Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  "Kirin, what—” Savard begins.

  The pregnant stillness is split by the sound of cracking bone, the noise obscenely sharp in the newly-minted quiet. Every eye drops to the swaddled shape.

  It is moving. Rocking back and forth, like an egg about to hatch. As we watch, the pale fabric pushes out, distended as something within, something monstrous and far too large, tries to emerge.

  By calling back the soul of his aunt, and placing it in the fossilized body of Napaula's child, Rath has made a voud'hule. But this ... this is something else.

  "Go. Run,” I hiss at Savard.

  "No. Men, form on me. Take aim at—"

  I turn and grab his shoulders. “Go! It is too late for that. Someone must survive this. You must flee. Now. Before it comes across. I will follow in a moment, but just in case I cannot, I need you to take word of what's happening here back to Lia and her father."

  The count scowls, unhappy at this order. He looks into my black eyes, and sees the bone-deep earnestness there; I see him recognize it. He drops his gaze and nods.

  "Fall back, men. Make haste to the gates; we rendezvous there. Fly, and don't look back."

  I turn away from him, facing Rath and his beastly child without a backwards glance. I hear the men's departure. It is a distant thing, barely noticed.

  The sweetlings remain motionless, as if rooted to the earth, their faces identical in the intensity of their gaze. On the stone, the swaddled figure rocks more violently, the cloth splitting asunder. A shape emerges, a pale, gleaming limb, flexing and shifting. It unfurls and I gasp, recognizing its shape at last.

  A hand. Clawed. Four-fingered. Larger than even the largest sweetling's; far, far too large to be contained within such a tiny body.

  I bite back a scream as the stone baby cracks open, showing me the mind-wrenching geometries churning within. From a place outside of our mortal plane I see Rath's creature, unfolding itself piece by piece into the world. In my mind, my sister screams, a primal, wordless sound, full of madness and terror.

  A second arm joins the first, then the crown of a head. It is horned, crowned with jagged stumps jutting from the beetling brow. The eyes beneath are shadowed, but I catch the gleam of red. Watching it unfold itself makes me want to scream; to cry and gibber, like a madwoman. I feel my hands on my cheeks, nails scrabbling at my eyelids, and force them down, lest I blind myself.

  The thing flops out from its birth cocoon, rolling across the frozen ground. It is clumsy, scuttling on hands and knees. Of course. It never learned to walk, after all. Never learned to walk. Never learned, never learned, neverneverneverneveeeeeaaAAAAGH!!

  I wince as my sister's maddened scream cuts across my brain, a rusty knife of anguish. I drop to my knees, tears streaming down my cheeks, clutching my ears in a futile gesture, trying to silence her.

  Movement catches my eye and I look back at Rath's crude altar. I see him kneel beside the feebly thrashing sweetling. It is almost as large as he, with long, long arms depending from wide shoulders. Its legs are short and bowed, more hooves than true feet. The claws on its knees, and on the back of its thighs and calves, churn the earth as it struggles to rise.

  The ragged scraps of flesh coating its gray muscles are white. White as bone. White as death.

  He puts his hand on the thing's withered cheek and asks, “Sete? Is that you, my lady? I have need of thee."

  At the sound of the name the sweetling's head snaps up. The face is placid and serene, the visage of a baby, the overlarge features flattened, oddly undeveloped. Its shining red eyes meet his.

  "Welcome back, lady aunt. I have missed y—"

  A taloned hand shoots out, wrapping around Rath's throat. The chubby, pursed lips open in a primal hiss, revealing a yawning maw full of needle teeth. They spiral around and around the black cave, running in rows back into its throat; all the way to its unbeating heart for all I know.

  Rath screams, or tries to, as the fingers tighten. It emerges as a thin whistle. His face darkens as the sweetling, or the voud'hule, or whatever it is now, lifts itself finally to its feet. He clutches its wrist as the thing lifts him up, off the ground.

  "My lady ... no ... please...” he gasps.

  All around the sweetlings watch, frozen in place. Eddard stares in horror, his shield dangling from nerveless fingers. I take advantage of the distraction and scramble towards the shelter of the trees, throwing myself flat in the rustling leaves, ducking behind a leafless bush.

  The creature draws Rath to its face, towards the needle teeth. They open further, wide enough to engulf his entire head. “Sete, please ... it is Rath. Your nephew...” he wheezes.

  The creature stops. The teeth part Rath's dark hair, scoring his scalp. I see a trickle of blood, a black rivulet, wending down, past his ear.

  It puts him down, then steps back on uncertain legs. Already, it looks more coordinated, more certain of itself. Rath sighs deeply, sagging at the waist, hands on knees for balance.

  Eddard clutches his shield, and sidles closer to him. “It is ... can we trust it, master?"

  "She remembers me now,” he says. “And the child's soul cannot resist my will. All will be fine now."

  Fool, my sister hisses. He must have never had children, if he thinks an infant cannot resist an adult's will. Despite the fear and horror of the last few hours, I feel a rueful smile stretching my lips.

  And as for Sete, I remember that summons, dragging me back from the Beyond. He may have mastered her soul for now, but she is mad. Too mad to listen. Too submerged in the insanity of the reborn to be reasoned with.

  "What is she ... it?” I breathe, softer than a whisper, striving to remain motionless. Eddard has lost sight of me in the confusion of the creature's birth. I pray they will think I ran, like the others.

  I do not know. Something unique. A sweetling that is also a voud'hule. Two souls in one undead body. One wise and powerful, trained in the necromantic arts; the other an ancient child, trapped for decades in its mother's flesh.

  Rath gazes at the sweetlings, mine and his both, still standing motionless in the ragged clearing. A frown twists his lips. “Come here!” he commands them, pointing to the ground in front of him.

  They turn to look at him, but do not move. Tentatively, I do the same, silently ordering my sweetlings to move to his side. They, too, stand frozen, their coiled, unliving bodies tense and ... yes, expectant.

  Rath turns to the pale, white creature and says, “Tell them to come to me."

  It sways, as if it does not understand, but a moment later seems to gather itself. I see it face them, then nod its terrible head.

  The sweetlings, all of them, shamble forward, towards Rath and Eddard. A chill stabs my heart as I realize that I can no longer control my children; another has overmastered me. As one they stop before him.

  "Very good,” he says with a laugh.

  He turns to Eddard, and grips the man's shoulder. “Watch my back, lest Savard or that bitch Kirin comes back and tries to shoot me again. One last invocation, old friend, and then we shall bring such terror to the Mor as they have never seen."

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Once again, Rath begins an invocation, chanting words in the harsh, guttural language I heard before. I strive to decipher the words, but they are beyond me. My mistress's art primarily involved the power of the human will over the souls of the departed, not this plaintive beseeching. In that, his working has more to do with the arts of the elementalists.

  Only once did I venture into the realm that Rath is now navigating: the ritual I performed, half-understood and by rote alone, which called my sister's shade back into my body. My experiences with her have shown me how little I ever desire to dabble in those arts ever again.

  I begin to ask my sister if perhaps she knows the outcome of this latest effort, but before I can even frame the question, Rath is already approaching the end of his working. His voice spirals up, swiftly approaching its climax.<
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  I check the arrow on my string and prepare. If I rise, as I must, to draw the stout bow properly, Eddard will certainly see me. With his shield, it is likely he will block the shot. Once Rath knows I am here, he will command his creatures to come for me. I leave the arrow on the string, waiting for a moment of distraction, of hesitation.

  The sweetlings arrayed in the clearing are swaying, moving to some silent music. The voud'hule seems unaffected by the ritual, and stands, unmoving, at his side.

  All at once, the sweetlings shuffle forward, their claws and blades upraised. The voud'hule opens its arms as if to receive an embrace.

  Rath's ritual reaches its crescendo, the words tortured, harsh enough to draw blood from his lacerated throat. He reels back, spitting red. Eddard looks towards him, then lowers the shield. He puts one hand on Rath's shoulder, his face concerned.

  I rise, breaking cover. My arm draws back the feathers, until they kiss my cold cheek.

  The sweetlings reach the hulking form of the voud'hule, wrapping their barbed limbs around it.

  Rath coughs up a wad of bloody phlegm, spitting on the icy ground; Eddard, shield momentarily forgotten, strives to assist him.

  There is a sound, like bones snapping, terribly clear in the still air. I look over at the voud'hule and the sweetlings, and what I see freezes me.

  The sweetlings’ flesh is merging with the voud'hule, unliving skin and muscle softening and blending like quicksilver, bones flexing, stretching. One, then another, then a third and fourth, are drawn into the body of Rath's creature, sinking into its pale flesh until no trace remains.

  As they do, the thing swells, growing larger as the sweetlings’ flesh is added to its own. Already it is feet taller, and broader, its limbs swelling.

  More and more of my children, and Rath's, approach the voud'hule, and are pulled inside. It is eight feet tall now, looming over the men cowering at its feet. Its shoulders, broad as a church's doors, blot out the sky. Its crown of horns twinkles in the tenebrous light.

  I cannot look away from the sight. I try. I try with all my might, but the awful vision holds me, like a rabbit in a snare, struggling but caught. Inside, I hear my sister, screaming at me, her urgency cutting across my brain like a rusted saw.

  Take the shot! Take your shot, gods damn you, sister! You must! You must!

  Half in a daze, I raise my weapon once more, sighting down the shaft. The barbed head gleams as I take aim. I let the string snap back feeling the rightness of the shot as it whispers past my outstretched hand.

  But Eddard is moving, even as the arrow flies. In my delay, he has seen me. “Master!” he screams, shoving Rath to the side, not even bothering with the heavy, clumsy shield.

  The arrow that should have hit Rath takes Eddard in the side of the neck, bursting out the other side in a spray of red. He has time for one surprised cough before his knees buckle, pitching him to the ground.

  Rath regains his balance and turns, just in time to see Eddard fall. Blood speckles his pale face. He turns, searching the trees for me, but a moment later realizes he is exposed, and ducks back, into the sheltering undergrowth.

  I have already fitted a second missile on the string as he tries to hide and I let it fly. To my surprise, the voud'hule darts forward, shockingly fast for something so large, and interposes itself between Rath and me. The arrow buries itself harmlessly in its undead flesh.

  "You cannot stop me, Kirin!” Rath calls out from his place of concealment. “Nor should you. I can stop the Mor. I can drive them back. You of all people should know what I can do."

  I crouch down behind a tree trunk, then fit a fresh arrow to the string, waiting for him to show himself. I remain silent; perhaps I can hide my position for a few moments longer.

  On the ground between us, Eddard chokes and gasps, his face covered with blood. He paws at the shaft transfixing his throat. Blood, black as tar in the dim light, pulses down his neck and chest, flowing from torn arteries as he struggles for breath.

  "Rath, please, you mustn't do this,” I call out, my urge to stop this madness overriding my fear at being found. “Souls that have been called back this long after death are...” I hesitate, wondering if what I am about to say will infuriate my sister. “They are unstable. Filled with hate at their return. They cannot love. All they can do is hate, particularly the person that pulled them back from the Beyond. Please, Rath—"

  "You lie!” he shouts. “Sete and I ... what we shared. It was different. Special! I loved her, and she me! You could never understand."

  "My sister loved me as well, but still she almost destroyed me when I brought her back. Rath, please, I know what I'm talking about. All she wants is to destroy her summoner, so she can return—"

  "No! I do not believe you! I will not! We love each other."

  I shift to the left, moving carefully to the shelter of a different tree. I turn my head, trying to fix his position in the dark by sound alone. As I move, the voud'hule follows me with its eyes, but does not move forward, remaining between us.

  "If she taught you so much, then why did you need me?” I shout, trying to buy myself a few precious moments. As soon as I stop speaking, I resume moving, away from the position I have just revealed.

  "It was the blood magic,” he says. “I couldn't see the baby any better than you could, and I couldn't risk killing Napaula before I could raise the voud'hule. If she died during the procedure, I was worried the baby's soul would be released, and would go Beyond with its mother. I could not have that."

  He used you to prolong her life and stop the bleeding, just as he said he would, my sister hisses.

  "But for his own reasons,” I whisper back.

  "I hoped you would understand, Kirin; you of all people. This will not be the end, you know. This power, it was given to us so that we could rule. You must know that. What mortal army can stand against such a thing? It is what our forefathers wanted, I'm sure of it. By denying me, you deny your destiny. Such a waste."

  I remain silent, searching for the barest glimpse of him. I am well within range; all I need is a target.

  "Kirin, I'm begging you,” Rath shouts, frustration ringing in his voice. “Come with us. We need ... I need your talents. The Mor are almost through the Lion's Mouth. The siren is warning people to flee. When they get inside, no mortal agency will be able to drive them out. Thousands will die. Kirin, we can stop them. Sete can stop them, I know it."

  His words make a certain kind of sense. Rath's necromantic workings, and mine, are somehow known to the Mor; it must be why they came here. Why they assaulted the wall. Why so many people have died. If that same power could be turned against them...

  No. This is wrong. Nobody knows that better than I. The power is too seductive, too enticing. I cannot see the outcome of Rath's actions—glimpsing the future is not one of my gifts—but I can feel the perversion of what he is doing.

  "Send Sete back, Rath. Release her. I can't let you bring that ... bring her into the city."

  Eddard, still feebly thrashing on the ground between us, chokes one last time, then goes limp, his last breath wheezing out. His eyes stare, open and sightless, his expression more confused than scared.

  "Damn you,” Rath says, softly, then louder, “damn you, Kirin! You'll pay for that, I swear it!"

  He barks a command at the voud'hule, and it extends its taloned hand towards Eddard's slumped corpse. Its opal eyes stare down with an intensity I have never seen in the walking dead. I open my inner eye, and see Eddard's soul, kneeling beside his fallen body.

  The voud'hule beckons, and Eddard turns, as if he can hear it. Ice fills my veins.

  The soul responds to the voud'hule's command, slipping back into the dead body. The meat begins to twitch and shift. The sound of tearing cloth and flesh fills the night.

  A moment later, a sweetling rips free of the bloody meat, rising on gangly limbs from the shreds of its birth cocoon. It stares at the voud'hule, transfixed, rapt.

  I stagger as what I
am seeing penetrates the fog of fear and panic that surrounds me. The last piece of the puzzle that has vexed me all the way here falls into place, revealing Rath's plan to me in full.

  The voud'hule is a talisman, a beacon, empowered by the soul of a necromancer. It can summon back the souls of the departed, just as my mistress could. All the legends say so.

  But this particular voud'hule was also once an infant, jailed in its mother's belly for decades, trapped in a prison of flesh long after its soul should have departed. I had feared such a soul might have grown powerful in its madness over those long years.

  I was right. Righter than I knew.

  The undead servants raised by Rath's voud'hule, compelled by the mingled souls of the necromancer Sete and Napaula's dead child, are sweetlings. An army of the shambling dead is frightening enough to contemplate, but a horde of those terrible creatures beggars even my imagination.

  The creature spreads its arms, and the sweetling that was once Eddard shambles forward, pressing its freshly resurrected body to its new master's. It is drawn in, like the others, adding its bulk and strength to the voud'hule. In response, the abomination's body grows larger, the shoulders broader.

  "Kill her, dearest aunt, and make yourself strong,” Rath says from the tree line. “Goodbye, Kirin. I hoped you would understand; you of all people."

  The voud'hule's thorny head turns at Rath's words, its blood-red eyes fixing on my position. Despite the darkness, and the cover of the black, leafless branches, I can sense that it can see me.

  Run, my sister urges me. Run now, and don't look back.

  The creature springs forward, its horned feet churning the trampled soil. Its eyes shine with an eager, mad light.

  I turn and flee, into the thickest part of the copse.

  My bow catches on the grasping fingers of the leafless branches, tangling itself amongst them. I let it slip from my fingers; it will only slow me. Behind me, I hear the voud'hule crash into the trees. It is like my own children in that way: it has no wood sense, or subtlety, and knows only brute strength.

  I slip through the undergrowth, feeling ahead with my hands. My eyes are useless in the black. I sense a denser tangle off to my left and turn that direction.