by Steve Thomas
Kreon brushed her hair back with both hands and took in a deep breath. “Wait here until I need you.”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” asked Keshdel.
“One of who?” said Kreon with a mocking grin.
“A Sangrook. That’s why they want you. We never should have taken you in.”
“You never had a choice, even before you foolishly agreed to a blood oath,” said Kreon. “Do you think I wanted to join your infantile club? Do you think I wanted to drink your cheap swill and talk about village gossip? Share secrets? Listen to you complain about your wretched parents? No. I saw two lazy girls who didn’t mind wandering away from home. Yes, I’m a Sangrook, and the two of you were all too happy to give me a taste of your blood. Think about that, you stupid girls, and keep your thoughts to yourself. I need to meditate on my plan.”
She paced back and forth for a bit, then flopped down onto her bed and sat cross-legged with her eyes closed. The three waited in silence, Kreon aloofly meditating while Keshdel and Laremma stood frozen by her commands.
Time passed, first marked only by the fading sunlight, and then counted by tears. Laremma struggled. She tried to will herself to cross the room, to escape. But her body was no longer her own, and perhaps neither was her mind. She struggled, but had neither faculties nor leverage, like a stone struggling to swim in a lake. She couldn’t even speak. She could only tilt her eyes toward Keshdel, but they could no longer bear to look at one another.
And so she stewed in her fear until the bell rang. Kreon’s head snapped toward it, her scowl deepening. It rang again and again until the pulses melted together into a high frantic tone.
Kreon drifted to her feet. “They’re here. It will only take them a few minutes to cross the bridge, so you two will have to be quick about helping me. I don’t want to hear any arguments.” She smirked, knowing full well that her magic prevented them from saying, or doing, anything against her will. “Now, you may not believe me, but I spent some time thinking about what happens next. On one hand, Laremma was always kind to me and Keshdel, well, wasn’t. On the other, I have to wonder whether Laremma has any magic of her own to exploit. But my family has a saying: Every endeavor ends in death. One choice is as good as another, so why not choose the more satisfying option?”
The young girl raised a hand and an eldritch wind gusted through the room. It lifted the various shards of bone from the ground, tore them from the wall, and sent them swirling about. They grazed and tore at Laremma’s flesh and clothing as they darted about. She dropped to her knees and covered her face with her hands, not so much as peeking between her fingers until the pain stopped and the wind subsided.
When she looked up again, the room had changed. It was barren again, but horrible. Kreon leaned against the wall running her finger along the blade of an ivory knife. And Keshdel…For all the small cuts on Laremma’s body, her pain was nothing compared to Keshdel’s.
Her friend knelt on the ground, tied down by white, jagged chains. They wrapped around her arms, pinning them to her sides, dug deep into her flesh and embedded into the walls and floor. Another chain of transformed bone encircled her forehead, cocking her head to the side. Streaks of blood flowed down from where teeth and ribs jabbed into her. Keshdel sobbed quietly, struggling to say even the smallest word, but she forced one out despite everything. “Why?”
“Stand up, Laremma,” said Kreon. “I’m going to destroy the bridge. I’d do it myself but this body is just a little girl and her blood is thin. She can’t do it alone. So where will I find the strength to take down such a wondrous feat of ancient architecture? There’s a magic in life, its creation, its celebration, and especially its end. My family excels at drawing magic from the end, you understand. And that, Laremma, is why I need you to take this knife.”
Laremma sobbed, but she obeyed. She took the blade in her right hand and felt its smooth hilt. It was a perfect match for her grip. The bell was still ringing, and now she could hear the rumble of Convergence boots in the distance.
Kreon raised her hand and balled it into a fist. Keshdel’s chains tightened. She stooped forward, even as her head was torqued back to the side, leaving her throat prone. The chains threatened to snap her neck, but everyone knew she had a different fate. Kreon sat cross-legged on her bed once again, rested her hands on her knees, and closed her eyes. “Slit her throat,” she said.
Laremma fought Kreon’s control. When her body lurched toward Keshdel, she fought it. While Keshdel’s silent tears splashed on the ground, she fought it. But slowly, inevitably, she raised the knife above her head. She had to win, she had to regain her control. She wouldn’t be a puppet. She wouldn’t be the instrument of her best friend’s death.
But even as she fought, no matter how hard she struggled, it happened. She couldn’t stop it. She could only distract herself from it.
It was like a lucid dream, but Kreon had denied her even that much detachment. It was her hand that gripped the knife. It was her arm that drew that knife across her friend’s flesh. It was her feet that bathed in a pool of blood. Kreon had killed Laremma’s best friend since childhood, and she had done it through Laremma herself. Worse, Laremma watched and felt everything. And most horrific still, Kreon’s own desires had intruded in her mind. Laremma had, for the briefest of moments, wanted Keshdel dead, and the pain of that betrayal was more than she could bear.
Outside, she heard stone crack, men scream, and water splash, but it all seemed so inconsequential. Finally granted a measure of control, she fell to her knees and cradled the corpse of her murdered friend, weeping even as Keshdel gurgled and bled out.
But her tears were cut short. As Keshdel breathed her last, Kreon sucked in a gasp of blood-tinged air. She exhaled a satisfied sigh and began the ritual. “Get out of my way,” she told Laremma.
She tore the bony chain from Keshdel’s body and sent the bones spinning and morphing again into an arcane symbol on the ground. She started with a thorny circle around Keshdel’s body, then underlined it thrice. This she embellished with more shards and scraps.
“I need your eyes. Go outside and watch the bridge.”
Laremma couldn’t even try to resist. There was no fight left in her. Defeated, she trudged limply out to the shore. As she walked away, she heard Kreon begin a chant in the same guttural language she had used during the blood oath. She was casting a new spell, one fueled by Keshdel’s death.
Torches lit the bridge in the dark of night, illuminating the banners of the Convergence. A company of men, one hundred soldiers, Templars, and inquisitors, marched resolutely along the bridge. They were nearing the middle of the river now. From where she stood, Laremma heard their voices joined in a battle hymn. They weren’t trying to hide their approach or their purpose.
In that moment, she wondered whose side she was on. Was Kreon protecting Greatbridge from conquest at the hands of the Convergence, or was it the other way around?
But there was no saving her. She was tainted, corrupted, defiled.
And so she watched, and she listened. It started with Kreon’s voice, loud and harsh, resonating in the air. Then the bridge shook and the Convergence company froze in their tracks. Three of them rushed forward and a blue light emanated from their position. The bridge continued to tremble, and bits of stone and mortar shook loose, sounding like rain as they struck the river.
Kreon’s voice grew ever louder, and soon black-red tendrils grew forth from the watch house, spreading along the bridge like restless vines. They wrapped and grabbed and pulled and tore, a demonic kraken trying to drag it all under. The Convergence fought back. Inquisitors unleashed blue fire to burn at the tendrils while Templars and soldiers hacked at them with swords. The falling stones became ever larger, joined by men slapped from their footing by Kreon’s servants.
With a great crack as loud as a thunderclap, the bridge buckled and snapped. The Convergence soldiers, those who hadn’t already been consumed by Sangrook magic, screamed their last as they s
plashed into the deep.
Laremma watched the carnage, unable to blink, unable to look away. Even as she stood helplessly staring at the destruction, she knew Kreon was controlling her, stealing away her mind and body both. When the main body of the bridge crashed into the water, it kicked up a great wave. This too Laremma watched in horror.
She didn’t try to climb to higher ground. She didn’t want to move. She knew that no matter what she did, it would be only what Kreon wanted her to do, and no more.
She didn’t even take one final deep breath before the wave smashed into her. It lifted her up and dragged her down, battering her against the shoreline and dragging her back and forth along the rocky shore. When it was over, Laremma rolled to her side and vomited out mud. Then she flopped to her aching back.
Kreon was standing over her. She was clean now, wearing fresh clothes that flowed in the breeze, a sharp contrast to Laremma’s soaked and ruined frock. Her hair was neatly pulled back and her posture was proud. Her eyes were cold, but displayed a cruel wisdom Laremma had never noticed before.
“You’re not a child. You’re a monster,” said Laremma, surprised that she’d been allowed to speak.
Kreon smirked. “You’re half right. I’m not a child. We all have our specialty, and I’m something of a prodigy when it comes to thralls. This girl is like you, an empty shell for me to command. It’s a shame you aren’t salvageable. I’d prefer your body to hers. But I was in a rush when the Convergence attacked Farnhem, and she was my closest relative in that town.”
Laremma coughed again. Her every movement was excruciating. How many of her bones had the wave broken? “Why? Why didn’t you run?”
Kreon crouched and ran a tender hand through Laremma’s hair. “I had to draw a line. The Convergence would have chased me to the ends of the earth.” She chuckled slowly to herself. “Too bad for them the bridge is out. So kind of you to handle the dirty work while I prepared the spell. You’re practically a hero to this town, keeping the Convergence at bay.”
She kissed Laremma on the forehead. “Goodbye, sister.” The word was dripping with disdain. “Thank you again. You’ve done our clan a great service, which I have repaid with an explanation. But as we say, every endeavor ends in death.”
She stepped away then, leaving Laremma to sprawl broken on the shore. At last she left the young woman’s mind, leaving her to grapple with the pain, the guilt, and the despair. Laremma spent her final hours replaying her murder of Keshdel over and over, wondering whose hand had really held the blade.
In the morning, the good people of Greatbridge surveyed the fallen bridge and buried whichever bodies had drifted to shore. There were eighty-three bodies in all. Eighty-one Convergence soldiers and two local girls.
A few days later, an orphan girl wandered into Greatbridge and a grieving family took her in.
The Curse of Sangrook Manor
The Templars should have burned the manor down and salted the rubble, but the Lord Crusader insisted upon leaving it standing as a monument to our victory and a reminder of how close the Sangrooks came to achieving their foul desires. But I think the Lord Crusader had another purpose in mind. Sangrook Manor isn’t here to remind us of the Sangrooks’ sins. It’s a beacon. The Sangrooks, scattered and reclusive, hear it call to them. They want their ancestral home back, and if they rise to power again, we’ll know where to send our armies.
- Musings of an Unknown Templar
A pig will scream when you clamp a vice to its head and drill a spike through its skull. That hadn’t surprised Darvik. What never failed to surprise him, however, was just how long they kept screaming. He’d timed it once. The pig had screamed for over ten minutes, and somehow it hadn’t taken a single breath in all that time. It was as if the pain itself was filling the poor animal’s lungs. It had screamed until the very moment it dropped dead. They always did.
Darvik slowly cranked the extractor’s drill another quarter turn, to the depth he knew it would work most efficiently. The pig squealed even louder, and the process had only just begun. Darvik turned his attention to the glass vial at the base of the extractor, sitting between the two wings that gripped either side of the pig’s head. It was starting to fill with essence, the magical energy locked inside all living creatures and some of the dead ones. By siphoning essence out of an animal, Darvik collected fuel for his master’s artifacts. This particular pig was giving its life to fuel a spirit-lamp so some spoiled nobleman could go a few years without lighting a candle.
Darvik nodded to himself and took a seat at the far wall, letting the cluttered workbench block his view of the animal. The pig was immobilized by chains and the extractor would do all the work from here. He didn’t have to watch. Darvik waited as the pig shrieked out more air than its lungs could possibly hold until it finally slumped to the floor, its body spent and the extractor’s vial full. Thus did Darvik, apprentice artificer to Master Erenkirk, slaughter yet another pig.
Before lunch, he would have to drag the corpse across the street to the butcher, where it would be sold at a discount to hapless townsfolk who didn’t mind eating tainted meat. On the way home, he’d have time to visit Candle. He always visited her on pig days. Her company and the many comforts she provided helped wipe the horrors of the slaughter from his mind. Some days, she was all he looked forward to.
With his break over, Darvik returned to his work. He slowly unscrewed the extractor’s spike, taking care not to give the pig an opportunity to spray blood and brains at him, then loosened the vice and pulled the extractor free. Skin and scabs came with it, but at least today was a dry day.
He gingerly pulled the vial free — it was held in place by a tight strip of leather — and quickly stoppered it before the precious essence could waft away. He tapped the glass and gave it a swirl. The purple-black essence curled and rippled like smoke mixed with water. It was a good yield, as it should have been. Darvik had spent weeks of his life and dozens of pigs calibrating the device. It had been his second task as an apprentice artificer. The first was crafting a set of earplugs.
The matter at hand, of course, was the viscount’s lamp. It wasn’t ready for the essence yet. Darvik had yet to unlock the magical pathways that would turn essence into clean white light. Lamps! The task was beneath him. Darvik should have been promoted to journeyman and taken on more challenging projects by now. Old Master Erenkirk was hungover or worse from last night, most likely, and his hands shook more than a dying pig. Surely he was ready to retire and let Darvik take over.
A bell jingled in the shop-room. Darvik set his work aside and crossed through the curtain, emerging behind the counter. The shop’s shelves were lined with spirit-lamps, music boxes, and kitchen tools. The more valuable and more interesting artifacts were all kept in a locked cabinet in the work room. Erenkirk’s shop carried various baubles such as rings to enhance lustful performance, amulets that eliminated the need to sleep, and various other physical enhancements. They carried seeing-stones and healing chains, harnesses that compelled a dog to heed his master’s commands, pens that could write on paper from miles away, and cruel iron weapons that burned as well as cut. Below a trap door lay the least wholesome and least legal stock of all, such as artifacts to cut through glass without making a sound, lift objects from afar, or dismantle locks.
But the man who stood in the doorway wasn’t interested in anything they had in stock. This was Streshim, Captain of the Guard. He stood tall in his glittering mail, with an arrogant sneer resting beneath a crooked nose and a thick gray mustache. “Fetch your master,” said Streshim. “And clear off your workbench. I have some real work for you.”
Erenkirk was already hustling down the stairs, tightening his belt as he came into view. His wispy white hair was unbound and flapping in all directions, his boots were unlaced, and his shirt was haphazardly buttoned. Hungover and barely awake, just as Darvik had suspected.
Commander Streshim sniffed. “I hope this,” he gestured at the old master artificer, “is not
meant as an example to your apprentice.” Erenkirk scoffed and wiped his nose on a sleeve. “By the Converged God, man, show a little dignity. I come to you as a representative of the Holy Duke of Windmire.”
Erenkirk spat. “If you don’t like me, find a new artificer. What does the Holy Duke want me to make for him, at my own cost I might add, today?”
“The Holy Duke has been kind enough to exempt you and your apprentice from taxes, military service, and weekly inspection. You will repay his kindness by crafting whatever he desires.”
Erenkirk sighed. Darvik could tell the old man had some retort planned, but he wisely held his tongue. Erenkirk knew full well what happened to those who drew the wrong kind of attention from the city guard; he and Darvik had built most of those consequences.
“I need another tool,” said Streshim. “Lately, prisoners have an ugly habit of dying before we get answers. We need a way to continue our interrogations.”
Erenkirk’s face went pale. He leaned heavily against the wall and smoothed his hair. “You’re talking about necromancy. The Sangrooks…”
“No,” said Streshim. “A necromancer would be burned at the stake.”
“And how do I know I won’t be after I deliver?”
“Because the Holy Duke requires your continued services. I’m talking about interrogating suspected traitors and heretics. That’s how the Holy Duke will see it, too. You have my assurances. Make it happen.”
Erenkirk leaned the back of his head against the wall and breathed deeply. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “I have some ideas, but it will take a few months. The boy and I will need to make a trip.”
Streshim raised an eyebrow. “A trip?”
“Research,” said Erenkirk. “Maybe some tools.”
“You’re talking about the manor?”
“I’m talking about the fastest way to make an artifact for nec— for posthumously interrogating prisoners.”