Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  I open my earthly eyes in time to see the body twitch, then jerk. It flops onto its belly, then raises itself on its claws and armored knees. The mighty spine twists as the Mor heaves like a man trying to vomit.

  I feel eyes on me and look aside just long enough to see that Captain Garrett is staring at me, his bruised eyes riveted upon my face. A wave of guilt stabs through me, but I push it aside. This is our only hope.

  Below, the Mor's carapace splits as a blue-black limb thrusts outwards. I see rope-muscled arms and black, horned claws grasp the edges of the tear, then widen the hole. Something emerges from the fleshy cocoon, blinking its eyes in the feeble sunlight.

  The sweetling flexes its mismatched limbs, four arms and two stubby, powerful legs, its terrible body steaming in the chill air. It is smaller than the Mor which was its host yet taller than a man, despite its hunchbacked stance. Dark blue blood coats it, dripping from exposed muscle and tendons. Irregular spines of black horn jut from the sticky mass of its shoulders and back.

  Its head is a misshapen lump of gristle and bone swiveling atop its peeled shoulders. Two mad, crimson eyes peer out at the world above a gaping triangular mouth bristling with fangs.

  "Gods above and below protect us,” Garrett whispers, some trick of the wind bringing his words to my ears as if he stands beside me.

  Silently, I whisper to the sweetling, singing a song of blood and pain, urging it to do my will. The creature hesitates for a moment, tasting the air with a foot-long tongue the color of charcoal, then it shambles off, scurrying on its short legs, using its claws to vault forward.

  As it moves out, some of the men see it. They cry out in revulsion, sending down an irregular rain of arrows at its back, but none find the mark. As it enters the clear space between the wall and the enemy lines, I see the Mor warriors stop, frozen by the sight of it. The sweetling accelerates, crossing the intervening distance with frightening speed.

  Then it is among them, crashing into their line. I see its horned limbs flailing, cutting through armored hide with ease. Blue-black blood flies, steaming, into the winter air.

  The Mor recoil from the terrifying apparition, seeming to forget about their terrible stone weapons. The sweetling ignores them, saving its efforts for those standing between it and its true goal. A moment later it breaks through the front line, scattering warriors in its wake.

  The first shaman, still intent on its efforts to empower the stone-throwers’ missiles, does not even look up as the sweetling takes it from behind. Its mighty claws close on the shaman's outstretched lower hands. The mystic has time for one piping scream before the sweetling snips them off, as effortlessly as shears slicing through a rose stem. Dark blood jets from the amputated stumps.

  My minion scurries forward, embracing the shaman like a lover, wrapping its thorny limbs around it. It squeezes, and I see the cruel barbs piercing the shaman's thick armor. The powerful spine flexes backwards, further and further. The shaman has time for one last shriek before its flesh succumbs to the terrible pressure with an echoing crack.

  The sweetling drops the lifeless mystic to the ground, then turns, seeking fresh prey. All around, shamans and warriors alike are becoming aware of the threat in their midst. My minion scampers towards a second victim, its claws clacking together eagerly.

  The Mor give voice to their unearthly piping war cry and turn to face the threat. Stone hammers and knives glow sullen red, smoking in the cold air. Shamans abandon their tasks and retreat behind their larger, better-armed brethren.

  The sweetling rushes forward, ignoring the warriors. From the wall, I whisper to it, goading it to continue the slaughter. A portion of its bloodlust reaches me, traveling back along the connection between us. It tingles in my hands and cheeks, awakening echoes in my breasts and between my thighs. I bite my lip in mingled loathing and desire.

  The Mor encircle the sweetling, ringing it with burning stone knives and implacable claws. Warriors use their powerful forearms like shields, blocking the worst of its murderous attacks while others slice and cut at it from behind. Even my creature's fury is no match for them. Soon, it stumbles, falling to one knee.

  The Mor are on it in an instant, abandoning their weapons in favor of their powerful claws and stamping, hoof-like feet. I lose sight of it in the press, as it is swallowed up by a forest of waving limbs and thrashing bodies. When they retreat, all that is left is a gory streak, painting the sands black.

  A new sound reaches me: hurrying feet. I look down the wall, and see a phalanx of men and women hurrying along the battlements. Their robes flap in the wind.

  The mages have come.

  Strong fingers grip my shoulders, turning me away from the crenellations. Captain Garrett's hands tremble. “Kirin ... gods woman, what you did,” he says thickly, like a man just woken from a nightmare-plagued sleep.

  "What I did saved the wall. For now. The rest is up to you. And them,” I gesture to the mages.

  Garrett shakes his head, like a horse troubled by flies. “Damn, damn, damn these voices. I hear them. I hear them, and they will not stop. I hear them whispering to me. They—"

  He raises his eyes to mine. “They hate you,” he breathes. “They fear all of us, but you ... you they loathe. All of this,” he waves his hand, encompassing the death and smoke all around, “all of this is because of you."

  "That's nonsense,” I say, even as his words stab a blade of ice into my heart. “The Mor attacked the Armitage while I was in the north. They came here and I followed them, not the other way round."

  "Be that as it may, I know it. Somehow, you are the cause of all of this."

  "Whatever happened to you has driven you mad,” I whisper, looking to see if anyone has heard. “I cannot be the cause of all this!” Sweat breaks out all over me, as my body reacts to the truth my mind cannot—will not—accept.

  Garrett stares at me, his face closed. He has made his judgment. He points to the stairs leading down into the vast halls inside the Armitage, and from there out, down into the sprawling City.

  "You saved my life once, and now I repay that debt. Go. Now. Before I toss you over the side like I should and let the Mor take you."

  I hold his fevered, haunted eyes with mine for a moment, then drop my gaze. For an instant, the temptation to fling myself over the battlements nearly overwhelms me. I feel my feet turning, pointing me towards the suicidal edge. The end would be swift: if the fall did not end me, the Mor certainly would, probably before I could feel much pain. Deep inside, the blood magic boils in my belly, churning its way into my throat, preparing to rip the life from as many of the enemy as it can before my life is extinguished.

  Then I remember Lia, waiting for me in the city below. If I die here, she will never know why. Nor will I. I turn away from the edge, and from Garrett, and walk towards the steps.

  I pass Malthus on the way. He grabs my arm. “Kirin! Where are you going? We need you!” he cries.

  "I ... I have been dismissed. It's up to you now.” The words catch in my throat like barbs. I feel tears, of rage and shame and fear, welling in my eyes.

  Malthus stares at me as if he cannot comprehend what I am saying, then nods, his face numb. He turns away from me, back to the wall and the enemy beyond.

  I descend into shadow as, behind me, the attack begins anew.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lia arrives home several hours after dark. I hear the door open and lift my head from the table, then move to rise. My arm knocks over one of the empty bottles in front of me. It rolls aside and falls to the floor, bouncing off the rug with a mufled thump.

  "Kirin? Is that you?” she calls, ascending the stairs. “I thought you would be at the wall until tomorrow, so I—"

  She walks into the dining room and stops, her pretty eyes going wide. My cup, my leather and wood traveling mug, not one of Lia's crystal goblets, sits beside a pair of wine bottles, one empty, the other half-full. A third, empty as well, rests on the
rug under the table. The only light comes from a single, half-burnt candle; by the time darkness fell, I no longer cared about lighting the lamps.

  Seeing her expression, a surge of guilt washes over me, something I hoped I would be too drunk to feel. “M'sorry, Lia. I'll clean this up. I had a bit of time to myself today, you see, and it seemed like a nice drink or three was in order.” I bend to retrieve the fallen bottle, then find myself, unexpectedly, sitting on the floor. For some reason this strikes me as hilarious, and I begin to laugh.

  "Kirin, what happened? Why are you—"

  "Have a drink with me. It's good wine; I spent almost all of my pay on it. We're celebrating.” I haul myself to my feet, swaying as the room seems to tilt beneath me.

  Lia pulls out a chair and watches as I walk to the cabinet. I fumble with the latch and somehow manage to get one of her delicate goblets to the table without dropping it. I splash wine across the polished wood; only half ends up in the cup where it belongs.

  "What are we celebrating?” Lia asks.

  "My honorable discharge from Imperial service,” I say, forming the complex words carefully while pouring more wine into my mug.

  "I do not understand. The siege—"

  "Oh, the Mor're still out there, make no mistake. S'just that the army no longer wants me to be on the wall with proper soldiers is all."

  I raise my cup. “To the emperor, gods save his sorry hide. And ours,” I toast, before swallowing deeply. Lia nods and takes a sip, then lowers her glass to the table.

  "Kirin, this is not right. With the Mor still at the gates, the defense needs you more now than ever. My father has told me at length of his challenges in allocating mages. Why, I heard there was a daylight raid just this morning. I—"

  "Well, they've sent me away, so I guess the need isn't as dire as Daddy would have you believe, eh?"

  Lia stares into her cup, her brow furrowed. She cocks her head, her eyes puzzled. “Does this have something to do with what happened with Lord Garrett?” she asks.

  "You could say that,” I reply, fumbling with the bottle. The last of the wine splashes into my cup. Lia's face grows stern.

  "But ... that is unfair. You saved his life. They should be advancing you, not sending you away. I can talk to the regimental commandant on your behalf. Appeal Captain Garrett's decision to—"

  "No,” I say, holding up a hand to stop her.

  "I know you dislike it when I use my family's influence on your behalf, Kirin, but this is different. They weaken our defense if they send away our best and brightest."

  "Best and brightest,” I repeat, snorting laughter. It really is almost too much. “Lia I ... just don't interfere. Please? Garrett has his reasons for what he did."

  Her frown deepens. “Reasons? What could justify that? Kirin, please, I can fix this. If you are not getting along with the men in your unit, I can have you reassigned to a different—"

  "No!” I shout, splashing the dregs across my hand with the vehemence of my reaction. “There is nothing you can do! Please, just ... do nothing. The captain's decision is the right one."

  Lia reaches out and takes the mug from my hand, then places it on the table. She takes my hand, fingers twining through mine.

  "Kirin, please. I can tell there is something you are not telling me. If I knew what troubles you, I could—"

  "You mustn't because...” I choke. “Because I think that the Mor may be attacking because of me!"

  The words pass my throat like chunks of broken glass, leaving it lacerated and raw. Guilt wells up inside of me like blood. Lia stares at me for a moment, her face a shocked blank; then, astonishingly, she laughs.

  "I don't see what's so fucking funny,” I growl.

  Lia shakes her head. “I am sorry, Kirin, I really am. But, honestly, you? Why would the Mor travel all this way, burn so many settlements and march so far from their homes, just to come to you? It makes no sense!"

  "Because...” I hesitate. The image of the Mor sweetling, rising from its own dead flesh, flashes across my memory. I remember with crystal clarity the sensation of fear and loathing that reached me, like a physical sensation, when I looked upon the spirits of the Mor in the shade world. Recall the sensation of desire, mixed with bone-deep revulsion, as the sweetling killed, and killed and killed.

  I press on, sick to my stomach from too much wine and swallowed guilt. The drunken fog surrounding me recedes. “Because I have seen the spirits of the fallen Mor, Lia. On the mountain, then later on the wall. I have felt their thoughts. They fear all of humanity, but that's nothing compared to what they feel about me. They ... Lia, they loathe me. More than anything. When they saw me, I could sense how terrified they were."

  "Of what?” she asks.

  I drop my head in shame. Oh, gods, how could I?

  "I ... I did something I shouldn't have. On the wall. I ... It was during the Mor attack this morning. We weren't expecting it. They made it all the way to the wall, and were breaking down the stones. We pushed them back, but only by expending all of our arrows. When they came back, we were defenseless. Defenseless. Someone had to act."

  "Kirin, what did you do?” Lia asks, pulling away from me. The small motion, coupled with the look of mistrust in her eyes, strikes me more forcefully than a slap. All of my carefully rehearsed justifications dry up in my throat, leaving me speechless.

  "Oh, Kirin,” she breathes. “You couldn't. After everything that happened in the North. After your son ... Oh, gods, no."

  "I had to,” I say, trying to meet her eyes. How can I explain? How can I prove to her that without my sweetling's help, the wall would now be breached? “Lia, you must understand, they were going to come through if I didn't do something. They had a weapon that—"

  "I understand you did what you felt was necessary,” she says, surprising me into silence. She raises her eyes to mine. “But that does not make it right, and you know it."

  Anger surges in my breast at her righteous tone. “Don't you think I know that? I'm not trying to justify myself to you, or anyone else. I know better than anyone the price such wisdom carries."

  "Do you? Do you really?” she responds.

  "Yes! I didn't want to—"

  "Do not lie to me! Of course you wanted to!"

  The accusation shocks me into silence. Anger is smothered by a sensation of sickening guilt. Unbidden, the memory of my dead son's specter comes to me, the tiny form clamoring, demanding, that I allow it to be reborn in its fallen flesh. I try to imagine what it would have been like to give in to that terrible desire, to grant his one and only wish. But I know what the result would have been.

  A monster. A skinless, hunchbacked thing. Teeth and claws, sprouting from my son's infant flesh. A wave of nausea ripples through me.

  "M'going to be sick,” I mutter, then stagger for the kitchen. The room seems to tilt and sway, like a ship on rolling seas, and I crash into a chair on the way there. I adjust, headed through the kitchen for the rear door. I paw at the bolt, cursing it until it finally relents.

  Outside, the night is bitter cold. The air freezes the tears which lie, unfelt before now, on my cheeks. I stumble down the steps and onto the gravel path, walking to the dry fountain at the yard's center.

  I hear Lia's footsteps crunching along behind me. She pauses, an arm's length away, while I lower myself to the fountain's rim. Slowly, the clear air dispels the sick fog which fills my head and belly.

  "I'm all right now,” I say, trying to sound convincing. I scrub at the ice tickling my cheeks with a shaking hand.

  "Kirin I...” Lia begins, then stops. She gestures with her hands, as if she is trying to pluck the words she wants to say from the air, then a moment later shrugs and lets them drop.

  "Maybe the priests were right,” I mumble. “Perhaps it is as Brother Ato said, and I am an abomination."

  Lia shakes her head. “No, Kirin. Not you. You are kind and strong, and just. If you were evil, I would not love you. You are, in many ways, the best person I know."r />
  "But?” I ask, hearing the equivocation in her tone.

  "But you have something inside of you. Something that, no matter how hard you try to use it for good, will not be tamed. Or redirected, at least not for long."

  I nod. She is right.

  "What can I do?"

  "For now, nothing. Rest. Things will seem better tomorrow and we can plan our next move."

  I nod, resisting the urge to tell her that such feebleminded and easy solutions are beneath us both, forcing myself to trust her simple logic. She helps me to my feet, then leads me into the house. Arm in arm, we ascend the stairs. In my room, she lowers me into my narrow bed and helps me with my boots, then pulls the woolen blanket over me.

  Before sleep claims me, I hear her draw the bolt on her own bedroom door, barricading herself inside. Despite myself, I cannot find the indignant anger I should feel. All I can feel is relief.

  * * * *

  I wake late in the morning, roused by the tick of sleet against the window. I heave myself to my feet, groaning as my body protests. My head throbs in time to my heartbeat and my mouth feels coated with sewage.

  I remember every moment of last night.

  Lia's bed is unmade, the sheets tangled, as if she had spent the night wrestling with nightmares. I walk the house, aimlessly looking into rooms and opening doors. She is not here.

  I walk into the kitchen and there, on the table, is a note, next to the remains of her hurried breakfast. My name is at the top, in her elegant, educated hand.

  Much to do with the children today, it says. Had to leave early. We shall talk more tonight, if you desire. Try to enjoy your holiday.

  I put water on the stove to boil, then stare at my steaming cup of tea until it grows cold. The note rests on the table. I resist the urge to rip it up.

  Lia is always neat in her habits, so cleaning the house takes only a few minutes. The breakfast dishes are washed and set in the rack to dry; the empty wine bottles carried down to the cellar and put in a wooden box. I will return them later, if I have time.

  I laugh at the phrase. If there is time? There is nothing but.