Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  I let the bow string snap from my callused fingertips, breathing softly out, soft as a lover's sigh. As the arrow flies into the orange sky, I feel a thrill at the rightness of the shot. A surge of pleasure, almost sexual in its intensity, suffuses me, and I shiver with the force of it.

  I look back at Rath, in time to see my shot land. The arrow takes him high, in the chest, slamming him back with the force of its impact. I hear his scream of rage and pain, not in my ears, but in my mind. My sister's cry of triumph rings alongside it, high and proud as the scream of a hawk.

  Rath staggers back, away from our deadly missiles, the vod'hule moving to shelter him once more with its body. I see the shaft, jutting from the juncture of shoulder and chest. He is screaming, shrieks of pain and rage, which I can hear clearly in my head.

  For just a moment, the vod'hule reels, staggering as if it shares in its master's pain. I see the cold resolve slip, and its thick limbs twitch, reaching forward as if to embrace Rath. For just an instant, its eyes blaze white, the pearlescent shine overwhelming their usual, blood red tinge. Then it shakes its horned head, like a man waking from a troubling nightmare, and I see it recover itself.

  "'Ware the enemy!” the spearmen to my left cry, a moment before the flayed lines reach their position. I turn just in time to see Rath's reinforcements crash into the spears.

  When I look back, Rath is well out of range, pushed away from the fighting by the vod'hule. It stands close to him, shielding him with its impregnable flesh.

  The human warriors are trapped between his bodyguard and the much larger force still streaming into the square from the shattered gates.

  It is over. I have failed.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Men scream in terror, or agony, as the sweetlings begin their butchery. Many of the unliving creatures hurl themselves bodily upon the bristling line of spear tips thrust at them. Only a few are damaged sufficiently to sever the cords binding their souls; many more simply heave forward, pushing until the shining points burst through their backs, then scrambling up the shafts until they can reach the startled spearmen holding them.

  Claws rise and fall like threshing tools. Coatings of stinking black Mor blood turn crimson as human blood is spilled into the chill air. The men brace themselves, grounding the butts of their weapons behind their booted feet, desperate to keep the foe at a distance.

  I see the front ranks of spearmen buckling, bowing towards me as the men in the front ranks flinch away, giving in to the atavistic horror that the sweetlings inspire. Sergeants and captains bellow orders, commanding the men to stand fast. The words sound desperate to my ears.

  "Kirin! Kirin!” someone shouts behind me. I turn to see Argus Cho, striding through the massed bowmen around me. He is surrounded by a knot of elementalists, who flank him like an honor guard.

  I turn, not waiting to be dismissed; I have graver concerns than breaking with military protocol. A moment later, I reach him.

  "What must we do?” he demands. “The abominations were too fast, and charged forward before the pyromancers could summon fresh allies. Their force is engaged with ours, and fear that if the aeromancers loose the lightning that many men will be harmed."

  I look him in the eye. “Strike. Strike as hard as you can. It is too late to worry about such things now."

  The words slip past my lips like razors of ice, slicing me deep, infusing me with their deadly chill. Argus's eyes widen, as if he is shocked by what I have said, but then I see him nod, and realize that he, too, came to the same conclusion before he approached me.

  "I'm sorry, but we have no choice now. Make every death count, for every man who falls simply adds to Rath's might."

  He stares at me for a moment, as if I am the most loathsome thing he has ever seen, then drops his eyes. I see the realization that I am right flow across him, aging him ten years in a moment. He nods.

  The master elementalist turns back and gestures to the mages standing behind us. His eyes burn, bright as glowing lava, full of smoldering rage and incalculable force. Lines of terrible responsibility are graven into his face, as if gouged there by some rude claw.

  At his wave, the pyromancers give a mighty shout, and I see new forms coalescing from the fires all around. Seconds later, a fresh menagerie of burning avatars stride from the flames, rushing towards the massed sweetlings on our flank. The stink of burning meat rises on the wind.

  "Gods damn you for this, Kirin,” he says to me softly, fixing me with his burning glare.

  I meet his eye and nod. “Aye. I've no doubt they will. Gods’ speed to you, master elementalist."

  He spares a moment to give me one last look, then turns away, facing the vod'hule. Orange lightning erupts from his eyes, wreathing his face in a corona of energy. At the same moment, flames envelop his hands, crisping the sleeves of his grey woolen coat.

  They burn briskly, consumed by the terrible heat, until he tears off the garment and the woolen shirt beneath with an annoyed snarl. Argus's flesh is untouched by the fire, shining like marble in the glow of his burning hands. He roars, his voice rising above the din, and strides forward, his coterie flanking him. Soldiers part, allowing Argus a clear line to the densest part of the fighting.

  Into the massed sweetlings, Argus Cho charges. He swings his flaming fists like hammers, smiting creature after creature. Wherever they strike, I see a flash of fiery lightning. The sweetlings struck are blasted into ash.

  Cho's bodyguard pull together, wielding their own elemental talents in bursts of flame or azure lightning. The few geomancers who have managed to recover stand just behind Cho, their fists encased in massive gauntlets of living rock. They maneuver them like shields, a tactic borrowed from the Mor, sheltering his flanks from anything that approaches. The air rings with thunderclaps, stunning every ear and dazzling every eye. Behind them, the army captains mobilize their ranks, following Argus's charge.

  He is unstoppable, a juggernaut of flame and storm, wielding death in his clenched fists. But, he is not immortal, and all it will take is one claw, one biting, fanged mouth, attacking from behind, and he will fall.

  The elemental defenders cut into the densest part of the massed sweetlings. Argus's blows fall like the hammers of a war god, and creature after creature is reduced to blowing dust. At the flanks, the pyromancer's burning avatars smite with their flaming paws and bite with their cavernous, fire-lined mouths, sending still more back to the realms beyond the Vale.

  But even as the human counterattack begins, I see it weakening. Sweetlings lash out, ignoring the peril of the men's swords and the blasts of fire and lightning, driven only by the desire to kill the defenders amongst them.

  Every time a man or woman falls, they rise again moments later, one of Rath's ever-swelling brood. The warriors’ resolve is tested, stretching to the breaking point and beyond, as their former allies return from death as slavering nightmares.

  I feel so helpless. With only a few arrows left, and our forces mixed in with Rath's, I cannot afford the luxury of shooting blind. The blood magic writhes in my belly, but there is no enemy I can unleash it upon. I feel bitter, frustrated tears sting my eyes.

  Across the square, I see Rath, safely out of range and cavorting at the feet of his creation. The vod'hule stares across at its minions, its face unreadable. If it feels pleasure at their performance, I cannot tell; it is too alien, unfathomable, even to me.

  Unbidden, the memory of my own son comes to me. Soon I will be reunited with him, I have no doubt of it. The enemy is too powerful, growing in strength with every fallen soldier. I think of the vod'hule, Rath's own child, which even now still shelters him from harm.

  Something about the association troubles me. Disquiet cuts through my fear. I feel as if I am missing something, some invaluable idea or concept. No sooner do I pause to reflect on it than I realize what it is.

  The vod'hule is not Rath's child. Made from its petrified flesh, it was, but it is not, no
r ever was it his. It had decades—decades—in the company of another, before it was ripped bodily from the warm shelter of its womb.

  I think back to the moment after my arrow struck Rath. The vod'hule staggered as well, its eyes blazing white for a moment. It reached for him, as if it wanted to embrace him, before recovering itself a moment later.

  The realization of what I saw floods over me, taking my breath away. I know what I must do.

  I just pray it is not too late.

  I toss aside my worthless bow and turn, my eyes frantically searching for Savard's dark-clad man. Minutes pass as I look, up and down the swirling lines, until despair begins to overwhelm the brief surge of hope that still pulses faintly in my chest. I do not see him. Did he go into battle with the other soldiers, and even now has fallen and been brought back as another pearl-eyed monster?

  Then I see him, a figure clad in charcoal black, at the combat's fringe. Even as he fights, blade scything along with the soldiers', I can see him watching the distant form of Rath, waiting for some scant opening.

  I run towards him, shouldering aside men and women. I pause long enough to scoop up a sword, still clutched in the tattered remains of some unlucky soldier's hand. I peel away the skin like a discarded glove, still horrifyingly warm.

  "Oi! Savard! Hey, there, Circle Man!” I scream, trying to be heard above the screams and clang of steel on bone.

  A hunched creature slashes with a bladed forelimb, and I hear the sickening crunch of bone. A woman goes down, her face cleft in twain, flesh shredded to the breastbone. She does not even have time to scream, and falls, open-eyed to the paving stones. Her killer looks over her body, fixing me with its opal eyes.

  Without hesitation, before it can extract its weapon, I step over the fallen soldier and stab down, savagely, thrusting the tip of my borrowed weapon into the thing's fanged maw. The tip crunches through gristle and meat. I twist savagely, praying wordlessly that I have reached the cord leading down from the base of the skull.

  For a terrifying moment, the thing glares at me, its face bisected by the shining sword, its teeth chomping against the weapon, snapping off one by one against the unyielding steel. It frees its bloodied arm blade from the fallen woman, and rears back to strike.

  Then, it crumbles, surrendering itself to death as my sword finally finds its mark. Moments later, it is nothing but a pile of greasy ash, blowing in the gale.

  I almost die a second time as the fallen woman's body heaves beneath me, spawning another sweetling literally beneath my feet. The newborn killer thrashes and heaves, momentarily disoriented by its rebirth, arms and legs scissoring as it claws its way from its fleshly cocoon.

  I scream and jump back, feeling one of the thing's barbs tearing into my flesh. My thigh burns as the sweetling's talon digs into the meat of my leg and snags fast. Heedless of the pain, I throw myself bodily backwards, feeling the sickening tearing of flesh and leather as the hook is pulled free.

  I roll aside, then try to regain my feet, but my injured leg folds the instant I put weight on it, pitching me to the cold stones. Booted feet are all around me, stamping and scraping, a forest of woolen leggings and leather.

  I scramble away from where the sweetling is even now rising, its mad white eyes searching for me. It spies me a moment later, and drops to all fours, scurrying towards me like a pale monstrous spider.

  I can see the fallen women's face, eerily preserved atop the scrawny, rope-muscled body. One sad breast flops in the cold air; the other side of the chest is a flayed expanse of wet, red muscle, studded with spines. A mantle of bone spurs cascades down its twisted back, like porcupine quills, merging with the matted tangle of her hair. The legs have been broken and re-formed in the process of the sweetling's rebirth, and flex the wrong way on shattered knees.

  It should not be able to move, let alone scramble forward with such appalling speed, but it does. It does not know mercy or pity; pain or fear. All it knows now is the desire to kill at its master's bidding.

  I try to rise a second time, biting down on the urge to scream as my wounded leg protests. I manage to get to my feet, my weight on my good leg, swaying as my sense of balance gently spins.

  "Come on then!” I scream at the thing, gripping my sword tighter. “Come on!"

  The sweetling launches itself at me, arms spread, its opal eyes shining with insane rage. I shift to the left, trying to move aside, and my leg folds once more, sending a lance of agony through me. I fall to the ground, howling my denial as I crash to the stones.

  "No!"

  But the sweetling is taken by surprise as well, and sails past me. Its claws reach for me as it passes overhead, one sliding up, across my cheek and brow. Where it touches leaves behind a trail of fire, but compared to the pain in my thigh it is a small hurt, almost trivial.

  The creature crashes into the massed warriors in a tangle of bone spurs and spines. Men shout at this new danger, turning to interpose shields between them and the sweetling. Swords hack down, into the thing's flesh, chopping out chunks of muscle and bone. Soon it is over and I see the woman's body succumb to its second death.

  I claw my way to my feet once more, my blood singing. The red magic twists in my belly, responding to my lust. I want nothing more than to watch another sweetling, then another, and another, fall into ash and dust. Hacking and chopping until none remain, or until the sweet release of death claims me.

  No! You cannot! my sister screams in my head. You must find Savard's man and get out of this. If you fall, they will have no idea of what to do. Leave the killing, and dying, to the soldiers. You must stop Rath and the vod'hule!

  I blink as her words penetrate the mist that fills my head. A moment later, the haze of rage drops away.

  "You're right. Thank you, sister,” I whisper.

  I turn back to where I saw the Gray Circle man. I find him once more. He is still fighting, his sword slashing all around him. He is not unscathed; his robes are slashed open, exposing his chest, and blood sparkles against his pale skin.

  "Savard! Savard!” I yell, limping towards him. He hears me this time, and turns towards me. When he sees who it is, he disengages and pushes back towards me. We meet scant yards from where the battle still rages, and I have to raise my voice to be heard over the clamor.

  "I need you! I have an idea!” I say.

  The man's eyes go wide above the dark cloth covering his lower face, and he thrusts over my shoulder with his sword. I lurch aside, just in time to avoid another shambling horror.

  The sweetling impales itself on the Circle man's blade. He holds it at bay, his face pale with strain, as I line up my own cut. I bring my borrowed sword down on the back of its neck, hard. Its head tumbles free, then crumbles into dust before it can strike the ground.

  "We have to get clear of this!” I shout, turning away from the tumult. I do not wait to see if he will follow. He must.

  He does, following me out of the press. When we reach the fringes of the fighting, I turn to him.

  "What is your name?” I ask.

  "Yusif,” he answers, after a pause.

  I cannot tell if he is lying to me, but at least I have a name now, something personal I can appeal to if he decides to resist me.

  "Do you know where Savard has Napaula, Yusif?"

  "The old woman?” he asks, frowning. “Aye."

  "I need her. Now,” I say.

  Yusif frowns, confusion in his eyes. I see him draw breath to question me, and wave the words aside before he can utter them.

  "I don't have time to explain. Please, Yusif, will you help me or not?"

  He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Aye. She is being held not far from here."

  I let out a breath, allowing my shoulders to droop. Good. I could have compelled him to go for her with my red magic, but once out my presence who knows if it would have been enough to make him return? Probably not.

  "Then hurry, and bring her as fast as you can. Go!"

  He nods and sheathes his sword,
then sprints away across the square, headed back into the tangled maze of city streets.

  I grip the sword more tightly, and settle back to wait. My leg throbs, and I grit my teeth against the tearing pain. Now all I have to do is keep alive until he returns.

  I pray it will be soon.

  I do not see the blow that fells Argus Cho, but I, like every other soldier in the square, know when it lands. One moment he is fighting, wreathed in orange lightning, lashing out with hammers of light and fire, and the next, he is gone, the light snuffed out like a candle.

  I see his coterie pull together, striking in all directions with bolts of their own elemental force, as they frantically try to disengage from the sweetlings surrounding them. The soldiers following in their wake send up a massed cry, the sound full of dismay, and redouble their own efforts, slashing wildly.

  I scramble up the base of a nearby lamp post, clumsy on my injured leg, needing a better view, but all I can see are swirling armored forms besieged by rippling waves of pale flesh. At the heart of the fighting, where the figures are thickest, I see a knot of color—Cho's elementalist bodyguard—tightly packed, moving frantically away.

  I look back, to where Savard's man disappeared, torn by the desire to rush forward, to run to Lia, and the very real possibility that if he should return with Napaula while I am gone, I will miss them.

  Azure lightning stabs down, scattering sweetlings like fall leaves, and I drop from my perch. I hiss in pain as I land, my slashed leg screaming in protest. No matter the cost, I must be there for Lia. I limp forwards, shouldering aside armored men and women, ignoring their curses and shouts.

  The knot of gaily-colored mages finally breaks clear of the fighting. I hurry the final yards to their side. They have something in their arms, born aloft on many hands: a pale body, skin shining in the orange light.

  Argus Cho.

  They hurry to the first clear spot they can find, and lower him to the paving stones. Even before I reach them, I can see the terrible damage done to his body, see the twist of shattered limbs smeared with bright red blood. Mages scream for priests of Shanira. Others weep, shaking with sobs as tears stream down their grimed cheeks.