by Danie Ware
Silence.
Then something moved.
Close by.
She turned sharply but didn’t see it, it was below the level of the grass tops. The gentle wind-ripple of light was uninterrupted – she had no idea where it was. The mare’s ears were flat against her skull and she lifted her forehooves, skittering like a Padeshian dancer.
Was there a bweao, belly-down in the darkness? Some nightmare creature of legend and fang? Triq’s heels were holding the mare – just. If she relaxed the command, she’d gather her legs and flee.
She was fast – could she outrun it?
“Please...”
The word was barely a hiss, and utterly unexpected. It froze the breath to the sides of her throat.
For a moment, she was so damned scared she couldn’t move.
“Please...!”
It came from in front of her. She still couldn’t see it. Any minute now it was going to call her by name...
That was it – she was getting the rhez out of here.
“Please help me!”
Instead of calling her name, the voice sobbed, gave the cry of something despairing beyond endurance. She heard movement, clumsy. The moonlight scattered as something shifted in the grass.
She tensed her hands, ready. Decl– ! No sound passed her lips. She tried again, “Declare yourself!”
“There is someone there, oh thank the Goddess!” Movement again, pained, terrible movement. “I can’t stand up any more. Please, help me.” The words dissolved into a gasp.
The voice was young, hurt, male – she had no clue what he could be doing out here.
But she was fireblasted Banned and if it was some forgotten monster or some phantom figment, she’d slit it straight up its daemonic middle. Keeping her hand firmly in the mare’s mane, Triq swung one leg over her rump and slipped down into the long Varchinde grass.
It wasn’t a monster.
It was a boy.
Perhaps fifteen or sixteen returns, shock haired, badly injured and alone. His skin was parchment white, his garments black with blood. Beside him lay a crude, scratch-built crutch.
He looked oddly familiar.
She stood stunned, shook her head helplessly when he begged her for water and wondered what in the name of the Gods she was going to do with him. She was no cursed apothecary – something about not shifting him because of his back?
“You’re injured,” she said. “I don’t know –”
“I do.” He shifted painfully, gulping air. “My ankle’s broken – it’s not serious. But my hip... please, be careful... I have to get to Roviarath... my teacher... need to tell them about the monsters... need to tell someone what they were...”
He was desperate, babbling, Triq didn’t really hear him. She’d have to let go of the ever-more-skittish mare to retrieve the boy, she wasn’t betting the horse would stay put.
The boy coughed and something liquid splashed over his fingers.
Annoyed with her own hesitation, she let the mare go and knelt by him. His eyes were glazed – pain, fear, relief – there was a heavy, dark stain soaking through his garments at his hip.
The mare had backed, but not bolted, the whites of her eyes were showing. As Triq called her, she came to whuffle at the boy’s fallen form and laid her ears flat back. There was froth specking on her chest.
“What’s up with you?” Triq wondered out loud. “Blood doesn’t bother you, you’ve smelled enough of it.”
The mare blew snot, ears flicking. The boy tried to smile, reached a hand to touch her mane. When Triq asked him if he could stand, he heaved himself to his good foot, hand on the horse’s shoulder, and she boosted him over the little mare’s back.
White faced under the moonlight, he passed out.
Triq fixed her attention on the lighthouse, aimed a little to the left, and began the long walk back to the tavern.
Her little mare sweated fear every step of the way.
9: STONE
THE MONUMENT
Amethea’s existence was nightmare and death, the smell of cold stone and hard metal, the feel of blood-wet flesh.
There had been something before this, something she’d been seeking, a friend she’d forgotten – but such things were worlds away, shadows of another time. She was a wraith, a ghost that flickered with loss.
Hollow, she watched listless as the girl died.
Her healer’s hands were like strangers. The blood of others was crusted beneath her nails, caked in the skin about their outsides. She had failed – again. Maugrim would be angry with her, but her hands were helpless. They lay in her lap as if they were broken.
The girl was keening, last breaths thin with horror. She had collapsed, slumped and broken on the dirty stone. As Amethea watched, she shuddered once, tried to speak, and was still.
Reaching forward, Amethea closed her eyes. Her metal-scaled skin was cold. Perhaps she should have prayed, but there was no touch of hope in this Godsless place.
The girl was the third failure, the third tormented death, the third sufferer to succumb to Maugrim’s burning passion, to the exquisite tortures of the Kartian craftmaster called Vice.
Maugrim was a blaze of vision; an architect so powerful that she’d not even felt herself fall. He pulled her, drove her, wanted her and inspired her. She hated him, but she needed his fire to warm the cold she had become. Nothing else seemed to matter – this was his dream and she existed only to make it happen, to bring his revelation to power and life.
She and Vice, craftsmen both, workers of flesh and metal.
Now, though, Maugrim had gone. Vice was stood behind her, his presence sharp and cruel. She turned, looked over her shoulder at the elaborate and deliberate scarring that carved patterns in his pale skin, at his thin white fingers blackened with blood and metal shavings. When he spoke, he was as cold and distant as the white moon.
“You’ve failed.”
“Yes.”
His chill voice was rich with a thousand layers of intonation that her blunt Grasslander ears would never pick up. Raised in almost pure darkness, Kartian culture communicated by sound and by touch. His scars were his identity, his rank and family, and the marks of his pure skill.
“It can’t be done.” Her voice caught on a sob and she found she was angry – with herself, with Vice’s blame and scorn, with the insanity of what she faced. She had no sense of time – of day and night, of sleep and hunger – her sunless world had become pain and torment and failure. The screaming of flesh and the scraping of metal.
Maugrim’s fire.
She feared him, needed him; she tumbled in his wake and she hated herself for it. When he was gone, she resented him and raged silently against him; in his presence, she would do anything to please him.
She looked at the corpse of the girl, at her glittering carapace of metal-scaled skin.
“It can’t be done. The trauma’s too severe, too much blood...” Her voice was a whisper of horror at what she was doing.
Vice said only, “We start again. Maugrim should be told.” The accusation in his tone was as heavy as metal itself. He turned and walked away, quiet as a final breath.
Watching him leave, Amethea felt her heart retract in fear. Maugrim would be angry with her... but there was nothing she could do, no way she could make this happen.
I can’t do this... I can’t...!
Helpless, she walked through the twisted, narrow tunnels to her chamber.
* * *
She was drying her hands when the doorway rolled back.
His anger was tangible, she could taste it, feel it – it blazed from him raw and red. Water dripped sparkling from her skin. She backed away, found herself babbling, “I tried, I swear, I...!”
He wasn’t listening. Two steps, he had one hand round her throat, her back pressed hard to the warm, smooth stone. She breathed swift and shallow, a caught animal, wild-eyed. His predatory smile was primal, an unholy firelight burned in his eyes.
She knew that she ha
ted him. And yet she was gasping at his touch, and wanting...
Somewhere in her heart, there was a tiny fragment of defiance, Why do you let him do this why do you let him do this? But his intensity was beyond her. When he was this close, she burned.
His hand on her throat squeezed; his expression a promise of danger.
The pressure was just enough to show his strength. She bared her neck to him as if he were a bweao.
“Please...!” she gasped, but no longer knew what she was asking for.
He let her go.
Her knees went, she slid to the floor. Every time – every time in his presence! He robbed her of her thoughts – all she wanted to do was make him happy.
This had to stop.
The stones beneath her were blood-warm, oddly comforting. She spread her hands on them, steadying herself.
Maugrim slammed a fist into the flat rock of the wall. He spun towards her.
“Why?” he demanded. “I’ve got every resource, every insight. I’ve done all the calculations, I know this can happen. I’m missing something, sweetheart, what is it?” Blood oozed from his fingers where his rings had bitten his skin. “This damn world plays tricks on me!”
She knew she should get up, should get up now, but the stone beneath her hands was strong, oddly reassuring.
“What you’re trying to do... is alchemically impossible,” she said. “Flesh can’t grow into metal. Metal’s lifeless – all I’ve got is another experiment, dying before my eyes, I...”
“You’ll fix this, little lady. You’re the doctor, you can make this happen.” He came to one knee, right in front of her. One bleeding knuckle raised her chin to look up at him. He was overpowering. “I need you, Amethea. I’ll get you anything you want.”
Need you. There was a bite in her voice as she said, “Or I’ll be next?”
That made him smile, like the edge of a dirty knife.
“I’m running out of time. And patience. I know I can make this happen.”
She heard herself defy him – “You wouldn’t!” – even though she knew he absolutely would.
He laughed, a sound like a snarl. He put his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back to the wall and leaned in so she could feel his breath on her cheek.
He said softly, “It’s why I’m here, Thea: your world’s alchemy, your lost Elementalism – I am bringing them back to life!”
His weight was hurting. She didn’t care.
“I can’t, don’t you – ?” she began.
One hand shoved, hard. She fell back, crumpling gracelessly to the floor. In a moment, he was astride her, turning her onto her back, holding her hands easily above her head. Suddenly afraid, she struggled, but he was far too strong.
“What are you...?”
For a moment, he did nothing – just let her realise how much she was under his control. Her fright was rapidly growing – this wasn’t playing, she could feel his tightly controlled fury. She put her strength into it, writhing furiously. With a determined twist to his lips he held her down. As she subsided, his free hand stroked her jaw.
“Don’t fight me, little priestess. You know you’ll do what I want.”
His kiss was fire and heat and poison.
She twisted away, turning her head, her back arched as she pitted herself against him. He shifted his weight, let his whole body drop full-length onto hers. She could feel how hard he was – and she still responded to him, the sunrise glow between her thighs, her hips moving though she didn’t – couldn’t – want them to.
His breath was hot on the side on her throat. She felt the soft scratch of his beard. She felt his teeth.
“Oh, Gods...” Had that been her voice?
He reached down with his free hand, pulling at her skirts, at the strange, blue cotton trousers he wore. For a moment, she was fright and disbelief – yet her own body was betraying her, the anticipation of his touch was making her swell to meet him. She wanted this. Didn’t she?
He purred words in her ear, it didn’t matter what he said, the tone of his voice was flame and lust and her lips were parted, her breath catching on a whimper.
Gently, his fingers found her, found her more than ready.
With a deep, quiet chuckle, they eased into her.
Coaxing, stroking.
Oh, my Gods...
He knew just how to touch – there was no force, just a caress of absolute control. The pleasure was so intense, she could feel the blood rising in her face, feel her body quivering as he paused, then began again.
“You’ll make this happen, Amethea.”
Her hips ached towards him, muscles tightened around his touch, silently begging him deeper. But the resentment in her heart glittered, cold and hard and still. Somewhere, she remembered she wouldn’t be controlled like this – not any more. Jamming her cheek sideways against his, she said, “I can’t!”
He hissed exasperation; his fingers were gone. She gasped objection before she could stop herself. The wash of loss, the hollow ache of hunger...
But his weight was between her thighs, he was tugging her ridiculous skirts roughly out of the way. She was feet and shoulders and tailbone against the warm stone, eagerly welcoming his weight on hers, her legs rising to wrap round him even as her mind repeated, insanely, Nonononononono...
Yes.
The first thrust was slow, full length – tension rippled through him at the contact, he was holding his own need sternly back. She cried out, struggling to free her arms so she could... what? Hold him? Fight to free herself? He braced his hands against her wrists, held his weight on his elbows and, still buried in her to the hilt, leaned up to look at her flushed face, her splashed hair.
Somewhere in his soul, he smouldered. Embers burned in his vision.
Your alchemy, your lost Elementalism...
She could feel his heat, over and in her; hear her own breathing; feel her pulse hammering in her skin.
And beneath her, the rock was warming.
It seemed to thrum, as if summoned by his fire, by the drumbeat of her blood.
He withdrew – almost. Circling his hips gently, a tease, a tempt, he said, “You can. And you will.”
She wanted him back. Her legs tightened but he was too strong. The thrum beneath her was becoming a reverberation, an echo and broadcast of her own hammering heart. Somewhere between the heat of the stone and the burning between her thighs, she found herself saying again, between gritted teeth, between breaths of craving, “All... the tricks... in the world... won’t make it... any more possible.”
His face set, then, his eyes gave a single blaze of fury. He pushed into her slowly, watching her expression, and she stared back, unwavering; yet her voice was catching in her throat – a feminine cry she couldn’t stifle.
He withdrew, eased into her again, a long, smooth stroke. She gasped, wanted, needed still – couldn’t help it. She unwrapped her legs to brace her feet against the stone.
The hot pulse of the stone.
Metal’s lifeless...
The thought was incoherent – she hadn’t grasped it, not yet. Once before, she’d felt the vastness of the rock about her, that sense of potence and patience and loss and age...
She had been looking for something!
The reverberations of her own pulse echoed back through her skin. In the stone, something heard.
Oh, my Gods.
It was rhythmic and deep, its might massive, yet not hostile. It was far, far bigger than Maugrim’s petty lust, his need for control. It was bigger than her resentment, than her body or senses, the chamber, the passageways. She couldn’t encompass it or comprehend it. As waves of sensation and pleasure broke through her, she surrendered herself – not to Maugrim, but to the stone.
And he felt it too.
As she let go, it pulsed through her skin, her movements and responses and sounds. He gave a breath of amazement as the heat found him through her and he started to move more swiftly, making her cry wordless appreciation. She moved with
him, matched him. He, too, lost himself in it, in her. She grounded him and he was her focus.
And the stone grew hotter. The thrum became a pound and it was tangible in the sweating air.
Now, she wasn’t fighting him any more. She found his mouth, craving as much contact as possible. He let her hands go and they were in his hair, over his shoulders, clumsily pulling his strange garments from him so she could feel his bare chest, the muscles move beneath his skin.
Leaning back, he tore the lacings down her top with one hand, bared her skin to his.
And the stone grew hotter.
She could feel it in her feet, bracing downwards against it as she pushed upwards into the impact of Maugrim’s body. The wet slide of him inside her was almost too much, she gripped him as hard as she could and he, too, cried out, guttural and abandoned.
She began to shake. Waves of sensation robbed her of every conscious thought. Her lips parted in inarticulate sounds – her hands clung to him, refusing to let him go.
He growled at her pleasure, drank it in through his skin. Beneath her, around her, the rock was alive, burning with the heat in the chamber. She was caught between flesh and stone...
As she crested the wave – hips high, back arched, colours flashing through her vision – she was vaguely, oddly, aware of intense sensation in her feet. Maugrim came moments after she did, head back, eyes closed, teeth bared. Then his relieved weight fell forwards on top of her, strangely comforting, secure. For a moment, she rested under him, feeling the stone beneath her slowly cooling.
The thrum faded from her bones.
After a minute, he propped himself upright, looked down at her with an odd smile. He looked – young, almost confused.
She had no idea what to say, what to do – no idea what had just happened. The stone was only warm; it was hard under her shoulder blades.
And her feet...
...her feet felt strange, like she’d been sat on them too long and they’d gone to sleep. She tried to move them – half expecting the pin-ripple of returning feeling...
...and couldn’t.
Sudden alarm pushed the languor from her body. She pushed him back, tried to sit up. There was tearing across her shoulders, a rush of ripping skin and fabric, a sudden flash of pain.