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Content warning: extreme violence, violence against animals, gore, death

 

 

Chapter 32

 

The Death at the stairs pulls her daggers and moves to block it. It runs up the arena wall rather than fight her, crouches on the top, and leaps. Its hands catch the edge of the balcony and its feet swing high above it to slam into the closest churchman’s face.

It draws its dagger as it lands and slices open the man’s forearm. The flower dagger in his hand drops. It buries its blade in his leg and catches the flower weapon with a single motion. A shove with its shoulder sends the stunned Trimagh out of the way and it charges the second man. He raises his flower dagger high out of its reach and swings his other fist at its head. It ducks and kicks his knee. Ligaments snap and he falls. It shoves its dagger into his bicep and grabs the flower blade.

The council soldiers surge forward but it is already diving off the balcony. It flips and hits the ground rolling. The others in the arena, their eyes locked on the demon and the terrified animals it feeds on, don’t realize what is happening until it uses the nearest collapsed scion as a launch pad.

It flies through the air and both daggers slam through N*klabl’ch^gik’dm’s flesh, just below his horns. Green-brown liquid, stinking and thick, sprays from the wound. Gravity pulls it to the ground, the flower-blades slicing through the demon’s flesh like water. A tentacle lashes out. It brings the daggers up to parry. They go through the tentacle and the cut-off piece smashes into it with enough force to send it flying.

It hits hard and something breaks inside it, but the clohalc blocks the pain. It jumps to its feet, and charges again, spitting blood as it runs. A pair of tentacles slash out. It ducks them, jumps over another and slices off a fourth. Then it is against the demon’s body, hacking away chunks of its flesh.

N*klabl’ch^gik’dm lets out a high, agonizing sound loud enough to shake the building. The demon twists and spins against the earth, tentacles smashing and crushing everything beneath them. It dives out of the way and comes up beside the demon’s torso. The flower-blades slash, severing the tentacles one by one. N*klabl’ch^gik’dm’s momentum sends them flying, slamming into scions and elders and Deaths alike.

And when the demon’s last tentacle is gone and the creature can only thrash and roar its agony, it raises its flower-daggers and with slow, deliberate cuts, it saws off the seven-horned lump.

N*klabl’ch^gik’dm shudders, convulses, and goes silent and still.

The white-hot fire in its chest vanishes like a torch snuffed in a bucket of water.

I’m free.

It straightens, tries to breathe deep, and cannot. Broken ribs, it guesses. A look down shows torn clothes, fresh bruises and scrapes, and blood dripping to the sand. It raises a hand, finds the source in a gash running from below its eye to its bottom jaw. Its ears are ringing, but not loud enough to drown out the screams—animal and human, living and dead, that fill the arena.

It turns, taking in the devastation that surrounds it.

Blood and demon ichor soak the sands. Broken animals, men, and women litter the arena floor. Some lie in pieces, their guts strewn across the sand, their limbs far from their bodies. Others lay buried beneath tentacles and chunks of demon-flesh. None of the elders live, nor any of their Masters of Death.

Their ghosts stand over their corpses, screaming their hatred at it.

The few surviving scions huddle against the walls, weeping or screaming, clutching at ripped flesh and broken limbs. The soldiers in the stands, having taken cover when the battle started, rise from their places in the bleachers. They stare with horror, and none move from their spots.

Seven ghost children stand between it and the viewing box. They still wear only loin cloths, but their flesh is whole and unblemished, and the desperate fear and loneliness that haunted their eyes are gone.

Kilcharni’s child steps forward and asks, “Can we go now?”

 “Yes,” it whispers, as the children fade into nothingness. “You can all go.”

A wave of relief washes over it, and it staggers.

I can’t pass out. Not yet. It raises its eyes to the Trimagh and the councillors standing at the viewing box rail, wearing expressions of awe and fear, horror and anger, grief and triumph. I have to get out of here.

It looks for House Felcina’s Master of Death and finds Kileiteria’s corpse lying over the broken body of her Litarch, her head at the wrong angle. It stumbles over, pulls its bag from her limp arm and drops the flower daggers inside before putting it over its shoulder. Then it takes Kileiteria’s daggers and slides them into the empty sheaths at its hips. It straightens up and sees the furious ghosts of Kileiteria and the Litarch of Felcina glaring and shouting at it.

 “I win,” it says, and walks out without looking back. The sky above is growing light with the coming dawn, and it lets its feet take it towards the sunrise and the river.

I wonder how far I’ll get before the clohalc wears off.

The answer comes halfway across the great bridge, when agony hits it so hard it convulses and falls on its face, tears filling its eyes.

“There!” someone shouts behind it.

It takes a huge effort to raise its head and look. It sees people in dark green robes running toward it with grim determination on their faces.

Which is when it realizes it no longer cares.

It uses the last of its strength to roll on its back. It goes over its broken ribs and cries out in agony. But it ends up facing the sky, which is as good a way to die as any. Its breathing, still shallow, feels easier and its pain fades in the shadow of its weariness like the stars above it fade in the light of the rising sun. It spots the laughing thieves’ ghosts on the railing beside it.

At least I’ll have company. 

Sight becomes darkness, sound becomes silence, and the last of the pain fades to nothing . . .

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. . . until dim light pushes against its eyelids.

Silence gives way to the sound of people moving nearby and birds singing far away and the breath of someone sitting beside it. Three large pains—broken ribs, sprained ankle, large cut below my left eye—and a host of smaller ones spread over its flesh, overlying the dull ache of a body pushed too hard for too long.

It lays still, not changing its breathing, and takes stock. There is a mattress beneath it, and it is naked save for bandages and a thin, light sheet that covers it from the neck down. It smells of old burnt wood and mildew and dust.

It realizes where it is and opens its eyes.

“So, you are alive,” the Trimagh says. “I wasn’t certain.”

The kitchen is cleaner than before, and there’s a new table with basins and bandages and two people in church robes washing their hands. A pile of blood-covered rags sit beside the basins—the clothes it wore during the fight. Kileiteria’s daggers lie sheathed beside them. The mattress beneath it and the sheet covering it are both new, as is the chair the Trimagh sits on beside it. It listens again, straining its ears for the sound of Anilia’s giggles, or the weeping of the Dimarch, or Celil coming in to ask for a snack.

It hears nothing.

“They’re gone,” Trimagh Ashinitha says. “You kept your promise. I kept mine.”

Relief and fresh grief for the children and Silinie break over it in a wave. Tears it is too weak to hold back flood its eyes.

And when the tears stop, the Trimagh says, “The council disbanded the other six Houses and confiscated their properties in the city.”

It frowns, which pulls at the stitches on its cheek. “And me?”

“What do you have left to take?” The Trimagh gestures to the burnt ruin around them. “You live in penury and House Kilcharni will die with you. They gain nothing by punishing you as they did the others.”

“What did you gain?”

“Me?” the Trimagh’s eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you help me?”

She smiles, and the kindness that made it trust her before is once more in her eyes and voice. “You saved us from the demon. That deserves more than eternity with the traitors and thieves on the bridge.”

It sounds plausible, except it doesn’t believe her anymore. This woman will not help unless its actions benefit her or her church.

“It’s a pity you didn’t let me make you a person,” the Trimagh continues. “You might stand a chance to rebuild your House.”

At what price? It waits, and the silence stretches long between them.

The Trimagh sighs out her irritation. She says, “The church can use your talents, Kilcharni. Greater evils than you can imagine stalk this city, and you could help us be rid of them. In exchange, we will make you a person and help keep your other curse in check so it doesn’t kill you. What say you?”

It turns on its unhurt side and uses its arms to push itself into sitting. The sheet that covers it slips to its waist. It grabs the cloth in one hand before starting to stand. The movement hurts, and when it is upright, it has to balance on one foot, because its injured ankle can’t take its weight. The Trimagh watches benevolently, like an aunt watching a favourite child learning to walk, and waits for its answer.

“I don’t want to be a person,” it says, as it wraps the sheet around its body. “And I will die before I become enslaved to anyone again.”

The Trimagh’s expression doesn’t change. She just nods, rises from her chair, and heads for the stairs into the courtyard. At the table she stops, and lays down a leather wrapped bundle, the hilts of its daggers peeking out from it. Over her shoulder she says, “Some members of the other Houses chose to remain in the city to seek revenge, despite being banished. You will need friends.”

It stays silent.

“We will speak again,” The Trimagh says as she heads for the door, gesturing the others to follow her. “After all, what else do you have to do?”

It waits until they’re gone before whispering, “Leave.”

*          *          *

The room is cold and dark, the little light that reaches it coming from lamps in the courtyard three stories below. For several hours there is only silence. Then comes a rush of footsteps and voices from the hallway beyond. A key rattles in the lock, and the door opens and shuts. Boots thump across the floor. Steel clicks against flint, and yellow sparks jump into a waiting bowl of paper scraps. The scraps go under a waiting pile of tinder and sticks, and soon a small blaze fills the brazier and lights the room.

Which is when it says, “Hello, Micka.”

Micka jumps, yelps, spins, stumbles back against his bed and sits hard on it, eyes wide and a hand clutching his stomach. “By the fucking God!”

It winces as he catches his breath. “Sorry. I thought you’d be healed by now.”

“I was,” he snaps, then falls silent. After a moment he slumps. “I am, but it still pulls.”

“Sorry.”

He starts taking off his boots, not looking at it. “You left.”

“I did.”

Micka stares at his feet, not meeting its eyes. “You said you weren’t coming back.”

“I wasn’t.”

“So why are you?” he asks. “You couldn’t have missed me that much.”

“I did miss you,” it says, which is true, but not the truth.

Micka looks up, and whatever he sees in its face makes him frown. “I’m not the reason.”

It shakes its head.

“Then, why?”

“I can’t leave.” It says, the words bitter in its mouth. “I was fifty miles away when the curse started burning a new hole in my chest. It didn’t stop until I reached the manor. Apparently, my oath to protect the place still holds, even though everyone is dead.”

Micka takes a while to ask, “How long have you been back?”

“Two months.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” And with the words, Micka’s hurt finally comes through his voice.

It looks away. “I had to sort some things first.”

It doesn’t intend to reveal what that means, but Micka guesses, anyway. “The other Houses are still hunting you.”

It shrugs. “Not as often, now.”

It learned they’d put a price on its head after the third attempt. After the eighth, the attempts slowed, because none who tried were ever seen or heard from again. The ruined manor had more than enough rocks to weigh down the bodies it put beneath the dock. The scavenger fish and crayfish made quick work of them after that.

“I’m sorry,” Micka says, and means it. “I know how much you wanted to leave and I am so sorry you can’t.”

It shrugs and stares at the brazier, watching the flames dance. It doesn’t realize it’s crying until the first tears drip onto its crossed legs. It wipes its face on its sleeve, carefully to avoid the still-healing scar on its face, as Micka asks, “Do you want to stay tonight?

Do I? “Not worried about being caught?”

“After everything else, that doesn’t seem as important,” Micka says. “Will the curse let you stay?”

“Yes, but I don’t need to stay. I just . . .” It doesn’t know what it wanted, coming here, it realizes. It shrugs. “I should go before I get caught.”

It stands and heads for the door. Micka follows, saying, “My parents have been making me visit every week since I got hurt.”

It’s not sure what to make of that, and so says, “That must be annoying.”

“Not really.” He pauses, then says, “You should come with me.”

A smile pulls up one side of its mouth, and it says, “I didn’t know we were so serious.”

“As my friend, ass,” Micka says, and a half-smile raises one side of his lips. “Desinia, Kelti, Partonin, and Duft are coming. Our House is inside the city, so you should be able to stay a couple of days.”

It wants to and doesn’t, and wonders why for each one. It settles on, “I’ll think about it.”

 “All right,” Micka says. “Come early in the morning at the end of the week, if you’re going to join us. And next time you sneak in, light the fire.”

“I don‘t want you to get in trouble.”

“And I don’t want to get the shit scared out of me again.”

It manages a chuckle. “Thanks, Micka.”

It slips out the back door of Learning House Martyr Pelinol and into the street without being seen. The route it walks is long and circuitous, but by the time it reaches the dock, it is sure no one is following it. It hires a boat and sits in silence, listening to the oars stroke the water and ignoring the ghosts in the river. The ride is quick, if chilly this time of year, and soon it is standing on the public dock. A short walk takes it to the side gate of the burnt-out manor and the overgrown courtyard.

It sits in the dead, silent garden, and looks up at the dark winter sky. The mansion is quiet now, save for the rats in the walls and the birds nesting in the rafters.

Some days it longs for the ghosts, just to have company.

It isn’t free, but no one is telling it what to do. It has food and money and maybe, with time, it will figure out how to break House Kilcharni’s curse.

So that’s something.

Isn’t it?

It isn’t sure, so it stares into the darkness until the cold drives it inside.

 

The End

 

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