by Steve Thomas
***
The peasant revolt, like so many other rebellions against the Sangrook Clan, was brief. Tomorrow, Maldon’s soldiers would fan out and visit all the farms and villages around Maldon’s Keep. They would slaughter the widows and abduct the orphans. Some of those would become servants in Maldon’s household, or those of his trusted allies. Others would live short lives in his prisons or his armies. Some would vanish. Many, Habrien hoped, would realize as he had that total loyalty to the Sangrook overlords was the only sane option.
Tonight, Maldon Sangrook held a victory feast for his officers and generals. He may have been a demon on the battlefield, but at the table, he was the model of culture and dignity. He reminded the generals of their value to him, commenting on their many past victories without his intervention. He spoke to them of strategy, of how to expand the Sangrook empire and how to prevent yet another uprising. He listened, he discussed, and he critiqued, but he never disrespected or mocked an idea. Soon, the conversation turned to the frivolous. Maldon had a story to tell about each vintage of wine his servants brought forth. He recounted spirited tales of his mother and siblings.
The ring-leader of the rebellion had, against all odds, survived. And yet Habrien wasn’t sure there were any odds in play. Maldon had found him screaming in the dirt with half a dozen ghouls pinning him down, subduing him but never causing harm. Habrien couldn’t know the extent of Maldon’s powers, but he suspected that he could read the minds of the dead just as well as command them. Perhaps he had found the leader that way, or perhaps he had commanded the fresh ghouls to capture whoever they had served in their final hours. It made no difference in the end. The peasant leader, whoever he was, was seated in a place of honor at Maldon’s left. His hands were nailed to the table and his mouth was gagged with strips of cloth cut from his own clothing. He sat frozen in fear, eyes closed and streaming, as his mind replayed every twisted rumor he’d ever heard of Maldon’s experiments.
Habrien sat at a table below the dais, rather than his usual place at Maldon’s table where he could be called upon the moment his services were needed. He wouldn’t be needed this night. This night, Habrien was left to dine and drink and listen. Another courtier might have been alarmed by this sudden autonomy, but Habrien knew he had done nothing wrong, that he had held on to his prince’s favor. He tried to tell himself it was for the best, that he couldn’t face Maldon until the desecrated bodies had a chance to cool.
After the feast, Maldon pulled Habrien aside and led him to his study. The Sangrook prince, like all members of his clan, had a reputation as a mindless warlord, a demonic sorcerer who had no use for intelligence or tactics. This study belied that image. The shelves were full of ancient books and artwork, all salvaged over the course of his many wars. Whenever the Sangrooks took a village or keep, they scoured every cellar, closet, and storeroom for relics from before the War of the Gods. Just as they had a taste for reviving the dead, they sought long-lost knowledge. If there was one thing the Sangrooks understood, it was that nothing should be left to waste. They were brutal, yes. They were warlords, yes. But they were building a stable, orderly empire to replace the lawless wasteland of one acre kings and roving bandits left behind by the War of the Gods. He held on to that thought, kept it fresh in his mind, and swallowed the fear of being alone with a Sangrook.
Maldon beckoned him to take a seat in a chair beneath a diagram of a human torso, annotated with the locations of major organs. The prince circled around a desk and loomed behind it. “Habrien,” he said. “I’ve never soulbound with you.”
Habrien’s throat went dry at the mere mention of the word. Soulbinding was the basis of Sangrook power. It tied the family together and gave them eyes and ears across the known world. Any guardsman, merchant, soldier, scribe, priest or king could be a Sangrook agent. Habrien lived his life under the assumption that they all were, and showed nothing but respect and obedience to Maldon at all times. Except in this. His body served the Sangrook clan. His mind served the Sangrook clan. His soul, however, was his own. He had resisted soulbinding in all his years under Maldon’s employ. That was not something he wished to change, so he leaned on an old lie that Maldon had accepted in the past. “My prince, I worship the old gods. Soulbinding is—”
Maldon silenced him with the lift of a finger. He didn’t need soulbinding to bend someone to his will, only a demonstration of his power. Habrien had witnessed that power more than enough times to know the folly of crossing a Sangrook. It was a wonder he was still alive after his first refusal to soulbind to Maldon. “I told you before that I wouldn’t ask it of you again. I need men with fully independent minds, or I may as well hold my meetings in a room full of mirrors. I need people who can think for themselves and question me. My generals need to apply their experience and adapt to the situation to win my battles. My herald needs to know how to temper my words so they are optimally received. No, I have no desire to soulbind with you.”
Habrien suppressed a sigh of relief.
Maldon continued. “I bring it up because I have particular need of a man untouched by soulbinding. I know you were raised in the old faith and that you think soulbinding is an abomination. Are you completely free of it?”
Habrien’s back straightened at the thought of Maldon having a special task for him. “Yes, my prince.”
“No wandering Converged priest tricked you into it?”
“No, my prince.”
“You never made a blood oath? Even as a lark, even as a child?”
“No, my prince.”
Maldon nodded. “Good.” At last, he sat down. “What I am about to say is of the utmost secrecy. I would take your tongue before I tell you, but I know you can write. I’d take your fingers as well, but you’ll need them to serve me. So instead I will merely impress upon you the severity of this secret. Do you understand?”
The calm tone and the casual nature of Maldon’s threats left Habrien cold, as they always did. He’d born witness to them before. He’d relayed them and seen them carried out. His loyalty was never in doubt. “I swear that I will keep your secret, on my tongue, my hands, and my life.”
Maldon hunched forward over the desk and locked his eyes on Habrien. “Know that I will take all of those if you betray me, for this secret is more valuable than a thousand heralds.” Then he leaned back and stroked his short-cropped beard as if making one final decision. “My concubine, Yssila, is pregnant.” Habrien’s first instinct was to congratulate his prince, but he knew that this was not the time for him to speak. “We’ll be expected to travel to Sangrook Manor for the birth and to present the child to my mother. I cannot prevent this. My mother insists that all Sangrook children are soulbound to her in their earliest hours. This I intend to subvert. I’m sure you can relate to my belief that a newborn babe should not be subjected to the ritual.” He paused, giving Habrien tacit permission to respond.
Was that why he’d chosen Habrien? Because Maldon knew that his herald was opposed to soulbinding, especially when it came to children? “How may I serve you, my prince?”
“My grandfather once told me a story. He once hunted a creature in a swamp not far from here. The locals say it was a woman with the hide of a crocodile, but it was invisible to his eyes. In fact, he found this creature to be uniquely immune to all of his magic. Grandfather fought her for days upon days, assaulting this creature with every scrap of power at his disposal until at last he collapsed from exhaustion. The creature escaped entirely unharmed and my grandfather never met such a thing again.”
“A curious story,” said Habrien.
“Yes. I assumed it was just another legend. When my grandfather swam through a lake, legends formed in the ripples. So imagine my surprise when my thralls reported an invisible monster pulling my dockworkers into the river. I looked through a thrall’s eyes as he drowned, and I saw only a shadow in the bubbling water. But there was a witness, some local fisherman who saw a woman with the skin of a crocodile. What do you make of that, my herald
?”
“A creature invisible to soulbound eyes.”
Maldon tapped his nose. “My thoughts exactly. And so I need you, a man untouched by soulbinding, to slay this creature and bring me her essence. He reached into his desk drawer and produced an extractor, a steel drill with a glass vial mounted behind the crank. Habrien had watched Maldon’s artificers use them on livestock, and the procedure was burned into his memory. “With this...thing’s essence, I suspect I can make an artifact to block magic, to block a soulbinding and ensure that my son’s loyalty is to me and me alone.”
Habrien accepted the extractor and felt its strange and unholy weight in his hands. He would have to kill, but in doing so, he would save an infant from a greater evil, and he would earn Maldon’s favor. How could he refuse?
“I will do this for you, my prince,” said Habrien. Maldon Sangrook nodded his thanks. “Go to my boathouse in Paltimour Village. Ask any thrall for assistance.” With that, Maldon waved him away. Habrien bowed as he stepped backwards out of the study. He wasted no time preparing for the journey.
***
A malaise of apprehension hung in the evening air of Paltimour, at least among the few people present. This was one of the villages which had so recently tried to rebel. Now it was reduced to women and children. Left to their own devices, they’d live on to resent Sangrook rule. They’d remember how their fathers and husbands had died. They’d remember why they had rebelled. But they’d know better than to try again. A little light insurrection was no threat to Maldon Sangrook. Habrien wasn’t sure he could name any threat to Maldon Sangrook.
He made the choice not to wear his uniform. He traveled instead in a simple gray wool tunic. There was no need to upset people while tensions were still high. It felt odd, traveling like a peasant again. Perhaps he had grown too comfortable as the mouthpiece of a conqueror. He followed the river, passing by the fleet of docked fishing boats and the quietly spinning mill until he found the boathouse.
There was no mistaking it as the prince’s property. Compared to the stick-and-mud shacks of the village, the milled lumber construction overhanging the river was the height of luxury. It was even painted a bold burgundy, helping it to stand out even further against the drab browns and wild greens all around. Habrien waited for neither escort nor invitation and barged into the boathouse through an unlocked door. He found a hook by the door to hang his lantern.
Inside, a boat floated over the water, suspended by a system of pulleys and ropes. The summer was fading away, and Maldon wouldn’t be back to sail for months. Water lazily lapped at the pylons while Habrien placed his satchel on a table by the wall. There wasn’t much else to see, just the water, the ship, a table and chairs, and a few storage shelves.
“Well,” Habrien whispered to himself, “If I’m here to hunt a monster, I may as well play the part of bait.” He slid out of his boots, rested them on the table with the extractor and his belongings, and rolled up his pant-legs. Then he took a seat on the dock and dangled his feet into the water.
And so Habrien’s vigil began. He let out a sigh. It reminded him of the day he had entered Maldon’s service. He’d lived in a fishing village not so different from this one outside Norpent, the city that had been razed to lay the foundation for Maldon’s Keep. Back then, Habrien worked for the town’s reeve as a messenger, scribe, and crier, being one of the few young men of letters available.
He remembered sitting on the dock, dipping his toes in the river, watching the fishermen at work. He had often spent his free time that way, just taking a moment to enjoy a lazy, pleasant day.
Maldon’s attack had come without warning. Habrien didn’t remember much of that day. So much of it was full of chaos and panic. But he remembered the red sky and the burning ships. He remembered the army that rushed out of the forest like autumn leaves. He remembered sprinting back to the village, screaming all the while that their homes were lost, that the battle was unwinnable.
Most of all, he remembered Maldon Sangrook’s hand on his shoulder as they stood vigil over the reeve’s corpse and the vial of poison in his clutches. Maldon Sangrook, a man who could set a thunderstorm on fire, offered him a position.
The choice had come so easily. Habrien wasn’t a man of conviction or a man of vengeance. He was a survivor. He saw a way to live on after his town had been so quickly reduced to rubble and he left that rubble in the past.
So why was he thinking about it now? Was it his toes growing plump in the river, or was it Sangrook’s display of carnage the day before? The memory of the day rattled him, though he could only let that thought surface here, alone in this boathouse.
No.
Not alone.
In the darkness, two eyes reflected his lantern’s light, two shining orbs floating above the water. Habrien tried to act as though he hadn’t seen anything for fear of scaring them off. Was it the creature? He forced his gaze to sweep past those eyes, careful not to linger, but he gleaned nothing from the sight. He stared above them for a time, hoping to look bored or lost in thought. He didn’t know what came next. He couldn’t be sure what was in the water. If it was the creature, he had set no trap and had made no plan. His heart thumped. How could he have been so short-sighted?
He heard a slight ripple near his feet. With his nerves already on edge, he splashed out of the water and rushed for his lantern. He held it high, water dripping from his legs, trickling through the decking and into the river below. But there was another noise, a throaty chuckle bubbling up the water.
“You can see me,” it said. The voice was female and carried a strange accent, like she was gargling every word.
“Who are you?” Habrien called down. “Why are you here?”
“Eating Mergelings,” she said.
So he’d found his creature, but how would he keep her here? He could barely see her, and the deck of this boathouse opened directly into the river without even a railing. It wasn’t designed to be a cage. All he could do was make her want to stay. For now, that meant conversation. “Mergeling? What’s a Mergeling?”
The creature went silent, but her unblinking eyes stared back at him. At last, she replied, “Mergeling is when gods share power.”
Soulbinding, then. It was her word for soulbinding. And she wasn’t just killing them. She was eating them. “You only eat Mergelings, I hope.” Her only response was a bubbling laugh. There was nothing sinister or ironic about her laughter. She seemed genuinely amused. A plan began to form. “It will only be me here for a few days. What else do you eat?”
She paused and blinked slowly. “Fish,” she said.
“Then I’ll bring you fish tomorrow. What should I call you?”
Another pause. “I’ll trade a name for fish.” Habrien heard a splash, and the eyes were gone.
***
The next evening, Habrien sat on the dock with his toes in the water and a mound of salted carp piled next to him. He waited through the red sunset until dusk, and saw those glowing eyes hovering above the water. Not wanting to waste time, he called out, “I brought your fish.”
“Throw it in,” she said.
“No,” said Habrien. “Come into the light. I want to see you.”
He heard a grumble, but the eyes drifted forward. She swam without disturbing the water, flowing through it rather than thrashing her way forward as Habrien had seen so many soldiers do.
Habrien was not prepared for what he saw when she came into view beneath the rippling river.
Her head and shoulders jutted into the air and every inch of her exposed skin was covered by a matrix of glossy oval scars, glistening in the light. She wore only a black, tasseled skirt around her waist, which drifted like a jellyfish. It was an aged style, not old-fashioned in the way that an old woman might cling to the fleeting trends of decades past, but timeless and ancient. Habrien could picture it on a centuries-old painting hanging in Maldon Sangrook’s study.
Her face was inhuman. Her jaws protruded like a cat’s muzzle, full of sharp t
eeth. Her hairless head was covered in the same scars as the rest of her body, and her ears and nose were holes punctured in the snake-like slopes of her skull. Habrien struggled to keep himself from looking unnerved by her, and he wondered just how much pain she had suffered to look like this.
“The fish,” she said, staring at him like a crocodile might watch a deer drinking from her river.
He lifted a strip of carp and dangled it over the water. He was expecting her to snatch at it with a hand, but instead she shot out of the water, ripped it from his grasp with her teeth, and slurped it down whole. This time Habrien couldn’t help but jump back.
She giggled and splashed like a child. “You scare easily.” Habrien didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to steady his breathing. This too amused her and she giggled again. She ate the rest of the salted fish, taking the pieces he proffered gently this time. Habrien warily watched on. When she finished, she said, “We had an agreement. I owe you a name. How many tongues do you have, human?”
Habrien composed himself. “I’m fluent in—”
“Don’t over-complicate the question. How many tongues?” She stuck her own tongues out at him. Both of them.
Habrien gulped. “Just the one.”
“Then call me Tanuk.”
“Who are you, Tanuk? I want to understand.” He needed to know more. He needed to know how he would get that extractor in her head.
Tanuk giggled again. “I am the river and everything in it. Who are you to ask?” She twirled into a backstroke and drifted away.
Habrien let her go. His mission was to kill her and suck her essence into an extractor, not to write her biography. More than anything, he needed to make her see him as a friend. He’d ask questions to build a rapport. The answers weren’t important, but perhaps he could use them to lure her into a trap.