Blood of the Underworld

by David Dalglish

  With a running leap she sailed over the fence. Drawing her daggers in mid-air, she landed with a quiet whisper of bending grass and sliding dirt. In the silence of the night, she let out a single prayer, a soft blasphemy against the temple she was about to enter.

  “I have seen no love from you, Ashhur,” she breathed. “But I ask for it now. Help me kill him. Help me save my family.”

  The wind blew, and she took that for her answer. Like an uncoiling serpent she moved, a sudden burst without pause or doubt. She knew the layout of the temple, knew where there’d be guards, priests, young disciples, and serving women. They would not have changed a thing over the ten years, she knew. Karak was not fond of change, especially when it came to his most devout followers. Her feet barely touched the grass as she ran, gathering momentum. It was suicide, she knew, to attack the temple head on, even at night, with her prey unprepared. Suicide.

  Her grin spread.

  At full speed she leapt feet first toward the door of the temple. The entranceway was dark, with nothing but the stars to give it light. Eyes closed, she focused, thought of the inner chambers. They’d be lit with torches, but not the door, deep in the entryway. Her feet did not touch wood, but passed right on through. She emerged on the other side, and her daggers lashed out, cutting the necks of two guards positioned on the interior. As they fell behind her, she landed on the soft carpet and tucked into a roll to preserve her momentum. Pulling out, she raced between the pews, toward the great statue of Karak at the end of the gathering hall. Before, it had been the altar they’d bled Daverik upon. She felt an impulse to kneel before the imposing statue that towered so greatly above her, but fought it down. That wasn’t her god anymore.

  To the left was a door into the greater complex, where the priests slept. It was there she’d find Daverik’s room, and with any luck, she’d get the answers she needed through the work of her daggers. Upon reaching the door she slammed into it with her shoulders, blasting it inward. Entering a hallway, she lunged, extending her body to its fullest, as a priest turned from his seat beneath a flickering torch, an old tome in his lap. The words of a spell were on his lips as the tip of her dagger pierced his throat, silencing him. Her shoulder absorbed the impact of her landing, and then she rolled past, pulling her dagger free along the way. Blood gushed across the carpet.

  So far, so good, but Zusa knew she’d been lucky. The slightest cry of warning, and everything would become much, much harder.

  Still running, she passed silently through the hall, her cloak a ghost of cloth following after. She tried to think of where Daverik might be staying. There had been no man teaching them last time; instead, a fellow member, Eliora, had been the trainer and spiritual leader of the Faceless. That meant Daverik would have no official room prepared for him, such as there was for the high priest.

  At a cross section, she peered around the corner, looking left and right. She caught a man changing candles as he moved down the hall. She waited until his back was to her before approaching. Her left arm pressed against his mouth, the other shoving a dagger through his back and into his heart. As he shuddered, she let him drop, then glanced about. Too many rooms. She couldn’t just open them at random. Where would Daverik be?

  He was new there, she realized, little more than a guest. And guests had a specific place they were given, the rooms far more ornate, the intricate paintings exaggerating the power and importance of the priesthood. Urging herself on, she glanced back, wondering how long until someone found a body. Not long. She had to move faster.

  At the guest’s room she stopped and pressed her ear to the door. She heard no movement, no sign of life within. But it was dark, and Daverik would most likely be asleep. Gently she grabbed the doorknob and started to twist.

  The door flung open with explosive force, knocking her backward. As she hit the opposite wall, she rolled, narrowly avoiding a kick from a Faceless Woman. Zusa’s daggers flashed out, parrying stabs, and then she was running down the hall, back toward the entrance. Curses screamed in her mind. When another Faceless stepped in her way, shadows curling off her body like smoke, Zusa knew it for what it was.

  A trap laid out just for her.

  “You won’t stop me!” she cried, leaping at her foe. They collided in a mess of limbs and daggers, lashing and stabbing, neither able to score a solid blow. Pulling herself free, Zusa dropped to her back, ducking beneath a hurled dagger from the other. Hoping to gain some distance, she ran again, but doors started opening, and she heard the deep thrumming of a bell located in the bowels of the temple, alerting all to her presence. One man tried to jump in her way, but she slammed right into him, her knees blasting him to the ground, her daggers ending the spell he’d tried to cast. Another, this one a priestess, remained in her doorway, and at her passing she hurled a bolt of red lightning. The power arced through Zusa’s body, and she screamed her agony away.

  The spell slowed her movement, and a foot swept beneath her. Falling, she raised her daggers, just barely blocking Ezra’s downward strike. Pushing her away, she rolled to her knees. A bolt of shadow flung from another priest rushing to join them from further ahead. She dodged it, along with his follow-up, but then the priestess caught her with a shadow bolt of her own. It slammed into her body, bruising flesh and sapping at her strength. This time Zusa gave no scream, unable to muster the strength.

  The two Faceless Women surrounded her, each blocking an entrance, as more and more priests and priestesses gathered. Zusa kept weaving side to side, struggling to breathe through the pain. She saw no way out, but it didn’t matter. She’d die fighting, and would not die alone.

  “Attack me, cowards!” she screamed, ignoring the pain it caused. Instead they fell back, and furious, she flung herself toward a group. Her daggers plunged and stabbed, but she could not connect. Lightning and shadow swelled against her, forming a wall she could not penetrate. Its very touch jolted her limbs. The Faceless Women both chose that moment to attack, kicking her with their long legs. One took the air from her lungs, the other connecting with her kidneys. Gasping, Zusa collapsed to the cold floor, unable to stand. A dagger slipped around her neck and pressed against her throat.

  “Don’t kill her!”

  Through dazed eyes, Zusa looked up to see Daverik pushing through the crowd. He knelt before her, and put a hand against her forehead as whoever held the dagger backed off.

  “You poor thing,” he said, letting her go. “You poor, foolish thing. Take her.”

  Something hard struck the back of her head, and then came darkness.

  The first thing Zusa noticed when she came to was the sound of running water. It was constant, and close, as if a river fell in the same room. The second was how her hands and legs were bound with chains, the metal on the inside sharp and jagged so that the slightest movement drew blood.

  “Open your eyes, little doll,” whispered a sweet voice. Zusa did, and saw an older man standing over her. His face was wrinkled, and free of any facial hair. His eyes were a pale blue, and when he smiled his serpent’s smile, it was without teeth. He wore the robes of a priest, but instead of black, they were a deep red.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Does the little doll not remember me? I am Vrashka. I was there when you were banished, and your little boy beaten. I held the whip. Do you not remember?”

  Despite the years, she did indeed remember. More so, she remembered the name of Vrashka, Pelorak’s most favorite and ruthless torturer.

  “I know you,” Zusa said, looking beyond him to take in her surroundings. She was in a small stone cell, poorly lit. The temple’s prison, of course. She sat on the floor, her arms and legs manacled to the wall. The only thing she did not recognize, nor understand, was that constant sound of water. “Just a sick old man.”

  “It’s been a long time,” Vrashka said, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest so he could look down at her. “I have gotten older, yes, I have little doll. But I have also gotten wiser, too. Do you
see this?”

  He stepped aside, revealing the source of the water. It was a strange sight, as if a stalactite had grown from the stone ceiling. Stretching a foot downward, it stopped, its tip hollow so that water might run out in a constant stream. It fell into a small spiral cut into the floor, causing the water to swirl before dropping into a hole, going how far down below, Zusa did not know. Perhaps to the depths of the world, perhaps all the way into the Abyss where it could trickle on Karak’s head.

  “Am I supposed to be afraid of water?” Zusa asked, hoping to keep him talking. She felt her strength returning, and where she was manacled there were many shadows. The chains would not hold her, not for long.

  Vrashka chuckled, and the sound made her skin crawl.

  “You have poor imagination, girl. You do not understand where you are, or what we have. Daverik made this himself. I know what you think, that you will slip into the shadows.”

  He reached into his robe, pulled out one of her daggers, and cast it on the floor mere feet away.

  “Take it,” he said, smiling. “Slip through the shadows, grab it, and cut my throat. You can do that, can’t you, little doll?”

  She smiled back, then pulled in the power, demanded it, stole it with the strength of her soul. Falling backward, she expected the same cold feeling, but instead something grabbed her. She felt like a bird trapped in a thunderstorm. Her body became a distant thing, and lost in horror she watched her vision pulled toward the swirling water. It was so thin, like a single thread of silk. Before her eyes it grew larger, larger, and her whole form was swirling with it, down into the void, a boat doomed into a maelstrom. Colors faded, only the water retaining vibrancy, shining a brighter and brighter blue that made her entire body ache. Panic settled in, and she yearned for her body, to pull out from the shadows.

  And then she was back in her manacles, gasping for air. Vrashka knelt down and grabbed her dagger.

  “Does she understand now?” he asked. “Your magic will not work here, nor that of any priest. It will be lost into the funnel, the holy water taking in every bit of Karak’s power. You will not escape us, little doll. You are ours now, to be made pure over the crawling years.”

  He knelt before her and pressed the dagger against the skin of her breast.

  “And I say years, because I know you are stubborn. I know you will resist. Much time, much effort, but I have little else to do at my age. You wear the wrappings of your order, but in your heart, you blaspheme against Karak. You expose your face to the world, and in doing so, spit in the eye of our god.”

  He withdrew the dagger and walked over to the door. Beside it was a small bag, and he pulled out a set of sewing needles. When he turned back to her, his pale blue eyes were feverish.

  “Whatever you came here for, you failed. Think on that as I do my needlework.”

  The chains held her as he took her hand in his and uncurled her fist. She tried to tense, but he held her firm with surprising strength. Struggling anymore would press her arms against the inner barbs of the manacles, only hurting her further. Taking a needle into his mouth, he softly ran a finger along her fingertip.

  “Even old as I am, it is never too old to learn,” he said. “I spent time with Stephen’s gentle touchers not so long ago, did you know that? You will soon. They are masters, artists. I hope my needle work can begin to compare.”

  There were many hooks along the wall, and he looped the chains holding her arm through one so that it held her tight. Teeth grit, she tried not to let out a cry, even when he jammed the first needle underneath the fingernail of her forefinger.

  “Karak is not my god,” she said, struggling to keep her voice firm. “I will not repent.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Perhaps. But I have many needles.”

  One after another they jammed into her skin. Each was worse than the one before, and she cried out in agony after the seventh. Leaving them in, he moved on to her other hand. Even more slender needles pierced underneath her fingernails, bleeding and tearing the soft skin. Tears ran down her face, but he asked no questions, and made no demands. Time became meaningless. All she could think of was Alyssa, and Nathaniel, but their memories were poison, for she was doomed in a prison, which meant they would soon suffer death, or, even worse, join her there in the pits of the temple.

  “The gentle touchers are artists,” Vrashka said, sitting back to observe his work. “So careful, so clever. They view whips and daggers as crude toys for children. It is a mark of disdain for any of them to leave a bruise.”

  Zusa kept her head low, not caring to look at him or acknowledge his words. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and she felt her blood trickling down her wrists. As he crept closer, she shut her eyes, tried to imagine herself far, far away. His rough hands grabbed her face, forced her to look up at him.

  “Such beautiful eyes,” he said, staring into them. “But you do not need them anymore, just a tongue to pray, and knees to confess upon.”

  He was reaching for another needle when the door opened, and Daverik stepped inside.

  “I would have a word with her,” he said.

  Vrashka stepped back, bowing low.

  “Of course,” he said. “She is yours to convert. But it will take time, and I have only started to break her.”

  “She might see reason,” Daverik said, not looking at her. Vrashka bowed again, then stepped out. As the door closed, the priest noticed the needles still in her fingers and frowned.

  “I warned you,” he said. “Now keep still.”

  “Not sure I can,” she said. She felt his hand close around hers, pinning it to the wall. One by one he removed the needles, dropping them into a bloody pail Vrashka had brought with him. Switching to the other hand, he worked in silence. Zusa kept her eyes downcast, let her mind focus on the pain as the needles slid out from within her fingertips. When he was done, he sat opposite her and pushed aside Vrashka’s bag. Tension filled the room, broken only by the soft trickle of water.

  “You set a trap for me,” Zusa said.

  “I thought you’d come, yes.”

  She shook her head, feeling like a stupid child. Her warning had been clear, so of course Daverik had planned for her arrival. Eyes still downcast, she wondered if she had anything to say to him, but found herself strangely empty inside.

  “They want you executed,” Daverik said. He paused a moment, as if waiting to see if she would respond. She didn’t.

  “I’m not sure I can stop them,” he continued. “You killed two of my Faceless, and you have blasphemed against Karak many years now by showing your face. When your order went rogue, you also fought against one of our paladins sent to retrieve you.”

  “His name was Ethric,” she said. “I killed him in a river, cut out his throat, and then left him there so the fish could eat his flesh. He’d been sent to kill me, not return me to the temple. Someone is telling you lies. We did as we were told, as we have always done, and were branded outcasts for it. But that’s what Karak does, isn’t it? He finds ways to punish his faithful should they ever be an inconvenience to his temple. Our lives are nothing to him.”

  “You’re wrong,” Daverik said. “Karak showed you forgiveness. He gave you a chance to repent, to make right the wrongs...”

  “What wrongs?” She laughed. “Our love wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t sin. It was just against the rules. It complicated things, made people worry. But you were lashed, and I imprisoned, and now you come here, to remake the order that took me from you. You’re a disgrace.”

  “They didn’t take you from me,” he said.

  It felt as if a fever had overcome her, and she laughed again. Her hands were giant throbs of pain, and she could not feel her individual fingers.

  “They didn’t? Then who?”

  “It was me,” Daverik said, and he looked away as if ashamed. “I told them of our affair.”

  The last words he’d spoken to her echoed in her head.

  I’m sorry...

 
“You bastard,” she whispered. “You damn, stupid bastard. Why? Why would you do that to us?”

  “Because we would have been caught,” Daverik said, standing so he might pace. His eyes never met hers. “Because it was only a matter of time. And because it was wrong. I neglected prayers, I stopped paying attention in services. I only thought about you, cared about you. When I should have been meditating, I was thinking of seeing you, imagining what I might do the next time we...”

  He stopped himself. Frustrated, he struck the wall with his fist. Zusa wanted to feel fury, to feel betrayal, but instead she saw the torment deep within her former lover, and suddenly she knew what brought him back.

  “You came to Veldaren for me,” she said. “Just for me.”

  He looked to the door, nodded his head.

  “I’ve felt guilt every single night I lay down to bed. I thought it would get better. I thought the certainty of my faith would prove what really mattered, and that in time, with separation, I’d know without a doubt I’d been right. But it never happened. That I am to train the new Faceless is a cruel joke, Zusa, but I did it for you. You can come back. We can be together. Perhaps not as we were, but I’d still see you, still be able to hear your voice.”

  He breathed in deep, then let it out in a sigh.

  “My decision cost you your faith in Karak. I have committed no greater a crime than that.”

  Zusa’s anger had been softening, but those last words were like Vrashka’s needles, only this time piercing her heart.

  “Are you really still so blind?” she asked. “You carry guilt not for my torment, but because I turned my back on Karak?”