by Matthew Cook
"Where is Lia? Where is Lia Cho?” I scream. None reply. Finally, a bruised pyromancer points towards the figures surrounding Argus. I rush towards them, wondering if it is already too late.
I push past the knot of mages and into the inner circle. Lia is there, kneeling on the cold stone, her father in cradled in her lap. I flash back to our first meeting, to when Lia held me in the same way. The memory invokes a feeling of vertigo, like I am falling.
I shake off the sensation and kneel beside her fallen father. My learned eyes take in the extent of his injuries, lingering on the savage gash in his side. The wound is a gaping mouth, longer than my hand, framed by bloody, jagged lips. Blood pulses out with every beat of his faltering heart.
I do not even need to open my secret eye to see it is mortal. I am amazed that he is even still alive.
"Please,” Lia says, her voice full of graveyard dust. “Help him."
I look at her bruised face, into her good eye. The other is swollen shut, bruised black as sin. Her lower lip is deeply split, and blood runs down her chin, spattering her white silks with gore.
"I'll try,” I say, reaching for him, shivering as the blood magic comes sliding up my throat.
"No,” Argus croaks. “You ... will not ... soil me..."
"Father, please,” Lia whispers. “Let Kirin help you. Just until the priests arrive..."
"I said no, damn you,” he says, staring at me with terrible force.
I hesitate, my hand inches from his flesh, holding the tendrils of the blood magic at bay by sheer force of will.
"Kirin for the love of the gods, help him!” Lia screams into my face.
"I ... I cannot,” I say, hanging my head. “He has made his choice."
"But ... you can..."
"Lia,” I say, taking her hand in mine and raising my eyes to hers. “He doesn't want it. Let him go."
Lia's howl of fury splits the night, a banshee wail of unalloyed grief. I swallow down my red magic, practically swooning as its rage at being thwarted washes over me.
Argus goes limp in her arms, his breath rattling out softly. The cords standing out in his neck and shoulders smooth as his head slumps back, falling against Lia's breast.
I drop Lia's hand and grip my blade, then draw it from its sheath. I know what is coming.
"Kirin, what are you—"Lia begins, lightning flashing in her eye.
Argus twitches, his muscles flexing like plucked strings.
"Get back!” I yell, putting action to words and rising to my feet. I reach forward and give her a mighty shove, overbalancing her and pitching her backwards to the stones. Argus's body tumbles from her lap, writhing like a beheaded snake.
His eyes fly open, and I see them fill from within with shining opal. His mouth opens, and the thing that was Argus Cho hisses, a sound completely devoid of all humanity.
I strike, swinging my borrowed blade with all the force in my arms and shoulders. The sword chops into the side of his powerful neck and buries itself in his spine, lodging with a sickening sound. I yank it back, accompanied by the horrified screams of Lia and the other mages, and it comes free in a spray of blood. Argus continues to twist, his flesh distending as the sweetling forms inside, preparing to claw itself free.
It takes four blows to sever his head. Four blows, every one accompanied by screams. Four blows, each of which shivers through the steel, into my hand and arm. It is a sensation I know I will never forget, for as long as I might live.
The head finally tumbles down in a spray of red, and Argus falls motionless at last.
"No!" Lia screams, crashing into me. Together, we fall to the hard stones. I drop the sword and surrender myself to her, swallowing my own cries of pain as her fists pummel me. Her fingernails claw at my face and arms. I do not resist.
"You killed him! You killed my father! Oh, Kirin, gods damn you, what have you done!” she screams.
I look into her eyes, into the furious lightning there, and know I am moments away from death.
"I spared him from a fate worse than death,” I whisper. “Lia, I'm so sorry."
She flinches away from my voice like a slap, then looks down at her bloodied fist. It is my blood there, on her knuckles and nails. The pain in my face is soothing, like a balm, calming in a way I cannot understand.
Then she is in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. The other mages mill about us, fire and lightning shining in every eye. I look at the pyromamncer who directed me here, and hold out my hand to her.
"Will you help her tend to her father?” I ask. “The body should be taken away, until we have time to honor him properly."
"Y-yes. I ... I...” she stammers, reaching for Lia with awkward hands.
"I have to go, now, love,” I whisper in Lia's ear. “Rath must be stopped. Do you understand? He must be stopped."
She looks up at me, her eyes empty of all light, all life. Where moments before there was rage and lightning, now there is only a fathomless grief. I see in her eyes nothing but a blasted battlefield, devoid of all hope. Wordlessly, she allows me to pry her clutching hands free. I push her towards the pyromancer.
"Take care of her,” I ask. It is all I can say. She nods mutely.
I stand, walking back towards where I left Yusif. The mages part before me. No eye meets mine; all look down, or away, as if my gaze is something infectious, a thing to be avoided at all costs.
"Where are you going?” the pyromancer asks, finally finding her voice.
I see, under the lamp post, dark-robed forms. Amongst them is a small figure, her gray-white hair shining in the firelight.
I drop my sword. “To end this."
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The pain in my leg reaches a crescendo, grating through muscle and bone. I grind my teeth together and limp towards the lamp post, holding in tears of agony. I can weep later. If there is a later.
Twenty dark-robed forms are massed under the lamp: Gray Circle men, all. I see Yusif at their head, shivering a bit in his slashed robes, standing beside a small, hunched figure. Napaula.
"We came as fast as we could. The count wishes to know your plans, so he can factor them into his strategy."
I nod, the turn to the shivering form beside him. “In a moment. Napaula, are you all right?"
Yusif makes an annoyed noise, almost a growl, but I ignore it. Everything now hinges on one amazingly strong, doomed woman. If she will not help me...
No. I will not even contemplate such a thing. I cannot afford to doubt.
"I am ... so cold ... tired...” she whispers, wrapping her blanket more tightly across her thin shoulders.
I look to a Circle man standing beside Yusif and hold out my hand. “Your cloak. Now."
It is only as I utter the words that I realize the power of command suffuses them, the red magic threading, unbidden, through the fibers of my voice. The man's face goes slack, and he instantly obeys, opening the clasp at his throat and swinging the thick wool off his back.
He hands me the heavy garment and I drape it over the old woman's back. She looks at me and smiles a weary smile.
"Your baby is close, Napaula. Do you want to see him?” I whisper.
"He here?” she says, straightening. Her eyes search the square hungrily. “Where?"
Yusif hears us, though we speak softly, and moves forward, grabbing my shoulder.
"What are you doing, Lady Kirin?” he demands.
I keep my voice calm, reining in the skeins of crimson magic which threaten to enter my voice. “I'm going to take Napaula to see her son."
He searches my eyes, looking for something there, treachery perhaps. If he is startled by what I mean to do, he is hiding it well. A moment later, he drops his hand.
"You should know: Count Savard is planning a counterattack. Even now, assassins are massing on the eastern edge of the square.” He points to the far side of the courtyard. I follow his gesture, but of course, I see nothing. The Gray Circle would not be so cru
de and unprofessional as to be visible.
"Good,” I reply, trying to keep out of my voice the certainty that any such attack is doomed to fail. “It will be up to him to stop Rath, if we fail. Tell him to focus on him first, and then on the vod'hule. We can hope his death will cast it away, but we cannot count on it. Do you understand?"
Yusif nods. “I will tell him."
I turn back to Napaula, still shivering under her borrowed cloak. My inner eye slides open, gazing upon the shift and flow of her life.
The golden light I put into her, taken from Lia, and from within my own body, has faded to little more than a dim glow. Dark spots and blotches mar the tapestry of her life, patches of ravening sickness. Some of her organs—her kidneys, and the better part of her liver—have stopped functioning altogether. Darkness spreads through her blood from the dead, gray masses, further sapping her already fading strength.
Napaula is dying. She should be unconscious, deep in the final sleep that precedes death, but the stolen vitality flowing through her keeps her on her feet. But there is nothing, short of stealing another's life, that I can do to keep death at bay for much longer.
"I promised you would see your son's face. Do you remember?” I ask her.
She nods up at me, blinking. Tears shine in her faded eyes.
"Then let us go and meet him. Together."
I lace my arm through hers, taking her slight weight on my uninjured leg. Together, we stagger toward where the human defenders are making their last stand against Rath and his army.
The Gray Circle men, unbidden, form around us, a dark honor guard, shouldering aside the distracted human soldiers. As they do, the soldiers turn, wondering who could possibly be pushing past them, who would be mad enough to move toward the implacable enemy. When they see me, and the old woman at my side, both of us unarmored and unarmed, they scowl. Some shout warnings before our bodyguard shoves them aside.
Soon we are close to the fighting. Just ahead, the last of the city's living defenders curse and scream. The sound of blades scraping against bone fills the world.
I look over and see Yusif at my side. Without meaning to, I smile, and from the crinkling around his eyes, I can tell he is returning the gesture. It is good to have someone beside me in this.
But I cannot allow it.
"Tell your men to stay here, and send word to the count,” I shout to him.
He pauses for a moment, gazing at me. There is a strange look in his eye, something familiar that I cannot place. He puts out his hand, and I realize what the look means. My skin flushes cold.
It is respect, my sister says softly, watching him through my eyes. He wants to shake your hand.
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and extend my own bloodied hand, grasping his firmly. He says nothing; he does not need to. He lets go, and sketches a sign, his fingertips touching opposing shoulders before reaching forward to brush my own, before bowing deeply.
I do not recognize the gesture, but its meaning is clear enough. He is wishing me goodbye.
I nod, and he repeats the gesture to Napaula. She repeats it, the motion as smooth as only endless repetition can make it.
Yusif turns and barks an order to the rest of the Circle men, the words snatched away by the gale and the surrounding chaos. They form on him, and turn back, pressing away towards the edge of the square.
I grasp Napaula's arm more tightly, lifting her spare weight onto my hip. I can feel her trembling, with cold or with fear I cannot tell. I wonder if she can feel my own quaking. I hope not.
The old woman looks up at me and says, “My baby is good boy. Good boy."
I nod. “Of course he is. Come on, then. We have to get his attention, if we can."
I close my eyes and recall the sight of Napaula's face, eyes shining with love as she sang to the decades-old child within her. Now she sings the tremulous melody again, the half-heard words poignant in their simplicity. I remember her singing them, in the still, quiet hours of the night, cradling her swollen belly with age-spotted hands, stroking it with a mother's fierce love.
I hold her song in my mind, the cadence and rhythm of it, then gather all the strength of my will, fueled by the night's rage and fear and pain, concentrating until my head throbs. I feel a tickling on my face, but I ignore it.
The song echoes in my head. I cannot understand the words, but the meaning is plain. I feel the emotions of the night: the terror and loathing, the anger and frustration, all churning inside of me, threatening to rip the delicate melody asunder. I focus all of my fear into a single silent shout, and push it out into the world.
Rath!
With everything I have, I scream in my mind. I feel the churning emotions slip into the night, riding on the wordless call. My eyes are tightly closed, but even still it is as if I can see it, flying out like a crystal arrow, streaking over the seething mass of sweetlings between me and him.
I open my eyes, and see Rath and the vod'hule stagger, as if slapped. As one, their heads swivel towards us.
In an instant, every sweetling in the square—every single one, in their countless thousands—stops. They stand, frozen, like grotesque statues, completely unmoving. The human resistance, finding their enemies so abruptly stilled, trickles off as well, as men and woman sag aside, gasping, struggling to make the most of the sudden respite.
I reach up and absently brush at my upper lip, and am unsurprised when my hand comes away red. Something tore inside, as I gave silent voice to the scream, I could feel it, and now blood runs down my face. No time for that now.
"Come on, milady. Let's go meet your son."
Napaula and I push through the last of the warriors between us and the wall of undead. The human defenders part before us, drawing aside wordlessly. They do not understand what is happening, I can see that, but every one of them knows these moments could very well be their last.
We walk to the nearest sweetling, a savage thing no taller than my waist. Its arms have been hacked off, but still it stands, the bone spurs on its shoulders and chest slicked with freshly-spilled blood. It looks at us with its mad, opal eyes, its slash of a mouth hanging open.
Even crippled, I know we cannot stand against it should it attack. I hold my breath and try to not flinch away; to be strong for her sake.
A moment later, it stands aside. As does the next. And the next.
As I watch, a corridor opens in the nightmare ranks, an open line leading, straight as a ruler, towards Rath and the vod'hule. I take a deep, shuddering breath and step forward. No sooner do we pass into the massed sweetlings than they close behind us, cutting off all hope of retreat.
I feel Napaula shudder as she recoils from the death all around us. Her lullaby falters for a moment, trailing off to silence, then resumes a moment later. Even to my jaded eye, the display of shredded, red flesh is overwhelming; I can only imagine what it must be like for her.
I look back and see the city's defenders are pulling back, dragging their wounded with them. Some run for the still-closed gates of the Imperial Palace, but most simply lean on their weapons, grateful for the chance to take a breath.
It will not help them. If we fail, if Savard cannot take advantage of this opportunity and kill Rath, or if I am wrong, and Rath's death does not release the souls of his army, I know his creatures will cut through the last of them in short order. Once past the courtyard, there will be nothing to stop them from spreading through the city like a cancer.
It is Rath's ambition to rule; he told me as much in the cemetery. I share his power of necromancy, and bear the marks of the blood magic on my face, and because of this I know something he does not: no human will ever willingly follow such a master. The people will not welcome him. The emperor will brand him as traitor and the priests will name him abomination.
If Rath takes the throne, he will only be able to hold it through terror. He will have to perform such atrocities that I can scarce imagine, overwhelming his subjects’ loathing with crushing terror, quelling all
resistance before it can take root.
I remember the look in his eyes as he cut the vessel in Napaula's body, the mad certainty in them, and know he would do it. He will do anything, anything, to fulfill what he believes is his destiny.
The Mor were right. Nothing mortal should have this sort of power. It is too seductive, too ultimately corrupting. Maybe I should have surrendered to my fate, and let Napaula die. I could have killed Rath in the catacombs. I know I could have. This is all my fault.
Do not doubt the value of one human life, my sister whispers to me, her thoughts as warm and comforting as an embrace. Have you learned nothing? Death is not the answer—only life. Remember what you have learned, and have faith in that. Not in the feckless gods, or even in other people, but in life itself. It is time to move past what you were, and to forgive yourself for the things you've done.
I feel my back straightening as her words sink deep, evoking a thrill in my breast. It pushes aside the chill that has been in my heart for so long, since the moment my son's last breath fell from his tiny lips.
Yes. Even though the effort may kill me, I must do what I know is right. Not for Lia, or her father, or even for the countless thousands who have fallen or will fall if Rath is not stopped, but for myself, and the promise I made to the old woman at my side.
I pat Napaula's trembling hand, and she looks into my black eyes. She smiles at me, and I feel my heart soar to new heights.
Surrounded by hungry death, I lead my sacrifice forward.
* * * *
"Welcome to my court, Kirin. Have you finally come to show me the respect I am due, and to apologize for daring to raise your hand against me?"
I do not answer. Instead, I watch Rath's creature, my every sense alert, waiting for the barest flicker of reaction. Waiting for ... something. Anything.
Rath stands at the vod'hule's feet, blood on his hands and on his breast. The arrow that nearly killed him is clutched in his hands. He holds it like a king would a scepter. He must have pulled it from his own flesh; his shirt is crimson from neck to waist.