by James Maxey
“Grab the rope!” Slate said as he reached her. “We can’t waste more time. I’ve sent the surviving pilgrims on ahead. If they stop moving in this storm, they’ll freeze...” His voice trailed off.
“What?” she asked.
“Your chest.”
To see what he was staring at, she removed her gauntlet and placed her hand on his helmet, willing the glass to form a mirror finish. The light was dim, but good enough to make sense of what she saw.
Her breastplate was scorched in three jagged parallel slashes. It looked for all the world as if a dragon had raked its claws across her chest.
THEY RECOVERED TOWER’S coffin after they climbed out of the ravine, each lifting an end rather than wasting time wrapping it with ropes once more. They pressed forward at the quickest pace they could muster, their feet slipping in the mounting snow. Yet despite the misery of their condition, the light was definitely getting brighter. Had they climbed so far in the last few hours that they were now rising above the clouds?
This proved to be the case, as the snow faded into fog that changed instantly to ice as it splattered against them. The coffin grew increasingly heavy as the ice built.
The clouds came to an abrupt end as the path they traveled led into a long gap between two steep cliffs. The span between the cliffs was no more than fifty feet across. The sun was red as it sank into the ocean of clouds at their back, painting the cliff walls a deep crimson. Ahead, they saw the pilgrims on their knees, huddled before a wall of men in heavy fur coats who stood as a living barrier to their passage.
“Storm Guard?” Sorrow asked.
“Who else could it be?” answered Slate. They moved forward. Sorrow counted thirteen guards. She couldn’t tell if they wore armor beneath their coats, but could see that they were armed with heavy hammers and battleaxes. In contrast to the clean-shaven, slender soldiers of the city, these were large, burly men with thick black beards and bushy eyebrows. Their coats were silver and brown, pieced together from the hides of wolves.
Slate lowered his end of the coffin. Sorrow set her end down. They marched through the kneeling pilgrims, who had their hands clasped before them in prayer.
The largest of the armed men stepped forward and shouted in short, guttural syllables.
“Do you not speak the Silver Tongue?” asked Slate.
The pilgrim who was missing an eye said, “They demand twenty moons for safe passage, and that you surrender your weapons.”
“Tell him my weapon is a sacred relic that will not be relinquished.”
The man frowned. “If I tell them that, they definitely won’t let us pass unmolested. They’ll steal the relic and hold it for ransom.”
“So be it,” said Slate. “Tell them.”
The man swallowed hard. With a look of pain, he choked out a string of syllables.
The leader smiled as he barked back a response.
“It’s as I feared,” the one-eyed man said. “He now demands we turn over the relic in exchange for safe passage.”
“Tell him...”
Before Slate could finish, the leader barked out a new jumble of sounds.
“He says that if you cause trouble, his men will kill all of us. He asks that you weigh your answer carefully.”
Slate looked at Sorrow. “Are you ready to give our answer?”
“I’m ready if you’re ready,” said Sorrow.
Slate removed the Witchbreaker from its scabbard. The walls of the narrow canyon echoed with the howls of the damned.
Sorrow dropped her mace and allowed her gauntlets to crumble to rust.
“Anything you want to teach me, now’s the moment,” she said.
Slate replied, “Just follow my lead,” not guessing that she hadn’t been talking to him. He said to the translator, “Tell them to clear our path, or face destruction.”
“There are thirteen of them,” the man answered weakly. “There are only two of you. You’re gambling with our lives!”
“You’re the ones who begged to join us,” Sorrow snapped. “Just tell him what Slate said.”
The man turned pale as the looked back at the warriors and gave his answer.
The thirteen warriors roared in unison, raising their axes and hammers. Before they could finish inhaling, Slate leapt forward and drove the Witchbreaker deep into the belly of the leader. A soulful wail of terror filled the air, though nothing but bloody gurgles escaped the dead man’s lips.
A half dozen of the warriors leapt toward Slate as he kicked the leader free of his blade. The rest of the men charged the kneeling pilgrims, with only Sorrow standing in their path.
Breathe flies, Avaris commanded. You will feel a door open within your belly. Do not let go of this door!
Sorrow was familiar with the sensation, having used this power to dispatch a band of warriors she’d faced in Hush’s lair. She pulled her helmet free as the pressure built within her stomach. In her mind’s eye, she saw the small black portal in her center, wobbling and warping as flies boiled into her belly.
She was vaguely aware that a warrior was three strides away from smashing a warhammer down on her bare scalp. She opened her lips and the man’s face disappeared in a tornado of flies that erupted from inside her. The hammer dropped as his fingers went limp, and he fell to his knees before her, his body collapsing against her legs. She looked down and found his face was nothing but a skull writhing with maggots.
Don’t allow yourself to be distracted! Do not lose the door!
Sorrow found the disembodied voice screaming at her far more distracting than the dead man rapidly falling to bits around her feet. The boundaries of the black gate grew fuzzy. Suddenly, she lost all sense of where its edges lay.
Fool! You’ve just allowed more of Rott’s essence to bleed into your physical body. When you open a door, you must have the discipline to close it properly!
“Good advice,” Sorrow said as she watched the other warriors near her fall to the ground, tearing at the maggots writhing under their skin. “Maybe if you hadn’t waited to tell me until one second before I needed to know, I might have found it useful.”
She was snapped back from her argument with Avaris to her present danger by a head bouncing past her.
Slate had finished off four of the Storm Guard and was currently driving his blade into the fifth. Unfortunately, the sixth had bolted, and had run quite some distance up the path. She couldn’t allow him to bring reinforcements.
She glanced back at the pilgrims, whose mouths gaped in horror at the maggot-ridden body before her. She felt something tickling her lip and brushed a fly away. If they’d witnessed this, there was no reason to hold back. With a thought, her armor fell away and she leapt into the air, still carrying her mace. The guard made it another hundred feet before she dropped onto his back, driving the mace into his neck with all her strength. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been lying when she’d said the mace was hollow. Her victim still struggled beneath her, and if he made it to his back and freed his arms, he might yet cause her grief.
She placed her hand upon the nape of his neck. She imagined the black portal once more, this time opening in her shoulder. She focused as dark energy flowed down her arm and the man’s flesh liquefied in her grasp. She never took her mind’s eye off the portal. Clenching her jaw, she willed the pulsing black circle to grow smaller, then smaller still. With a final gasp, she closed it completely.
She raised her hand, wrinkling her nose at the pink gore that coated it.
Well done. If you maintain such discipline in the future, you may grow powerful indeed.
“And if I don’t?”
You’ll lose the last of your humanity as Rott consumes you.
Sorrow nodded. The risks were clearly laid out. Before, she’d been frightened by the uncertainty of what dangers she faced. Now she knew what the risks were, and could push through the fuzzy veil of fear into the firm embrace of pure terror.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A BIT OF CLEVER MAGIC
THE WI
ND HOWLED through the narrow stone gap as Sorrow stared at her gore-covered hand. She knelt and wiped her fingers on the man’s wolf coat, then headed back down the pass to retrieve her armor before she froze to death.
Slate stood over the maggot-ridden bodies of the men she’d killed. The pilgrims were all huddled together, still on their knees, their eyes wide as they stared at Sorrow. At least, most of them were staring at her. Quite a few eyes were focused instead on Slate, who still held the ebony sword in his grasp, filling the air with faint cries of agony.
“What magic is this?” Slate asked as she drew close. “These men have been reduced to skeletons!”
“You knew I had tapped into Rott’s power,” she said.
“When we fought the pirates together, your methods were less... disturbing.”
Sorrow arranged the components of her discarded armor and molded her now ice-cold iron shell back into position. She commanded the metal to warm, but her teeth were still chattering as she said, “I don’t think you’re in any position to declare my methods disturbing. You just sent your enemies’ souls directly to hell.”
As if to prove her point, the screams of torment that echoed from the sword grew louder.
“Is this not an appropriate fate for the wicked?”
“I’m not certain it is,” she said. “First, the Storm Guard have a very different conception of the afterlife from the Church of the Book. I’m not up on my theology, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t feel like their actions were going to earn them an eternity in a fiery pit tormented by demons.”
“The failings of their belief system are unfortunate,” said Slate. “Without the fear of hell, how are men of weak morals to be brought to the path of righteousness?”
“So you admit that this church you’re so enamored of uses fear and the threat of torture to ensure obedience?”
Slate frowned. “It’s not as simple as that. Men who behave in compliance with the Divine Author’s will are rewarded with paradise. The possibility of hell is merely...”
When he seemed at a loss for words, she said, “It’s merely a threat to catch the few poor souls who aren’t swayed by bribery?” She nodded toward the blade. “I’ll never worship a god who built a place that sounds like that.”
He said nothing as he slid the Witchbreaker back into its scabbard, silencing the cries.
She tucked her wings under her arms and closed her armor. “Besides, I thought everything that will ever happen is already recorded in the One True Book. Why have this whole system of punishment and bribes to control men when every last choice they’re given has been decided by the Divine Author? By the very tenets of your faith, these men were only in our way because it was His will that we kill them.” She pointed to the huddled pilgrims. “These poor fools have lost possessions, loved ones, and limbs because your god thought it would make a good story.”
Slate crossed his arms. “I’m a knight, not a theologian. I’m sure there are others at the temple who can explain our beliefs more eloquently than I can.”
Sorrow donned her helmet once more and moved to stand beside Slate as he stood before the shivering pilgrims.
“It’s almost nightfall,” he said to the pilgrims. “But these guards must have a camp nearby. If any guards remain there, we’ll take it by force. Tonight, you’ll sleep in the beds of those who caused you grief.”
The one-eyed man cleared his throat. “We’ve decided to turn back. We’ll complete our journey another time.”
Slate glanced over his shoulder at the corpses behind him. “Have we... frightened you?”
“We... we didn’t understand... what manner of creatures... we journeyed with. We’d heard stories of demons who disguise themselves as men—”
“We’re not demons,” said Slate. “I’m a knight. My companion is... unusual in appearance, but human.”
“He’s right,” said Sorrow. “We’re both human. Which means we’re even more dangerous than demons. If you want to turn back, turn back. You wanted a roadblock removed and we removed it. What direction you go from this moment is entirely up to you.”
“You all have reasons for being here,” said Slate. “Your faith has brought you this far. You can’t turn back now.”
And yet, one by one, the pilgrims stood and began to walk back down the path, toward the churning clouds at the mouth of the gap, linking hands as they vanished into the storm.
“They were slowing us down,” said Sorrow. “Don’t look so dejected.”
“It was as if they feared me as much as you,” Slate said, shaking his head. “We fought to save them and they hate us for it?”
“Welcome to every damn day of my life.”
NIGHT HAD FALLEN when they discovered the camp of the Storm Guard, a tight cluster of stone huts with hide roofs. Someone shouted out an alarm as they approached, and a moment later they were attacked by five warriors.
The fight was brief.
They spent the remainder of the night in the largest of the huts, warming themselves in front of a stone furnace fueled by coal. Sorrow stared into the flickering flames, wondering if she might dream of Greatshadow once more. Slate looked glum, and even though the hut was well stocked with dried meats and fruits, he ate nothing. He silently removed his armor and stretched out on the ground beside the stove, covering his massive form with a heavy blanket pulled from one of the bunks. His eyes were locked on the Witchbreaker, which rested atop his armor.
Sorrow welcomed his silence. She had worries of her own. The familiar itchiness had returned to her skin, this time concentrated in her arms and hands. She’d shoveled a load of coal into the furnace when they’d arrived, leaving her hands black with dust. Now, as she watched, the blackness hardened on her fingers, growing shiny. Her nails grew longer and thinner, turning into hard claws.
Seduce him and I’ll teach you bone weaving. You cannot rid yourself of the dragon’s essence, but you can push it to less visible parts of your body.
“I know,” she whispered. “But it’s not going to happen.”
Why not? I see the way you glance at him. You’re not immune to his charms.
Sorrow rose and walked to the far side of the hut. “I want to end our agreement. I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you, but I don’t feel that you’re the best teacher for me.”
You’ve more than inconvenienced me. You invaded my home, assaulted me, and destroyed my companion. You cannot turn away from my teachings now.
“Are you teaching me? Or punishing me?”
There may be some overlap. It doesn’t change anything. You promised me you would take a life at my request. Until this promise is kept, our bargain remains in place.
“What if I tell you I don’t intend to kill anyone just because you ask me to? Can we end our bargain then?”
If you betray me, you forfeit all the power I’ve taught you to use.
Sorrow started to argue that wasn’t very much, but thought better of it as she contemplated the possible ways Avaris might remove the knowledge. The old witch probably knew exactly what parts of Sorrow’s brain to probe with a long fingernail in order to scrape away her memories. For now, she was still trapped in her bargain.
Why the doubts now? You were the picture of confidence when you battled your way into my castle.
“I don’t have doubts. I have... finality. There’s no real time left to learn anything before tomorrow.”
Tomorrow you will reach the Temple of the Book.
Sorrow nodded. “Tomorrow, I’m going to cripple my enemies with a blow they can never recover from. I... I intend to win tomorrow’s battles, but I’m not kidding myself. There’s a strong possibility that tonight is my last night alive.”
All the more reason to seduce him.
Sorrow shook her head. “No. If I’m to die, I intend to die true to myself. I’ve lived with the certainty I had no need of men. It’s the wrong moment for second guesses. But if there is anything you have to tell me about Rott’s power that I don’t yet know,
now is the time to reveal it. You have to want the church to feel pain as much as I do. Now’s your chance to turn me into your weapon for revenge.”
Your father has already done that work for me.
Avaris began to laugh inside Sorrow’s skull. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
DURING THE NIGHT, Sorrow had held out some slender hope that the changes to her hands weren’t as bad as they seemed. The coal dust and the darkness of the hut perhaps made her skin appear darker and rougher than it truly was.
In the pale light of morning, she had no reason for hope. She melted snow in the iron bowl of her helmet and washed her hands, if they could still be called hands. Her pinkies had fused with her ring fingers and all of her digits had become longer and banded by scales. Her nails were now claws, tapering to razor-sharp hooks.
When she heard Slate stirring, she hastily pulled on her iron gauntlets, willing the metal to stretch to hide her deformity. She folded the now empty pinkies of the gauntlets closed and fused them, hoping no one would notice their lack of motion.
Slate looked even more exhausted than he had when he went to sleep.
“Rough night?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Climbing this mountain with a coffin balanced on my back has drained me. From what the pilgrims told me, the temple is only a few hours walk. I look forward to divesting myself of my burden.”
“It’s a burden you placed upon yourself,” said Sorrow. “We could have buried Tower in the swamp.”
“Tower had already suffered the abuse of having his corpse reanimated as a slave of Avaris. The hero of Poppy’s storybook deserves a better ending.”
“He’s dead no matter where his body winds up,” she said. “His ending is already written.”
Slate didn’t look directly at her as he rose to dress. He buckled his armor without saying a word.
“I guess this conversation is over?” she asked.
“This conversation is impossible.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighed. “Only that I will never be able to explain myself.” He walked to the coffin and knelt beside it, placing his hands upon the wooden surface. His voice was soft as he said, “I was created from Tower’s blood. I’m like a branch snapped from a tree that’s taken root in new soil. Is the new tree a double of the old, or an extension of it? I’m not Tower’s duplicate. I’m his continuation. Who else in all of history has borne the burden of having to bury himself?”