behind her.
Kat shook her head, eyes locked with Dechamps' own. “I haven't—I—I thought it was simply morning—,”
Dechamps spat as she let her fingers go, Katell slamming into the dirt knees first before her palms smacked dry ground. The impact bringing up a cloud of brown fumes as her fingers connected with the ground. “What is going on?” Kat coughed out, raising her head as she swiped at her nose. “Is this the Montbereau Chaperon? Why are you—,”
With a grunt, Dechamps turned. The armored woman giving Kat her back as she moved towards the river.
“Dechamps!” Kat called, forcing herself to stand. “Why are you with the Chaperon?”
Pulling her sword from the scabbard at her hip, the weapon's shrill cry raked at Kat's ears as Dechamps advanced forward. The Vanguard ignoring Kat's question as she moved to rejoin the advancing Sonants as Labassette released an arching hail of black arrows from its crumbling battlements.
The chateau would not stand a chance against a crowd of this might—of this force—Kat knew. Despite the Councilwoman pressuring her charges into fortifying the chateau, into rebuilding and replenishing its defenses; against a force of such magnitude Labassette would either be taken or destroyed.
But Vidonia—without her auxiliary—was powerful. As a sorceress she was a complete wild card. She was an entity able to call a graveyard of the dead to life, or coax fireballs to fall from the heavens. Alone, Vidonia could hold her own. But, as fortified as she was now—with her auxiliary and her assistant—she was practically unstoppable.
Practically.
But before she could be taken down—so many would die. So many.
Balling her hands into fists, she felt her fingernails break skin as Dechamps ran the length of her blade against her gloved hand. Kat watched scarlet escape from the sudden incision and thought to channel it. Thought to touch the Power's crux through her own blood as she felt a liquid warmth emerge from her left palm. Thought to somehow touch Dechamp's injury—take hold of her blood.
It was possible—wasn't it?
Besides, Kat needed answers that Dechamps wouldn't willingly give.
Perhaps she could make her.
Perhaps.
But as Kat concentrated on the color of the woman's blood, her own head becoming light—a headache brewing, hooves slopped through the dry earth as a familiar whinny stole her mind. The sound breaking her concentration as she turned—eyes wide as Dechamps dove into the river.
There was Horse, her old brown mare, limping through the treeline. Riderless, just as the beast ought. Something heavy hung from the animal's hindquarters. The obstruction forced the beast to slow and amble forward, sliding its burden through the sand-like dirt as a faceless Sonant prodded the beast forward with a careful hand.
And Kat locked eyes with a specter as Horse prodded forward, a body attached to the beast's hindquarters. Leather bindings snaked around the lower half of the corpse's body, as two identical silver pikes drove through a naked chest which heaved. Skin rising and falling as black blood spilled from puncture wounds. Enraged flesh puckered, red skin sucking, staining the silver pikes a stygian black.
A sharp breath shuddered through Katell's lungs as she ignored the clash of steel on steel erupting from across the river at her back. A gurgling cry undulated through the air as she moved to block the horse's path, her left hand bloody and throbbing as her eyes glared at the dark silver visor of the Sonant guiding her former steed.
Bringing the bloodied hand up, palm forward, she closed her hand with a crack of bone and a spurt of scarlet as her eyes bored into the Sonant's visor. The man before her stilled, his body stiffening beneath smoky scale mail as the horse at his side huffed.
Kat felt the Sonant's blood boil, felt his veins turn to ice as her own head began to ache at a lone thought—a singular motive.
Die, a voice whispered within her mind, whoever you are—die.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The Sonant dropped without much of a fight, his body listless as the armored man's legs buckled before his chest hit the grainy dirt at his feet with a harsh thud. Kat kept her hand clenched, watched scarlet escape from the bottom of her palm and dribble into the dirt as she stared at the Sonant's disheveled form. The armored man dead—life no longer causing his back to rise and fall as his last breath ventured forth and away. The air never to return as the Sonant lie there—dead.
Kat dove towards the corpse bound to Horse's hindquarters. Her fingers trembled, shaking as they glistened with sweat, the woman anxiously undoing the dark binds which attached the doubly injured man to her old mount.
Behind her, Horse whinnied and snorted. Unfazed and unabashed as the large mare dipped its snout towards the grainy dirt beneath it. Kat's heart rammed itself against the cage of her ribs as she undid the final bindings, her hands slipping upon the blackened binds which wove around the corpse's lower half like a cocoon. Like the cruel black webbing of a monstrous spider.
Dark eyes were closed. His broad face, wrinkled with deep lines of laughter and thin scrapes of month old injuries, mangled like shredded parchment. Kat felt her stomach lurch forward as a battle brewed some leagues behind her, the sound of steel clashing against steel—metal ripping through muscle like sopping wet parchment—fell away as Kat's eyes watered.
Her free hand went to his hair, auburn locks matted with browning gore and wet earth. The hair no longer oily, but dry. Dry and dead and lifeless. Just like him.
What have they done to you, old friend?
She blinked, forcing away tears. Biting back curses.
You lived—but...how?
“Bertrand...” she murmured, combing her hand through crinkly ringlets of auburn, “...why did they do this to you?”
It was a question she knew would go unanswered. Kat had assumed—assured herself—that when Elisedd's people stole her from Bertrand's side, that he had simply frozen to death in the cold. She never thought—never knew—that the Chaperon would turn around in search of them. Or that they'd even find him.
Had they found the others as well? And the hetaera? Did they see our handiwork?
Kat took in a harsh breath—a breath that forced her trembling body to still.
A man unburied, touched by Baate Noir, becomes one with the wood itself. It was an old phrase—an incantation that the whole of the Southern Reaches knew. If a human was left unburied, given to the wood as a lifeless cadaver, they'd become the very thing everyone south of the Poudurac feared; a monster.
Kat moved as if stabbed—as if the corpse had opened its eyes and breathed. Snatching her hands away, she cupped her hands before her face as her eyes snapped to the silver pikes protruding through Bertrand's mottled chest.
Had he become...a hetaera?
/> Was it possible?
Kat shook her head—of course. Anything is possible—I know so little!
She wanted to slap herself for not burying him. For not demanding that her captors double back and at least burn the body. She hadn't been coherent herself—she'd been too weak. She was barely able to speak when Elisedd's people whisked her away—her captors careless. Leaving the bodies of her brothers to...to change.
The pikes stood as testament to what Bertrand had become—all those weeks ago.
Kat wanted to move from the body—to leave him be. She wanted to get away—to forget she had ever forsaken her friend to a cursed afterlife. But as she moved, something struck her—pallid fingers circled round her wrist. The strong grip held her there. The hand unable to let her go. Unwilling.
THIRTY-NINE
The barbarians of the Southern Reaches would take Labassette, Anais knew. Yet, Lady Councilor Vidonia refused to leave. Refused to use the Power to strengthen the ragtag army of men and women who fought for them—who fought to keep this fortress.
Why was the Montbereau Chaperon attacking them? Wasn't the Chaperon meant to facilitate peace between the north and south? Wasn't the Chaperon meant to restore and reignite the Monarchy's ties to the Montbereau demesne and thus, the rest of the south?
Anais shook the questions from her mind with an adamant twist of her throbbing neck before rapping her knuckles against the thick oaken door of Councilor Vidonia's study.
Inside, she heard murmuring. Vidonia droned on to herself behind the oaken door, thin slippers whispering against the floor as the older sorceress paced before spitting a slew of harshly worded curses. Anais flinched as she felt Vidonia's temper rise, heat welling up behind the younger sorceress's eyes as she clenched her fists at either sides of her dull gray bodice.
Winterskin: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 1) Page 18