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Content warning: violence, gore, animal cruelty

 

 

Chapter 30

 

“You fucking piece of shit!” It screams at Kilietera, because it has no other way to attack. “I’ll kill you!”

“You need to understand the weakness of your position, Kilcharni,” the Litarch of Felcina says as Kilieteria walks up the stairs and stands behind her, bloody dagger still in her hand. “Your house is Cleansed. No one will support you, no one will save you. So stop your posturing and do as you are told.”

“That was not lawful, Felcina,” says Councillor Davina severely, her eyes flashing with anger.

“It was necessary,” the Litarch snaps, the righteousness in her voice stronger than ever. “The ritual must happen, the demon must receive its due, or this city dies and all of us with it. So stop coddling that thing and make it obey.”

“You are not in charge here!” Davina yells.

“Neither are you, apparently,” the Litarch snarls. “Otherwise, why is this thing still holding us up?”

Micka lies on his back, wailing and clutching his belly. The wound has cut the muscles open and needs stitches, but is not so deep that his intestines are coming out. Silagh Lacinth’s stomach is the same, though she is silent, her teeth clenched together and her lips moving in prayer. Both are losing enough blood to stain the floor beneath them.

She did it so they’ll die slowly if I don’t agree.

Its eyes blur and flood. Its legs give out and it falls to its knees. Its body shakes as it slams its knuckles against its forehead, again and again, hoping to find strength to fight in the pain, but it only finds despair.

I will never be free.

A sound it doesn’t recognize rips from its throat. It buries its face in its elbows and curls around itself, howling like a wounded, broken beast. Hands grab its shoulders, trying to haul it back upright, but it tears away and curls up tighter. A foot slams into its side, knocking it over. It stays on the floor, howling and shaking, as its last hopes fade to nothing.

A new hand lands on its shoulder, not squeezing or pulling or hurting, just resting. Waiting. And when its throat is too torn to keep howling, when its body no longer has the strength to stay in a tight ball, it hears the Trimagh say, “Come back to us, Death of Kilcharni.”

It opens its eyes. The Trimagh is kneeling beside it, her face calm and filled with concern. Her two men are standing on either side, squared off against the council’s Deaths. She smiles at it, and in a gentle voice says, “It’s time to put an end to this.”

You don’t understand. It can’t say the words out loud, can’t do anything but stare. All it tried has come to nothing. Its actions were as meaningless as Silinie’s death, as useless as the children’s screams as the flames took the manor. I’ve lost everything.

The Trimagh takes its hand. “Please, Death of Kilcharni, please do the ritual, so we can end this slaughter.”

She helps it to a sitting position. The room is silent, save for Micka’s wails of pain. Every eye in the crowd is on it, each scion and family member of the six Houses is waiting on it. The Litarch of Felcina watches with smug satisfaction. The other elders, with narrowed eyes.

They know it has broken, and that it will give in.

Its hands go to the dagger belt on its waist, cinched as tight as any slave chain. It wanted the weapons because they made it feel strong. But looking at them, it realizes that the daggers, Kilcharni’s sigil etched into the blades, are as much a sign of its slavery as the brand on its chest.

I don’t have a choice. I never did. When it speaks, its voice is rough and gravelly. “if I do this, can you free the ghosts of Kilcharni?”

“I can,” the woman says. “And I will, once this ends. I swear by the God.”

It will never end.

It wipes its face with its sleeve, puts its legs under it, and with the Trimagh’s help, stands. The dagger belt pinches its stomach. It loosens the belt until the blades sit on its hips, leaning on the Trimagh while it does. The woman waits with the patience of a parent helping a child.

Councillor Davina climbs the steps. She looks exhausted and furious, but none of it reaches her voice when she asks, “Will you do the ritual?”

Below her, it sees Micka’s tear-stained face, and Silagh Lacinth’s clenched teeth. Blood leaks between the hands they’ve pushed against their wounds. Beyond them, three hundred terrified, angry people wait for its answer.

I’m so tired.

“Help them.” Its torn voice makes the plea come out as a growl. “And give me clohalc so I can stay awake.”

“Will you do the ritual?” Councillor Davina repeats, and it hears hope in her voice.

It nods and whispers, “Yes.”

The six scions standing below the platform hear, and spread its answer to the others. Men and women cry in relief. Children ask their parents what’s happening and get hugged. The Trimagh squeezes the hand she still holds and her voice is kind and gentle when she says, “The ritual space is prepared. We shall go there now.”

She puts her arm around its shoulders and leads it, stumbling, to the edge of the steps. The church men take over, gently catching one of its arms each and helping it stay upright until it reaches the bottom. The elders come down, each leaning on their Death. Councillor Davina and her Deaths follow.

The Litarch of Felcina tells the assembled families, “Those next in line and the ones after will follow us. The rest will remain here until we are done.”

“Why two?” Councillor Davina asks the old woman.

“That thing’s histrionics have delayed us,” the Litarch answers. “The demon may take another before they can learn the ritual.”

Councillor Davina shakes her head and walks to the door, the elders, scions and seconds falling in behind her. As the Trimagh’s men lead it down the aisle, Silagh Lacinth throws out a hand, grasping its ankle. The move hurts her and a whimper of pain escapes her lips. It drops to its knees in front of her, takes her hand and puts it back on her stomach.

“They’ll help you now,” it says, hoping it is true. “Don’t worry.”

The Silagh grabs its arm, pulling it close so she can whisper in its ear, “Trimagh . . . took . . . stadium. . . there.”

It doesn’t understand what she means, and fresh tears come it its eyes. The Trimagh’s men catch its arms again, and one says, “Give them room to work.”

Four council soldiers run forward, kneeling beside Lacinth and Micka, holding them. From the chamber’s small side door races the bath attendant with his basket of bandages. It wants to watch, to make certain they are all right, but the Trimagh’s men pull it away with gentle, irresistible strength.

“Come, Death of Kilcharni,” the Trimagh says. “Let us end this.”

Councillor Davina leads the grim procession out of the council chambers and into the streets, a pair of soldiers behind her. More soldiers flank the elders and scions, and six others march behind them. The walk is slow, as the elders do not move quickly, and it takes a quarter hour for them to travel the short distance.

They are almost there when the demon claims its next victim in a gout of blood and a crunch of bones and flesh. The church men hold it tight as its curse bursts into heat once more, so it can do nothing but watch as the woman’s body breaks and falls to streets.

“She was from Talique,” the Trimagh says, after the demon vanishes.

Councillor Davina nods at the guards, and two jog back to the council chamber. The group waits until they return with the next scion, a young man, before finishing their walk.

Their destination is a stadium—not a grand one for horse or chariot racing, but a small one where a few hundred people can watch dogs or men fight one another. The Councillor leads them through a main gate and down the tunnel into the arena. A large mandala covers most of the sand. Inside it, their hooves tied together and their mouths tied shut, lie dozens of goats and sheep. The stadium stinks of their manure, and their muffled bleats fill the air.

A circle of soldiers, each with a lamp beside them and sword in their hand, line the first row of stands, six feet above the arena floor. And six feet above them, in the viewing box reserved for the richest spectators, stand the other nine council members.

Councillor Davina points to a door. “That leads to the waiting chamber. Take everyone and teach them the ritual. I will wait in the viewing box with the other councillors. When you’re ready, send Kilcharni to us to swear in as head of their house.”

“We shall go with the councillors,” the Trimagh says. She reaches out and rests her hand on its shoulder, her expression still kind, her voice still gentle. “Do well, Death of Kilcharni.”

A council Death steps forward, a ball of clohalc on her palm. It takes the drug with a trembling hand, puts it in its mouth, and bites down. Its mouth is dry, but the herb’s bitterness pulls up enough saliva as it chews that it can swallow the clohalc. It follows the others through the door into a tunnel that leads below the arena. At the end of it is a holding pen, lit by only a few lanterns, where animals or fighters wait for their turn.

As the elders have them form a double circle, the scions and it on the inside, the seconds outside, the clohalc kicks in, and its exhaustion and pain fade.

The words for the ritual sound like nonsense to its ears, but it repeats them along with the others. The elders explain what each word means: supplication and beseeching, promises of agony and blood and death. They repeat the words seven times, clumsily and with many mistakes, ending with chanting the demon’s name seven times.

“After that, N*klabl’ch^gik’dm will come,” says the Litarch of House Felcina. “When he arrives, you will freeze in place, unable to leave the circle. But do not worry. The scion of Felcina will read aloud the passage written for him, telling the demon that we fulfilled our end of the bargain. After, the beast will tear apart the animals and feast on their flesh and pain, and you will be released. Now, do it again.”

Over and over, they rehearse the words of summoning. It keeps expecting the demon to kill another scion, but it does not appear. They keep practicing until the elders are satisfied. Then the Litarch of Felcina leads them back to the arena, and positions the six scions around the field, their Deaths behind them.

She points to an open gate beneath the viewing box. A Death stands before it, daggers in hand. The Litarch says, “Kilcharni, go to swear your oath.”

It walks over, finds a short set of stairs, and goes up. The viewing box holds a dozen cushioned chairs and a table laden with food. Four council soldiers with swords in their hands and the two church men stand against the back wall. The Trimagh herself and councillors rise from their chairs as it arrives.

Its bag sits on the floor by the Trimagh’s feet.

Chapter 31 comes July 4th!

 

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