Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  The creatures flow over the men, horned limbs whiplashing back and forth. I hear cloth and flesh tear as fresh screams rip through the air. Half a dozen sweetlings pile onto the men. The hooded figures struggle to pull back, to retreat to the gate, but now that the sweetlings are amongst them I know they will not stop, will not relent, until their master calls them off or they succumb to their final death.

  One of the men impales a sweetling on his short sword, pushing the stout blade into its gaping, fanged mouth. It crunches through leather-hard flesh and bone with a butcher's sound, exploding out the back of the sweetling's head in a spray of gristle. The creature ignores the terrible wound, twisting aside and wrenching the blade from the man's fingers. It is dead; it can feel no pain.

  Its attacker is not so fortunate. He screams in mortal agony as the sweetling's clawed talon rakes across his belly. I see the man's intestines come tumbling out, hear them splash against the stones. A moment later, the man drops, writhing.

  Soon, it is over. The creatures finish their grisly work, only stopping when the last of the men fall still. One of the sweetlings, the one whose head was impaled, is badly mauled, its limbs shattered by multiple sword strokes. It lies beside the fallen men, struggling to rise.

  Rath ends its suffering with a gesture, releasing its soul to the Beyond. Instantly, the sweetling's body begins to crumble, as the force that animates it flies away. The sword transfixing its head clatters to the flagstones as its body crumbles to greasy ash.

  The casual way he dismisses it troubles me. Even though I now realize the true, unnatural nature of the creatures, I still cannot look on them without remembering the past. Once, I looked at my sweetlings as a mother would her own children, never as some tool or trifling convenience. No matter what they are, every sweetling has a soul, I cannot forget that.

  "Are you all right?” Rath asks me.

  I nod. “It was over by the time I got here. Who were they?"

  Rath squats beside the man whose belly was ripped open and rummages through his clothes. He finds the man's purse, still tied to his belt. He opens it and pours a meager stream of coins, some silver, mostly copper, into his open palm.

  "They weren't assassins,” he says. “They would have been paid in gold before coming if they were."

  "Spies?” Eddard asks, searching another man's body. He, too, has only a few coins in his purse.

  "I believe so. This smells of Count Savard and his Gray Circle. Mercenaries would not have been so well organized, nor so careful to remove any trace of their identity."

  "What were they doing here?” I ask. “And what alerted the sweetlings?"

  Rath shrugs. “Maybe one of them tried to come up to the house and peer into one of the windows. Alas, they cannot tell us more. After youre unexpected arrival, I ordered the sweetlings to kill anyone trespassing inside the manor walls."

  Rath turns towards the body closest to the house, then freezes. He curses softly.

  I turn to look, and see in the gathering dark that the body is gone. In its place is a streak of blood, pointing back, towards the rear of the house. Dark spots surround the mark: footprints.

  "I need light!” I command, moving to the bloody mark. Eddard dashes into the house, returning a moment later with a lantern.

  Even in the dim illumination, the marks tell the story. Two men, booted, were here recently. They helped a third, the wounded man, pulling him to his feet and dragging him off. While they did, they stepped into the pool of blood beneath him. I take the lantern from Eddard's hand and follow the tracks.

  Though the blood soon stops, the footprints continue, subtle marks in the thin coating of sleet covering the courtyard. They lead to the rear gate. It hangs open, its bar lying on the ground beside it. Of the men there is no trace, save spatters of blood. The man they spirited away is still alive, still bleeding.

  Rath moves up behind me and, seeing the open gate, curses again. “Can you follow them?” he says.

  "Probably. But to what end?” I ask. “I have no quarrel with the count or the Gray Circle. What would you have me do when I catch up to them?"

  Rath stares at me, then shakes his head. “Kirin, gods woman, don't you realize what this means? Savard knows what is happening here. Or, if he does not, then he will once his men report back. Once they do, he will return, probably at the head of an armed column. They'll take me for the crime of necromancy, and you as well,” he says, his voice tight and urgent.

  I shrug. “I'm not here for you, Rath. Haven't you learned by now? All I care about is Napaula and the baby. I didn't ask you to raise your foul minions or to protect me. Your crimes are not on my conscience."

  Rath shoots me a look of pure hatred before schooling his features into the bored, courtier's mask that is his usual expression.

  "Don't think Napaula's age or her sex will spare her from the count's tender examinations,” he drawls. “He is quite merciless, have no doubt. If the Circle takes her, she will be questioned, too. I doubt she'll last a day in the dungeons. If that happens, the babe will never be born."

  I shake my head. “Perhaps. But I will not kill men simply on your say-so. Self-defense is one thing—they were trespassing with motives unknown—but to hunt them down like animals ... No, I will not do it."

  Rath sighs. He looks as if he will argue more, but then drops his eyes. He nods. “Very well then, if that is your final word?"

  "It is."

  Rath's elegant face darkens with fury once more, and for a moment I fear he will allow his passions to rule him, and will attack me. I tense, willing the blood magic to stand ready. A few seconds later, Rath lets out his breath in a frustrated sigh, and his shoulders drop. I remain vigilant.

  "Then we must flee. They will be back soon, this very night. We must go to ground, someplace safe, where Napaula's baby can be born.” He turns and hurries back towards the front of the house. I follow. Behind me, I hear Eddard swinging closed the gate, hear the thump as the heavy bar is replaced.

  As he passes the bodies of the fallen, Rath pauses, his eyes wide with concentration. A few moment later, the bodies begin to twitch, their feeble motions escalating to thrashing seizures. Soon half a dozen new sweetlings stand in the courtyard, steam rising from their still-warm bodies. All that is left behind are puddles of blood, scraps of flesh, and small mounds of shredded clothing.

  Rath sways as the summoning takes its toll. I do not move to assist him. Watching the process evokes a sensation of terrible sadness, and longing, in my breast. Gods, was there really a time when I could call forth such things with unequivocal love in my heart?

  Mentally, Rath orders the creatures to take up new positions, stationing them at the base of the walls, where the shadows are thickest. When satisfied, he turns for the manor and strides inside.

  I follow, unsure of what he intends. Rath moves to the small study beside the kitchen. At the desk, he draws out a small scrap of parchment and a pen, then scribbles something upon it. He thrusts the note in my direction.

  "Go. I'll take Napaula to this address. It should be safe enough for a few days. Wait until tomorrow to meet us, if you can; Savard's spies might not have seen you, or if they did they might not have recognized you, but be wary. They might come for you next. If they do, do not let them get that.” He gestures to the note.

  I nod and tuck the parchment inside my boot. “What about Napaula?"

  "She seems in no immediate danger of going into labor,” Rath replies dryly.

  I nod again and hurry out into the newly-minted darkness.

  * * * *

  The streets outside the manor's walls are dark, the lamps unlit. The blackness could hide an army of spies. Or assassins.

  It would help if I knew why the men had come, but of course neither dead men nor sweetlings can be questioned. I wish Rath's servants had left at least one alive; I could have extracted the truth with the blood magic.

  I am not far from the manor when I smell something burning. Some instinct draws my eye ba
ck the way I came. Behind me, I see a column of smoke, lit from below by orange flames.

  I sprint back, telling myself it must be some other house, but inside I know. I turn the corner onto Rath's street and emerge into chaos.

  A swelling crowd flows towards the source of the growing disturbance. The excited buzz of conversation fills the air, rising to meet the pillar of dense, black smoke. I hurry towards Rath's house.

  By the time I arrive the upper floors are already engulfed. The blaze spreads with alarming speed, sending a column of sparks and black smoke whirling up into the winter night. I head for the gates, and hands reach out to stop me.

  "Are ye daft, woman? Y'can't go in there!” a red-faced man in a heavy black coat yells. I turn to confront him, to demand he release me, and see his shock at the sight of my black eyes. He steps back, sketching the sign of Loran Lightbringer before scurrying away.

  A woman screams as the upper windows explode in bursts of flame and shards of glass. As I watch, struggling against the hands that restrain me, the fire begins in the lower floors, catching in the curtains and filling the windows with bright orange light.

  Rath must have escaped. Must have gotten Napaula out before the fire completely engulfed the upper floors, I tell myself. He must have.

  I hear the brassy chime of bells floating above the sound of galloping hooves. The crowd parts, making room for a fire wagon. A massive brass tank is set atop it. The flames gleam from its polished sides. A team of four horses, hugely muscled animals with tree-trunk legs and hooves as large as serving platters, pulls it along the uneven cobbles.

  Men run behind, most dressed in heavy oilcloth coats. Beside the driver, I spy a woman dressed in the embroidered robes of a hydromancer.

  I turn away and slip into the crowd. Containing the blaze will demand all of the fire team's attention for the time being, but eventually they will begin to ask questions of the crowd. I curse myself for making a scene; few would have noticed me in the dark and smoke, but the man who tried to stop me will remember my black eyes and wild, white hair.

  I pull my hood higher and slip into the crowd, just another figure in a sea of others, fleeing the destruction behind me.

  It takes me less time to get home than it did the night before. I am not weary tonight, and fear puts speed into my step. As I hurry north, back towards home, I try to not look conspicuous, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder every five steps. The smell of smoke clings to me like an accusation.

  Even though I am hurrying, it is an agonizingly long time until I see the cheery lights of my street ahead. Seeing them, I break into a trot.

  Just ahead, a figure steps out from the shelter of a tree. Silhouetted by the streetlamps behind him, I cannot make out his hooded features. I stop, coming up on the balls of my feet, my hand dropping to the hilt of the Mor knife.

  I don't hear the second man until he is upon me. I hear the scrape of his booted feet an instant before he crashes into my side, his shoulder down. The heavy stone blade flies from my suddenly nerveless hand.

  We tumble sideways, into the street. I land painfully on the cobblestones, my assailant atop me, driving the breath from my lungs. My head strikes the ground in an explosion of stars.

  "Tie her hands!” the man from behind the tree whispers urgently.

  I open my mouth to scream. The house is close, maybe Lia will hear. The man atop me drives a knee savagely into the small of my back, and the indrawn breath whistles uselessly out. The pain is puissant and all-encompassing, robbing my limbs of strength and making my head spin. Dimly, I feel my wrists pulled sharply back, feel a noose of rough cord slipped over my hands, cinching tightly closed.

  The two men grab me under the arms and lift me to my feet. As soon as I am up, I feel a knife pressing against my throbbing back, jabbing me sharply.

  "Let's not make a scene,” one of them whispers. “The Count Savard requests the pleasure of your company, and we're here to see you safely to him."

  I stagger forward, blood in my mouth. The men push me towards a carriage waiting on the next street. I allow myself to be led, struggling to draw a proper breath. They clutch me at either side, not looking into my face. I will only have one chance; I must not waste it.

  "I'm going to be sick,” I mumble miserably, staggering to a stop and bending over. The men keep pulling my arms, dragging my toes across the stones. I heave, as if I am about to spew and, for an instant, instinct takes over: I feel them shift away, just a little, dropping my weight.

  I raise my boot and stomp down with all my strength on the man to my right's foot. He hisses in pain and steps back, dropping his hand. I spin to the left, raising my eyes to the other man's.

  "Get back!” I cry, the power of command flowing through the words. His jaw drops, then he steps back, woodenly.

  The pause is all I need. I kick upwards, into the juncture of his thighs. Even through the thick leather of my boot, the solidity of his pubic bone jabs painfully into the top of my foot. The man reels back, gagging and cradling his groin.

  I turn back towards the other man, just in time to see his arm descending. The lamplight glitters along the edge of his blade. I throw myself towards him, trying to get inside the strike, and feel the knife bury itself in my shoulder. The blade grates along bone, and I scream in agony.

  Then we tumble back for the second time in as many minutes. Even as we fall, I feel the man pull out the knife and stab me again, this time in the side, below the ribs.

  I am on top as we fall to the stones. I try to crush his groin with my knee, but he is ready for the trick, his legs pressed tightly together around my leg. With my hands bound behind me, I cannot get the proper leverage to break free. The fire in my wounded back and side steals away my breath.

  I feel his arm come around. Ice cold steel, sharp as a razor, kisses my throat. I freeze.

  "Get off, aschula, or so help me I'll slit your whore's throat, orders or no,” he pants. His eyes, only inches away, glare into mine. The knife presses down, and I feel the flesh beneath it part, feel the first trickle of my blood.

  I do not want to hurt these men, but I have no choice. Napaula needs me.

  "Kiss me,” I whisper, threading the iron tendrils of my will through the words. I feel him jerk as the command takes hold, feel him resisting. I flinch as his struggles jerk the knife, deepening the wound in my neck. I refuse to move, lest I break eye contact and sever the connection between us.

  Then he leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. The contact, flesh to flesh, is all I need. I open my mouth wide and he responds.

  The blood magic comes ravening up my throat, spilling past my tongue and teeth, driving inside his body. I command it to dig deeply, all the way into his heart. The man moans into my mouth, a second before his life blood comes rushing up. The knife falls from his nerveless fingers.

  A burst of strength floods my limbs as his stolen vitality fills me. I jerk my arms and feel the rough cord part like twine. I reach up and cup his face in my hands, pulling his mouth against mine. Dimly, I feel him shuddering beneath me, his struggles growing more and more feeble, until he is finally still.

  I break away, pulling my mouth from his. The taste of blood, heavy and metallic, fills my mouth. My shoulder and side tingle, like ants marching across my flesh. I do not need to look to sense that the man's stolen life has made my wounds whole again.

  I hear a moan and look up from the corpse. The second man crouches, still cradling his injured privates. His eyes are wide with horror as he looks at the shriveled body of his partner.

  Inside, the blood magic capers and cavorts, laughing at his fear. I feel my lips twist to mirror its black humor. My black eyes find his and I whisper: "Run."

  My attacker needs no encouragement, does not require the power of command. He turns and stumbles up the street, sobbing in terror.

  I force my legs to remain still. Every fiber of me demands that I pursue my prey. That I run him to ground and snuff out his life. Inside, the
blood magic cries out in frustration. It has been so long since it was allowed to do what it does best: to rip; to tear; to yank the life from a body by its bloody roots.

  I look down at the dead man at my feet and try to ignore the magic's frustrated clamor. The corpse is wizened and shriveled, smaller than an old man's, the eyes sunken to black pits. Blood, black in the lamplight, slicks the figure's face. The stench of shit and fresh blood rises from it in a choking cloud.

  I turn aside as the realization of what I have done penetrates my bloodlust. The ground tilts, and I drop to my knees, my eyes bulging with horror. The man's sunken eyes glare at me, full of undying accusation. Oh, gods, no. Please, not again. Not again.

  After a time, I do not know how long, the stones’ cold penetrates my numb lethargy. I cannot be seen here, only a few doors from Lia's house. Just thinking of the immensity of the scandal makes my head spin.

  No. I must hide the evidence of my crime, just until I can deal with Napaula. Once she is safe, once the babe is born, to live or die I know not, I will give myself over to Count Savard's mercy. Later, but not now.

  I stagger to my feet, then kneel beside the body. It is light, no heavier than a child's. I feel the bones, sharp beneath the shrunken parchment of its skin. I shudder and carry it to my house, laying it in the deep shadows beside the rear stairs.

  I must leave. Now. Before my would-be kidnapper can report to the master of the Gray Circle. Before the hounds are sent out to find me. Before they can come and question Lia, dearest, innocent Lia.

  They will tell her what I did. What Rath is still doing. They will watch with hard, uncaring eyes as Lia cries for me, and for herself. I should not linger; I should be far away from here, now.

  I find myself at the front door, opening it onto warmth and light and the enticing smell of cooking food. Even though every instinct cries out for me to run, I know I cannot let them be the ones to tell her. After everything we have endured together, I owe her that much.