Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  Snow and wind rushed in, and the kerosene lamps blew out. Shouts collided with one another, and scuffles and clanks sounded in the darkness.

  A yellow light glowed outside.

  Squinting into the snow, Amaranthe tried to relax. She would be better prepared to face whatever lurked out there without tense muscles slowing her reflexes.

  Footsteps pounded up behind her. Sergeant Tollen. Behind him came Nelli.

  A snow-free dome cleared around the cabin. Though flakes still swirled in the sky above, some force kept the air still and clear before the door.

  Amaranthe blew out a long breath, then led the way outside. Sicarius, Tollen, and Nelli followed.

  The snow’s absence revealed dozens of dark humanoid shapes ringing the yard, cloaks wavering in the breeze, cowls pulled low over dark holes where faces should have been. Each entity bore a two-headed axe, the blades and long handles black.

  In front of the door, a giant muscular creature, also humanoid but larger than the others, stood bare-chested and bare-legged. Flames licked its skin and danced about its crimson hair. Two silver horns rose from its temples and curved down its back.

  “Ifrit,” Sicarius said. “And its army of death fixers.”

  Amaranthe was glad he recognized them because she had never seen nor heard of them. Before she could ask for details, the creature spoke, though not in a language she understood.

  “Kendorian,” Sicarius said.

  “What’s it saying?” Without turning her back to the ifrit, she looked at Tollen and Nelli. Nelli’s mouth hung open, and the whites of her eyes circled her irises. Tollen just looked grim. He wasn’t surprised.

  “The warnings have not been heeded,” Sicarius translated. “The hour is—”

  Tollen lunged and grabbed Amaranthe’s sword. Startled, she let him have it.

  Weapon raised, blade gleaming with a fiery reflection, Tollen charged the ifrit. His target did not move, nor did the dozens of black wraiths ringing the cabin.

  The sword swished through the creature as if through air. The ifrit tossed back its red-maned head and laughed at the night sky.

  A spark of hope stirred in Amaranthe’s breast. Was this all an illusion?

  Howling in frustration, Tollen spun on the nearest death fixer. This time, the sword struck something solid. It thudded against the figure’s arm, but did not penetrate. The blade might as well have hit steel.

  The cowled figure turned its faceless head toward Tollen, who backed away.

  “Our blades will not kill them,” Sicarius said. “They are not from the mortal realm.”

  Tollen whipped out one of his pistols and fired at the hooded head. The ball clanged off and thudded into one of logs on the front of the cabin.

  “Nor firearms, apparently,” Amaranthe said, her mouth dry.

  “Attack me!” Tollen cried.

  The creatures hovered motionless.

  “Da!” Nelli raced up and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

  Sicarius looked at Amaranthe.

  “The rest of the translation?” she asked him. “What else did the ifrit say?”

  “At dawn, the death fixers will kill everyone in camp if the terms of the trade have not been met. If anyone tries to leave before then, they will not allow it.”

  “Trade?” Nelli demanded. “What trade?”

  Tollen stood, chest heaving, head drooped. He dropped the sword.

  “Nelli, Tollen, perhaps we should discuss it privately.” Amaranthe nodded at the people gathering in the doorway.

  “We can talk in the loft.” After a long wary look at the invaders, Nelli steered her father inside.

  Before going in, Amaranthe collected her sword and walked halfway around the cabin. Death fixers did indeed surround the entire structure. Snow flitted off the roof, and she looked up. The three remaining mare-cats paced above.

  “We can kill them but not the ifrit or the death fixers,” Sicarius said when she returned to the door. “We’ll have no more luck escaping than these people.”

  “I know.”

  Before Amaranthe could pass through, he clasped her elbow.

  “You weren’t surprised at the translation,” Sicarius said. “You know what’s going on. Tell me what the trade is; we have to make sure it’s honored.”

  “I will. In a minute.” She looked over her shoulder at the fiery ifrit, who waited, a smile playing about its lips. Then she met Sicarius’s eyes. “Trust me.”

  Several silent heartbeats passed. Finally, he released her arm.

  “Wait downstairs.” Amaranthe climbed the ladder to the loft. Though he looked like he wanted to follow, Sicarius closed the front door and waited there.

  She joined Nelli and Tollen around the table in the loft.

  “The fiftieth birthday is the deadline, I assume,” Amaranth said to Tollen.

  “Yes,” he said woodenly.

  “Deadline?” Nelli asked. “Deadline for what?”

  “Your soul, that’s the price?” Amaranthe asked. “You traded your soul for a good life for your daughter?”

  “The ifrit was supposed to take it when I died,” Tollen said. “I was a soldier on the border—skirmishes every month. The promise of war ever present. I never thought I’d live the twenty-five years the deal gave me. I wanted to make sure Nell was taken care of—always.”

  “Da?” Tears pooled in Nelli’s eyes. “Your soul?”

  “It was worth it. I always thought I’d die long before this, serving the empire, a warrior’s death. Yet the day approached, and I lived still. As soon as the unearthly started happening around here, I knew what was behind it. I tried to shoot myself and hang myself, but I couldn’t. Some invisible force grabbed my hand and stopped me.”

  “If the soul dies with a suicide, there’d be nothing left to give the ifrit,” Amaranthe reasoned.

  “Apparently. When Sicarius showed up, I thanked the ancestors. I thought the solution had come, a chance for an honorable death, but then you—both of you—stood in front of him. I couldn’t attack through my own daughter. And then the bastard saved Nelli’s life. I don’t know what to do.” Tollen thumped his pistol on the table in frustration. “If I had known others would die, I never would have... I would have figured out a way. I just thought the ifrit would come to collect personally. I didn’t know it’d destroy everyone around me at the same time. It must be angry—angry to have been kept waiting.”

  “Da...” Nelli put a hand on his forearm. Her fingers trembled, but she lifted her chin. “We’ll all fight together. Maybe there’s a chance we can win. We won’t give up.”

  “Whatever happens, Nell, I want you to know I love you. I...”

  Amaranthe walked to the railing, leaving them privacy to say their goodbyes. Sicarius waited by the door, all in black, armed and deadly, not much different than the ifrit’s minions outside. And what does that make me, she wondered. The counterpart to the ifrit?

  After a time, she looked back at the table. Father and daughter had stopped talking.

  “Be ready,” Amaranthe mouthed to Sicarius and turned back to them.

  She could have said “kill him,” she supposed, but Tollen wanted a warrior’s death, not a surprise dagger to the back. And there was one peace she could give to the family.

  “Your missing brother—” Amaranthe set her sword on the table before Tollen, “—was he a corporal when he disappeared?”

  Frowning, he looked up at her. “Yes...”

  “You’ll find his remains in a canebrake in Deadscar Ravine to the south of Fort Erstden.” Amaranthe met Nelli’s eyes; the daughter would be the one to lead the hunt and build the funeral pyre. To Tollen, Amaranthe said, “You were right. Sicarius killed him.”

  The stunned silence probably only lasted a heartbeat, but it felt much longer.

  Tollen roared and grabbed the sword. He skipped the ladder and leaped out of the loft, weapon raised overhead. Nelli rushed after him. Amaranthe did not. She did not want to watch what she h
ad orchestrated.

  A very brief clash of steel echoed through the cabin. Tollen didn’t scream or cry out; it was Nelli’s weeping that told Amaranthe it was finished.

  Slowly she descended the stairs, conscious of the gawking stares all around. His expression never changing, Sicarius handed Amaranthe her sword.

  Nelli knelt in the blood-soaked sawdust, cradling her father’s head. Tollen, drawing his last ragged breaths, spotted Amaranthe. She took small comfort from the fact that he looked more peaceful than pained.

  “Thank you,” he rasped. “Your father...wouldn’t be...disappointed.”

  Dawn found Amaranthe trotting out of camp and onto the lake where Sicarius stood, a cloudless blue sky as his backdrop.

  “Thanks for waiting,” she said. “I talked to Nelli and Merla. Merla is going to be promoted to Operations Manager.”

  A slight eyebrow twitch implied what she already knew: he didn’t care.

  She lifted a gloved hand in acknowledgement, and they started across the lake together. Before noon, they would be back in the city, the night’s events like a dream. No, she thought, too real for that. A memory.

  “I apologize for using you as an executioner,” Amaranthe said.

  “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “I know, but it bothers me.”

  “Is your friend going to mention our work to the emperor?” Sicarius asked.

  “After we killed her father and served up his soul for some vile underworld creature?” Amaranthe snorted. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Oh.”

  She didn’t get the opportunity to tease him often, so she let Sicarius walk in stony silence for a moment before adding, “But Merla said she would.”

  The look Sicarius gave her wasn’t exactly a smile, just a faint stretching of the lips, but it was enough.

  THE END

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, please check out the rest of The Emperor’s Edge series. For a list of Lindsay’s novels, visit http://www.lindsayburoker.com/fantasy-novels/.

  Basileus and the Cat

  C. J. Brightley

  Basileus hunched deeper into his cloak as he hurried through the rain. It dripped into his eyes and soaked through his hood into his hair. He shivered as the wind gusted again and when he reached the door he sighed with relief. The sack of potatoes under his arm was turning into a muddy mess, and as he fought with the stiff lock, the sack slid slowly from under his arm. He hitched it up more firmly, wishing for one instant that he were not obligated to keep his mouth clean and pure for the holy words. Sometimes a curse would be extremely satisfying. He jiggled the handle and breathed a sigh of satisfaction when the latch finally shrieked. The moonlight brightened for a moment, and he paused mid-stride. There was something light-colored by the door, and he bent to get a closer look. A cat, scarcely more than a kitten, huddled shivering against the damp wood, white and black fur plastered against its scrawny body.

  Basileus reached out a hand, and the creature shrank away, trembling. “Come on, little beauty. You won’t last long out here.” He held out his own hand, trembling with cold and weariness. It had been a very long day of much work. Patience is blessedness. “Come, darling. Warm milk and a fire await inside.” The cat backed into the corner, trying to disappear. One finger touched its head, and it blinked dazedly before ducking away. Mercy must be relentless or it is worth nothing. His hand touched its head between the two triangle ears, stroked down the sopping fur to the skinny ribs and then he scooped her up and held her to his chest as he pushed open the door and hefted the potatoes in.

  The cat pushed its paws against his chest and gave a squeaky meow of protest. He held it firmly and with his free hand he found the lamp and lit it from the taper in the wall. The cat gave a final pathetic struggle and then went limp with exhaustion, though he could still feel it shivering. He left the potatoes by the door and tucked the cat into his cloak and cradled it close as he hurried through the halls to his cell.

  The cell was small, with one shuttered window in the thick stone wall and a small fireplace at one end. There was a low, hard pallet on one side and a spare wooden table on the other with one chair that looked out the window in the summer. He carefully latched the door behind himself before peering into the folds of his cloak. He drew the cat out and set it on the floor, where it darted to the corner and stared out at him with bright green eyes.

  He stirred the coals and added several logs to the fire, pushing the smaller pieces in around the larger ones. The fire grew slowly, and he warmed his hands close by the tentative flames before standing. He’d missed dinner again.

  Basileus closed the door behind himself and walked through the darkened halls back to the door. He carried the potatoes to the storeroom and found a loaf of bread, a bit of cheese, and a large wineskin sitting out. Dahder Gaien must have left it for him; he was always a merciful soul. The hand of God is on him.

  The cat was sitting in front of the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames.

  “Come, beauty. I’ll share my dinner with you if you share your name.” He poured a few drops of wine over a small piece of bread and topped it with a bit of cheese, then put the little dish on the floor. The rest was for him, a meager meal to be sure, but all that he needed. The cat sniffed the cheese carefully, cautiously, and began to purr.

  He touched her head gently, and though she kept a wary eye on him, she let him pet her. The purring grew louder, and he could feel the tiny ribs trembling. She turned up her nose at the wine-soaked bread and jumped up onto the windowsill to drink the water that leaked in beneath the shutters. Basileus smiled when she jumped down again and sat near the fire to groom herself, still purring. Her fur fluffed into a beautiful coat of white and black, with an orange splash across her back that brightened as it dried.

  “Naomi? Shall I call you Naomi?”

  The cat looked up at him and stared for a moment, then went back to licking one small white paw.

  Naomi sneezed herself awake. She was exhausted, but still frightened. He is kind, but how long will it last? She licked her paws again. The motion was soothing. Her head drooped. She meowed in protest when Basileus lifted her. He put her on his cloak folded on the floor, and smiled as she turned in weary circles, kneading the cloth beneath her claws.

  “Dream sweet, Naomi.”

  He lay down on the low, hard pallet, and curled away from her. His breathing deepened, slowed, and Naomi relaxed again.Tomorrow, tomorrow he might change. I must be cautious.

  He did not. He woke with the dawn and stirred the fire again. She debated for a moment when he held the door open, then followed him through the halls to the chapel. It was nearly empty, there were few holy men remaining, but those few glanced at the little cat with raised eyebrows. They said nothing, for they were still in the silent hours before prayers, but Naomi shrank from their obvious dismay. Basileus stumbled over her once when she darted too close to his feet, but he made no sound of anger.

  He knelt and bowed his head to the floor, murmuring the holy words softly. Naomi thought the ritual odd, disconcerting, as the brothers bowed in unison. The quiet rhythm of their words sounded hypnotic, powerful. Again, seven times, and then they stood and sang, a dozen deep male voices echoing in a chamber meant to hold a hundred. Then they knelt and bowed, seven times, and chanted again. Then they stood and filed out in silence, all except Basileus. He knelt a third time and bowed his head to the cold stone floor yet again. He remained thus, unmoving and silent, for so long that Naomi edged closer to see his face. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful, but his lips moved sometimes. He clenched his hands together, then pressed them flat on the floor. Naomi heard soft footsteps from the back of the chapel and stiffened.

  A tall man stood in the doorway, his robes casting a grey shadow across the flagstones. He waited, and Naomi edged carefully around Basileus away from the dark silhouette. She nosed in his ear, her whiskers tickling his neck.

  Basileus finished his prayer and stood stif
fly, his knees aching. “My child, what can I do for you?”

  The man answered coolly, his hand on his sword hilt. “Father, I was given to believe that your order was only for the worship of God. That only holy men lived in these cloisters.”

  Basileus blinked. “That is what we strive for. We are but human, child. We have failings.”

  The man smiled coldly and stepped away to pace around the small chapel. “And one of your failings has now become a problem of justice, Father. I care not whether you bring whores into your cells. A bit of warm comfort on a cold night. I won’t begrudge you that.”

  Basileus gasped at the profanity of the image. “Child! We don’t….”

  “Silence!” the man shouted. “I care not what you do in your cells, so long as you bother no one. But my men and I have searched the town for a murderess, and the only place she could be is here. Whores for your own comfort are your own business. Standing in the way of the king’s justice is quite another. Tell me where she is.”

  Basileus blinked in confusion, his heart thudding in his chest. Father, give me wisdom. I don’t understand. “Child, there are no women here, murderesses or any other sort.”

  The soldier drew his sword and advanced. With the edge of the sword to Basileus’s throat, he spoke again. “Tell me where she is, old man. I am losing patience.”

  Basileus could barely breathe, his chest feeling tight with fear. The edge of the sword felt cold against his throat, a sharp sting where it barely cut him. “I do not know what you speak of. There are no women here.”

  The man’s gaze did not leave his, hard and cold, and Basileus felt sudden compassion for him. He’s so afraid and so lonely. “You can search the cells if you like. I will speak with Father Gilbar about it.”

  The sword abruptly withdrew. “Yes, do that. Quickly.”

  The soldier followed him through the passageway to Father Gilbar’s cell. Basileus knocked softly and opened the door at Father Gilbar’s quiet answer.