Lancaster abandoned the bench and stepped forward, crouching. Her other hand joined the first in a complicated gesture. Half of a hemisphere of silver light glittered as the remaining bullets splashed ineffectively into an invisible shield which she extended to cover not only herself, but also Hendriksen.
He grunted as he tried to roll over. His own body had protected his brother, who began crawling away.
Figures.
Fighting the growing pain, Hendriksen lay on his side and made a fumbling draw with his lighter pistol. A brilliant snap of light reduced the golem to a pile of glowing sludge.
“There it is,” Lancaster said brightly as she finally rose to a standing position, eyeing his little brass gun. “I’d wondered where that had gotten to.” She surveyed the rapid action that surrounded them, adding, “The modifications made by your artificers are inferior.”
Another SS golem snapped off some shots at Lancaster, but her shield intercepted the bullets with a single wave of her right hand. The enemy agent dove for a garbage tip as his own rounds rebounded.
Eduard was several meters away now, nearly all the way to the quay’s edge. He put his hand in a pocket, making Hendriksen tense, but his brother remained prone and, with a grunt of effort, scattered a handful of pea-sized bits of ivory across the pier.
“Oriuntur!” he shouted. “Fidelius militum, oriuntur!”
Hendriksen stiffened. He knew his Latin.
Apparently, so did Eduard.
More than a dozen new shapes grew upwards into a standing position. As they straightened, arms separated from their claylike trunks. These didn’t even attempt a pretense at clothing or faces. Short lashes of golden light dripped from each black hand as the bottom half of the trunks split to become legs.
Hendriksen attempted to fire at the nearest, but his arcane firearm emitted only an angry yellow spark.
The dozen or more golems began to step towards the diminutive woman and the wounded agent as Eduard scrambled sideways to avoid their advance.
“Dragon’s teeth!” Catherine of Lancaster said, more seriously this time. “I underestimated Stuttgart’s interest. And his resources.”
She raised her voice.
“About now, if you please, ladies!”
Hendriksen had been watching his death approach, so he had an excellent view as both Culpepper and Seymour appeared quite suddenly, as though they had been behind an insubstantial but otherwise perfect drapery.
Instead of skirts and heels, this time they were clad in what looked like sleek plate armor. They interposed themselves between the mob of golems and the bench. The first swung his glowing whip of light, but Culpepper bent backwards from the waist as gracefully as a gymnast, and the weapon swung past her face, missing by a hairsbreadth. Her return stroke with a silver axe did not, and the golem slumped into the now-familiar pile of mush. She thrust a palm outwards and a silver wave of force knocked a pair of nearby golems from their feet. Seymour adopted a classic fencing position, and with very rapid steps, she advanced, the little silver foil in her fist dipping first to deflect a whip, and then to run a golem through.
In four seconds, she dispatched four more constructs, her movements so fast that Hendriksen’s blurring vision couldn’t quite follow.
Together, the two ladies performed a whirling dance of death, and with each stroke, another golem dropped.
The sound of a hissing crack jerked Hendriksen’s attention. The bench exploded into splinters as a light whip crashed through it, swung by a golem who, luckier or faster than its fellows, had made it to the place where the case lay.
Hendriksen could feel himself beginning to fade and tried to scrabble away, but his legs were not responding properly. By dint of a desperate roll, he only just missed another forehand blow, and watched his death approach as the golem cocked its hand for a backhand swing.
A silver knife blade grew quite suddenly from its chest, and it too collapsed. Nearly within touching distance, Hendriksen could hear a slight hissing sound as whatever the being was made from flowed across the planks. As it shrank, Lancaster’s slight form appeared behind the felled creature.
The sound of a motor launch roared from the far side of the quay. A quick glance revealed that the younger Hendriksen was missing. The sound of alarm whistles punctuated the night and, from the far quay, a searchlight stabbed out, illuminating a white curving wake.
“Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Three!”
Laying on his back, Hendriksen could make out the distant sound of shouted orders.
“Well, my sisters,” Seymour said, stepping into his field of vision. “You saw him intervene. It seems that he has Chosen.”
“Should we save him?” Culpepper asked brightly, also stepping forward. Her little axe was nowhere to be seen and instead she folded her arms, all angles and attitude. She leaned forward, staring into Hendriksen’s eyes, even as he tasted the blood rising in his mouth.
“The Keep has ever considered adding as many of the Blood to our strength as we could find,” replied Seymour. She still held the little foil but made a moue of distaste as she regarded the golem sludge spattered on her vambraces.
With a considering glance back at Hendriksen, she offered, “Another properly owned Knight could be decisive.”
Screw that. No one owns me.
Hendriksen made an effort to rise to his elbows so he could tell them what to do with their idea but failed as his strength fled his limbs.
“I don’t know that this Knight-in-being is salvageable, Madam Seymour,” the shortest Catherine said. Her blue eyes were cold, devoid of emotion. “Untrained. Uncouth. Proud of it, just like our unlamented Henry. Can you not see the Stain upon this man?”
She held the case in one hand. “We have what we came for.”
Seymour stepped closer. Her regard was so intense, it was as though she was looking through Hendriksen.
“He could be useful. He lacks only focus and a reason to belong,” she said.
The one-time German agent tried to roll to one side, but couldn’t even manage that much, let alone reach the little arcane pistol that lay only a foot or two away on a glowing mound of sludge. Culpepper negligently toed it a little further away.
“He’s tenacious,” she said.
Stooping closer, the youngest Raven moved Hendriksen’s wide-brimmed hat away from the spreading blood puddle and brushed a forelock out of his eyes.
Lancaster wasn’t so solicitous.
“Have you considered your Choice?” she asked. “Whom do you belong to? Scavengers like your brother, twisted by distant masters? Your admiral, a doomed Knight already irredeemably Stained? Or something else?”
His field of view began to narrow as blood loss affected his vision. He knew that Culpepper’s eyes were golden. Lancaster stepped closer still, and her eyes should have been blue.
Instead the world was rendering in shades of gray.
He tried to speak, but a bloody cough was as good as he could manage.
I belong to no one, not the SS, not Canaris, and especially not these three dames.
Lancaster squinted suspiciously, as though she could hear him.
“Good enough,” Culpepper said, smiling. “We can work with that, for now.”
She turned to her partners. “Well?”
The pier light had been growing dim and now it was nearly out. He sagged backwards, lying in his own blood. Through rapidly fluttering eyelids, he could see all three Kates looking down at him now, side by side. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry to make up their damned minds.
Going.
Going.
Fade to black.
Worth the Scars of Dying
Patrick M. Tracy
The most beautiful woman in the city leaned against the wall of my shop, sobbing into a scrap of green silk. A glimmer of light flashed inside a tear as it traced down her knuckles. Her indrawn breath carried to my ears, a soft shiver. My mouth opened, hoping for the scent of her against my palette. I didn
’t know the door would blow in a moment later. I didn’t know the dead would pile high on the floor, or that I’d be turning down the darkest streets in town on her behalf. I just knew that a gorgeous redhead crying was a damned shame.
I grew up in Remnar, the biggest city in the world. Not the pretty surface city, but the seedy subterranean part. I don’t daze easy. Seeing her, though? She hit me across the eyes like a warhammer. Everything slowed down. The smooth lines of her body beneath that green dress told me stories about worlds I’d never known. Her red hair swayed, powered by the action of her tears.
I’m not the kind to help. Never been a hero or cared to be. I try to be kind, but this place will break you ten ways if you can’t build a wall around your heart. Tragedy rolls down every street like trash blown by the wind. Seeing her there, just this side of the stairs up to Lex’s, I found myself wanting to be different than I am. I wished for something I’d always shied away from. Goodness, I guess. In retrospect, probably a mistake. In the sordid underground of a city built by demons, reaching for goodness will get you killed.
I only had a moment to gawk at her and be a bad host to my customers before the door smashed inward, falling in four parts, sliding across the floor at jagged angles. A human in heavy armor burst in, shield lowered and heavy sword glinting in the orange light of the witchlamps.
A cup of darkbrew shattered on the floor, spraying hot liquid on my shoes. The lady dwarf who I’d been handing the beverage swore, jumping back from the mess. I turned, meeting the human attacker’s eyes. His pupils hardened down to pinpoints. Rank sweat cooked from out of his mail, a tail of greasy black hair across his shoulders.
He headed straight for the woman. Her. The High Queen of all redheads.
Crying, she hardly jumped at the sudden crash and motion. Even if she had, her dress couldn’t stop a breeze, let alone a blade. I’d seen what a sword did to bare flesh. My mind flashed forward, hearing the wet tearing sound as the sword cut deep and freed her living blood. I saw her on the boards, eyes gone blank, the miracle of the living dissipated.
Oh, hell no. Not in my shop.
I didn’t know I’d summoned the Emperor’s Rush until my hand whipped out, the forked sign of death forming, power like congealed shadow and fire burning down my bones. I didn’t think about it until the magic lashed out, smashing through the human’s shield, his armor, his flesh. He flew back out the broken door, a hole in his body where life used to be. His soul ripped free of his corpse, lingering there, confused and pale. When they die in strife, their spirit isn’t ready for the journey. Most people can’t see them, but they can feel the chill of their ghosts haunting an empty room.
Another warrior rushed in. I shouted in the barking tongue of the underworld. His face disappeared into black fire, his scalp drifting down to the floorboards far more slowly than his nerveless body fell. The sound of the body landing touched the air like a fallen grain sack.
The redhead’s face turned to me, locking on mine as my brow burned with the shadow crown of evil magic. She didn’t flinch. Even as my horns manifested and I could feel my teeth grow bestial in my jaw, her eyes stayed steady, looking at me as a savior. No one had ever looked at me that way. I didn’t think anyone ever would. That’s what makes you lose your head. When a beautiful dream walks in the door and treats you like a better person than you know you are.
I ran to her side, shielding her from the other two as they trampled over the fallen bodies of their comrades. I closed my right fist, and the power of the Emperor’s Rush glided across my clavicles, seething in my shoulder joint and down my left arm. Beyond gods and devils, beyond the passing of eons, the everlasting power of death flared in me. You don’t tell it what you want, you simply call it forth and reap its dark reward.
A giant shadow fell across them. A single monstrous arm pushed through the fabric between worlds. Made of burning shadow, it shed hot darkness and a slow crawl of smoke. The third attacker, a massive orc female, ducked under the fist of darkness and swung a flanged mace at me. I juked to the side, and the mace smashed a fist-sized divot in the stairwell next to me. I pushed the redhead up the stairs with my right hand, then swung the shadow fist. The scrawny fourth warrior’s breastplate buckled. He flew through the window, dead before the sound of shattering glass reached his ears. The very expensive window that I’d just had replaced. Lex, my upstairs tenant, had gone through it in a brawl a few weeks prior. The glazier had only mounted the new pane that morning. At great expense, in case I didn’t mention that.
I kicked out at the female orc. A clumsy attack, but right on the point of her knee, slowing her down just enough. The mace missed me by an inch. Her swing destroyed a stair riser right beneath me. I fell. The redhead caught me before my head bounced against a stair, and we went down in a heap. The orc loomed above us, mace rising for her next swing. I clenched my left fist. The claw of burning shadow engulfed the orc female, shaking her like a rat in the jaws of a hound. Her bones broke, her tissue tearing from its tendon locks. Being an orc, she bore three times the punishment that would kill anything else. That just prolonged things for another few moments.
She died. Bad. Screaming. The spell dissipated, and what fell from its grasp looked like stew meat inside torn splint mail.
The quiet after a killing comes down hard and fast. It presses on your ears like diving into the deep ocean. My heart hammering, I scrambled to my feet, passing my palms over my forehead. I replaced the glamour that hides the shadow of my horns. The jagged teeth of a monster folded away, leaving my jaw and gums soaked in blood. My unholy patron, Skolle, released his grip on my skeleton, and the loss of the power ached to my core. It felt like the hunger of a starving man, the envy of the cuckold, the shiver of the dry drunk.
Just like every time.
The echoes of the dark fire chattered down the empty hallways of my long bones, and I wavered on my feet.
“Whore’s bastards and motherless dogs,” I whispered.
I stepped back down into the shop. It would take hours to get the blood out of the floors. I almost wished I was a wizard, with all those handy spells. The six customers sat at their tables, their faces filled with shock and horror. Well, mostly. Sebastian, my most loyal customer, sipped at his darkbrew, a look of vague interest playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Folks, I’m going to have to close the shop for a while. Please finish up and go out the back. You all have a comped darkbrew on your next visit, and I apologize for the inconvenience.”
I didn’t need to ask them twice. They filed out, old Meurin still holding a half-eaten pastry, stepping over the unrecognizable gore where the orc had fallen. This incident would probably lose me a customer or two. Then again, the action might bring a few others. I took a big breath and let it loose.
Turning, I saw the redhead had caught hold of herself and wiped away the tears. She looked at me steadily, maybe to avoid looking at what lay below us on the boards. Maybe because, when the glamour is up and the helltouched features are smoothed over, I’m pretty dashing.
“You all right?” My voice felt tight and hoarse. You don’t spend the morning serving darkbrew and baking pastries, thinking you’re going to be standing over dead bodies. You don’t expect to taste the bitter stress of almost dying in your throat. The stink of the fallen rose into the air. The redhead’s emerald eyes had never flinched away from me, but that smell caught her. Some of the color fell away from her cheeks. Her fingers reached out, steadying herself against the wall.
“Why?” she asked.
Oh, her voice reached in and shook me inside. It took me a minute to find my words again. “They were coming for you, sweetness.”
Her brow crinkled. When she thought of it, flashes of a thousand jade shards splashed across the narrow stairwell, signaling emotions I could only guess at. “I didn’t expect them to look like that.”
“But you expected them—someone.”
She shot me a pained look, evading the question. “You saved my life.
”
I shrugged. “I killed some guys.”
“Not for me, then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re a careful one, aren’t you?” She brushed past me, trailing her fingers across my chest. Every touch burned a trail across my skin. She walked behind the bar and poured herself a darkbrew, bolting it down scalding hot. She stood there, putting me to the weight and measure with her eyes. I stepped between her and the worst of the scene while she did so. I’m no Iron District prizefighter, but I don’t get fat on my own baked goods.
“I have to clean up.” It seemed like the dumbest thing I could say. The redhead waved at me and carried on helping herself to the darkbrew. Her hand hovered over a honey scone, but she thought better of it and stayed with her drink.
I dragged the bodies into a pile. She sat at a nearby table. Even though she hid it, her hand shook as she held her cup. Giving me a smile that shocked the dimness of the room, she tried to indicate that she was all right. A noble effort, and not necessary. I felt off balance, about to say something stupid. I made myself turn away.
In the back, I found my box of ravening and brought it with me. “You may not want to watch this part.”
“It’s fine, Professor Orman,” she said, but she did look down at her hands as they held her now-empty cup. “I trust you.”
“You know my name.”
“It’s on the door. Well, it was, when I came in.”
Right. Professor Orman’s Sweet Darkness. My shop. Where food is. And a pile of dead people. If the food server’s guild caught wind of this, I’d be paying a nasty fine. I knelt and whispered into the box of ravening, awakening those within.
“Upon the flesh and bone, upon the sinew and blood. Feast and slake the eternal hunger.” You didn’t really need to give them any enticement, but I’m not one to stint on my necromancy. Lazy spells go astray. Sloppy necro work pulls strange shit into the world, and that’s never good.
I set the box on the floor, no bigger than a man’s palm in each direction. The scuttling horde emerged. A thousand shining, black beetles, clicking across the worn wooden boards, hurling themselves at the congealing blood and cooling flesh. For any normal person, the sound of meat being devoured from the bone by a writhing carpet of magical insects is pretty horrid. You get used to it. Your soul stops screaming against it. It’s that or go mad, so you adapt.
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