Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  He weighs my answer, frowning a bit as if he knows I am not telling him the whole truth, then drops his gaze. “Well spoken,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you'll be useful after all. Dismissed."

  * * * *

  "It won't be long now,” Sergeant Cyr says, walking behind us. Archers line the battlements. They fidget and shift, checking and rechecking their strings and shafts. I stand at the line's end, the better for Cyr to observe and judge my performance, or so he says.

  Dusk thickens the sky, drawing a dark cloak across the bright blue above. The first star twinkles in the firmament, aloof and cold. Below, the Mor shift and surge, forming into ragged lines.

  Many in the front ranks bear stones, small boulders, really, each three feet or more across. The stone carriers carefully fit them into iron chain harnesses. The chains jingle musically.

  "What are they doing?” I ask the man beside me.

  "Something new. Just started it a few days ago. They'll use those harnesses as giant slings."

  "They can hurl a stone so far?” I say, surprised. “But surely their stones cannot do much damage to the wall?"

  "It's not the stones, it's the magic,” he says. He spits in the Mor's general direction. “Fucking magic. Hate it."

  "What do they do?"

  "Just keep an eye out, and be ready to duck,” he replies, smoothing his string. “The stones they fling explode when they hit, thanks to whatever power their shamans put into them. They rarely reach this high, but there have been casualties."

  I frown and turn my attention back down towards the Mor. Many of the sling-bearers have been joined by their smaller brethren. The newcomers wear many decorations, and have crude symbols daubed on their carapaces in pale, chalk-like mud. Shamans.

  I tense as I begin to suspect their plan. Mor shamans are masters of rock lore. I have seen them enchant the Mor's stone knives and hammers with searing heat. Such a weapon claimed the life of Jazen Tor.

  The shamans begin a chant, their high-pitched, fluting voices rising on the freshening breeze. Their four hands gesture above the stones. A smell reaches me, like iron heating over the blacksmith's forge. The stones steam and smoke, then begin to glow a deep, sullen red. The stones sing as they heat, as if giving voice to their agony.

  Soon they are glowing, the dim red shifting to brighter orange. The slingers heft their chains, lifting the stones effortlessly. The front line steps forward, almost within arrow range, as the shamans step back to the second row. They continue their chant, empowering even more stones. All along the wall, I can see similar sparks kindling, as far as the eye can see. It is a breathtaking sight, at once majestic and unearthly, a river of stars brought to earth.

  A few arrows whistle out into the growing darkness. “Hold your fire, you cowardly maggots!” Cyr bellows, striding down the line. He cuffs a young archer savagely, driving him to his knees. “Wait for my order; they'll have to come within range before they let fly!"

  I wipe my hand on my thigh and ignore the urge to shoot down into the enemy below. The Mor move closer. They begin to swing their cradles back and forth, faster and faster, until the rocks trace glowing circles in the deepening gloom. Sparks fly.

  "Archers ... draw!” Cyr shouts. All along the line I hear the call echoed by other sergeants. As one we pull our bows. The Mor stop their advance. The chain cradles hum malevolently.

  "Loose!” the sergeant screams. Six score bows reply, filling the air with the flat thrum of death. Our arrows fly into the black, disappearing from sight. A moment later the hard steel rain falls upon our enemies’ heads.

  Many shafts miss their targets; firing at night is no easy task. Still, more than a few manage to strike their targets. Of those, most are turned aside by the Mor's stone-like skin, bouncing harmlessly away.

  A few of the inhuman warriors hoot in agony as barbs find weak places, but none fall. One is struck in the visor and screams, letting go of its chain to clutch at its stricken face. The stone within streaks up and away like a meteor, finally crashing back to earth behind the enemy lines.

  "Another volley!” Cyr calls. “Then be ready to seek cover!” Again we let fly with our arrows, and again we are rewarded with scattered cries of pain and wildly careening stones. When they strike the earth, the stones shatter like bombs, spraying glowing shards in all directions.

  The Mor let slip their deadly missiles. There are so many, three score at least, rising like a wall of fire. They arc, nearly as high as the summit, careening towards us.

  "Cover! Cover!” Cyr screams, scurrying towards the battlements. Men drop, seeking shelter behind the waist-high stones.

  The blazing rocks strike, louder than thunder. Beneath me, the wall shivers and groans like a living thing. Reverberations travel like an earthquake, heralding the rumble of other impacts.

  I must see. I pop my head over the battlement and look west, towards the mighty gates. There are many Mor there, so many more than here. How can the gates survive such punishment?

  A flurry of lightning and an expanding sheet of flame answers me: mages. The defenders have concentrated their might there, at the wall's weakest point, and lash the enemy with their eldritch fury, blunting the worst of the attack.

  But here, we are not so lucky; all we have are archers and good arrows and the resolve to use them. I look down and see the second Mor line advancing, their blazing stones already in motion. The first line scurries back, dropping their cradles to the earth. Fresh missiles are swiftly loaded.

  "Archers, draw!” Cyr shouts, popping back to his feet. The men stand, drawing hastily. Only two in three are ready when the order to fire is given. Sloppy.

  I send my arrow into the night and draw a fresh shaft. It is in the air before the first has reached its target, and a third is on the string before most of the others have reloaded once.

  The Mor's second volley is as devastating as the last. Once more the wall shivers. This time, a glowing stone crashes into the battlements not ten yards from where I crouch. It explodes, spraying fragments of burning hot rock, sharp as razors, in a lethal fan. Men scream and stagger back, slapping at their smoldering clothes. Blood steams in the cool air.

  The act of reloading and firing becomes automatic, mechanical, interspersed with frantic scrabbling for cover. The wall tolls, a gargantuan bell struck by the hammer of a god. The ground at its base is littered with dead Mor, more than thirty, but still they fling their fiery stones. In the distance, the continuous clap of the mages’ lightning fills the air with a never-ending rumble.

  From further down the wall, men hurry towards us. They wear complex leather harnesses studded with metal clips, from which a bewildering array of tools swing and sway. Engineers. At their head is a broad man, blunt-faced and bald. His hands are enormous, dangling at the end of thickly muscled arms like shovel blades. His earth-colored robes are stitched with elaborate arcane symbols.

  The engineers look over the edge, down at the wall, surveying the damage. They turn and speak into the mage's ear. He nods, then presses his palms against the top of the wall. He chants in a strange language, a deep, rumbling sound reminiscent of grinding of boulders. How a mortal throat can make such a sound is beyond me; it must be the language of the earth elementals.

  "What's happening?” I ask the man beside me.

  "He's asking the wall to be strong. Shoring it up. I've never seen them here while an attack is happening, though. They usually only come after, to help with the repairs. Oh, this is bad ... very bad."

  "Courage, men! Courage!” a new voice rings out. I look aside and see Captain Garrett, walking along the line. He does not duck when the Mor stones crash into the wall. Perhaps he thinks that some divine grace will spare him. He kneels beside a fallen archer. Cyr frowns and shakes his head, and the captain draws the archer's blood-soaked cloak across his face.

  The Mor send a fresh wave of burning death into the air. Some premonition reaches me, a sense of imminent danger. I see a glowing stone flying straight for me, as unerring as
a hound to a hare. It seems to grow as it approaches, drawing long shadows from the sheltering crenellations.

  "Down! Down!” I scream, pushing the man beside me to the deck. Out of the corner of my eye I see Garrett, the fool, standing to see what is the matter.

  I leap for him, but I am too slow. The stone strikes the space between two of the wide blocks, exploding into a shower of fragments. A fragment ricochets off the back of my borrowed helm, and my vision explodes into sparks.

  Sight returns slowly, bringing with it the stench of burning hair. I struggle to my belly and prop myself on my elbows. Bodies lie all around, some burning fitfully. The earth mage lies still, surrounded by his engineers. A spreading pool of bloods slicks the stones beneath him.

  Cyr blinks over at me; he too has been knocked from his feet. His cap is missing. He does not appear injured. I look over at Garrett, in time to see him slump against the battlements.

  Blood sheets down his surcoat and his mailed arms in a crimson stream. His beard is no longer gray; it is red, so very red. As I watch, a jet of blood fountains into the air. He gurgles, clutching at his mangled throat.

  "Gods, no!” Cyr screams. “The captain's been hurt! Someone fetch the priest! The priest!"

  I scramble forward, hissing as my knee comes down on my bow. I lift the fallen commander, cradling him in my lap. A flap of skin hangs down from the side of his neck. Blood jets from severed arteries. No help can reach him in time; he is only moments from death.

  My secret eye slides open, and there before me is the shining map of his life. I see his heart flutter as blood loss takes its toll. In a moment it will stop.

  Before I can think to stop them, the tendrils of my blood magic to rush up from my belly. I shiver in obscene delight as they penetrate the captain's body. My smile transforms into a grimace of effort as I coax them towards the hideous wound. Others coil up, into the labyrinthine mass inside his skull.

  As they travel they draw blood up, past the ruined artery. The crimson stream slackens, then stops.

  "What are you...” Cyr says, his voice thick. “The blood ... your skin ... Oh, gods!” A moment later he turns aside. He vomits across the bloody stones. I cannot be distracted, lest the ravening tendrils slip my grasp, so I ignore him.

  As soon as I am content that blood is flowing past the terrible injury, carrying its cargo of precious life into the wounded captain's brain, I turn my attention to his slashed neck. I concentrate, willing the tendrils to mass at the site of the wound. The outer edges are crisped, burnt black by the burning fragments.

  I must do what I can to close the wound, without hindering the life-giving flow streaming up through his neck. Even a brief interruption might leave him a drooling, mindless thing, worse than dead. It might already be too late.

  My secret sight shows me the torn vessels. One by one, I coax them closed. The blood magic responds to my will, grudgingly and with many protestations, but soon the torn flesh begins to mend. I reach out and smooth the ragged flap over the knitting arteries, holding it in place until, guided by the blood magic, it can take root.

  I take away my hand, and watch as the blood on my palm sinks slowly into my flesh, like water into parched clay. My leathers are soaked with the captain's life blood, but I know that not a single drop remains on my skin. Behind me, one of the men breathes a prayer to Shanira.

  As if the goddess's name has summoned her, I hear a priest call out, “I am here! Who has need of the Lady's mercy?” Men call out and point. I hear the scuff of sandaled feet.

  I command the red tendrils to return to my body, shivering once more as they slide from his flesh. It seems easier this time, albeit slightly. As soon as the last is free, the captain gives one last heaving shudder, then falls still.

  The priest kneels, pushing me rudely aside. He presses two fingers to the captain's neck, carefully avoiding the livid burn that is all which remains of the wound. He nods.

  "His heart beats strongly. What happened here?” He looks at the blood, sprayed all around, takes in my soaked leathers. His eyes meet mine, and go wide. Beside him, Cyr stares at me, his eyes full of fear. I feel a tear slide down from the corner of my black eyes and absently wipe it away. It is a tear of blood. I turn aside before he can see my flesh draw it in.

  I do not explain; he will not understand. All that matters now is that the captain will live to fight another day.

  Men cry out once more as a fresh volley of burning stone crashes against the wall in a wave of fire and rock. I force my secret eye shut, studiously ignoring the specters of the dead soldiers clustered on the battlements. Wordlessly, I retrieve my bow and set a fresh arrow to the string.

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  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Kirin, did you hear what I said?” Lia asks. I jerk back to myself. No. I did not.

  "I'm sorry. I must have been woolgathering,” I say. Lia sighs theatrically, but she does not look mad. Yet.

  We walk the streets, surrounded by the City's thronging inhabitants. It is warm today, perhaps the last truly warm day we shall have for months, and it seems as if most of the city has taken to the streets. Ever since leaving our rented rooms, Lia has filled the air with bright chatter, pointing out this new fashion or that, identifying members from half a dozen different races.

  While she spoke, my mind began to wander, until it was far away, back on the wall, on the night of my first watch. After they took Captain Garrett away, the Mor continued their assault, sending volley after volley of fiery death into the sky. Only in the small hours before dawn, when their shamans were exhausted, did they withdraw into the darkness.

  They took their fallen dead with them, leaving only cooling boulders splashed with their foul, black blood. On an impulse, I volunteered to go over the wall, to scout the area below.

  While engineers worked above me, assessing the extent of the damage, and others hurried to recover still-intact arrows from the bloodstained ground, I walked amongst the discarded boulders, still steaming gently in the morning air. I found a Mor knife, lying half under one of the stones. Without thinking, I picked it up, hissing in pain as the handle scalded me through my gloves.

  When it had cooled, I tested the edge with my thumb. It was sharp, like a razor, chipped from flinty gray stone and carved with symbols. The handle was wrapped with the same pale hide as they wear about their hips. When the recall sounded, I tucked the thing into my belt and allowed them to pull me back up.

  For three days I stood, and fought, beside the men of the 103rd. We slept like the dead by day, on crowded, narrow bunks deep beneath the watchtower. The nights were a burning hell, filled with flying boulders and the screams of men. Often, I would feel eyes upon me, only to find Sergeant Cyr watching me. His face was closed, hostile. I did my best to ignore him. When our relief finally came four days later, I felt as if I had stood atop the Armitage for weeks.

  "I said that Archibald Garrett will make a full recovery,” Lia says, pulling me out of my reverie. She frowns when I stare at her, then adds, “Captain Garrett, your commanding officer? Does that not make you happy?"

  "Of course,” I reply.

  Lia looks at me out of the corner of her eye as we continue to walk. “You know,” she finally says, “I have heard rumors about that day. Some say you were there with him when he was injured. That you touched his wound, and kept him from bleeding to death."

  "It was madness,” I say with a shrug. “Explosions; chaos. Darkness and fire. I did what anyone would do and staunched the bleeding until the priests could arrive."

  Lia looks at me again, openly. We have been together for long enough that I can tell she senses there is more to the story, but I cannot bring myself to tell her the rest. Guilt twists in my breast like a knife blade.

  Why don't you just tell her? my sister asks. After all, she was there with us when your power killed ... the child. Your son. My nephew. What can be worse than that? At least this time, like in the mountains, you used the power to heal, not harm
. She will understand.

  It is true. Even after witnessing the greatest of my many crimes she still cares for me; even after feeling the blood magic in her own body she still will touch, and be touched by, me. And yet, I still find myself remaining silent, as if my refusal to speak will somehow conceal what we both know happened atop the wall.

  Lia drops her gaze, sighing softly, a sound my sister echoes in my mind. How can I explain to her the primal revulsion I feel now, whenever the blood magic stirs? How can I express the depths of my fear?

  "All I mean to say,” she continues, “is that whoever saved him did a good thing. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but also because Captain Garrett belongs to one of the old families. Not exactly royalty, but high enough in the Imperial court that having them owe a favor is certainly a good thing."

  "You think I care about that?” I ask, my shame transforming into a sick anger.

  "No, of course not; I know better,” she replies. “I am just saying your actions have consequences. In this case, good ones. Why you continue to hide your true talent is—"

  "Is my concern,” I finish, aware that my tone is sharp but unable to help it. “All I want to do right now is fight. Surely you can understand that?"

  She stops and looks at me. Sympathy shines from her wide eyes, an expression I often find trying but for now I welcome. It will stop the course of this discussion before it can become an argument. Or so I hope.

  "I understand,” she says. “And I will speak no more of it. For now. Besides, we are here."

  She points to one of the row houses. It looks vacant, its windows shuttered tight. A man in an elegant brocade doublet and the short cloak of a solicitor waits for us on the stairs. I shake my head, trying to dispel the fog which seems to have settled over me, and follow her up to meet him.

  * * * *

  "Do you like it?” Lia asks. “It is a bit small, but there should be room enough for us both."

  I look around the townhouse, trying not to gape. It is lovely, there is no other word for it, all smooth plaster walls and polished wood. Candelabra of polished brass hang from the high ceilings and thick, rippled glass sparkles in the diamond-paned windows. It is larger than my marriage cottage. Much larger.