That absolute motherfucker.. That son of a bitch. Thatâ
The blade, sanguine, and so, so sharp, pierced through Cyrusâs chest. Ripping. Cleaving. His armor had not held as she had thought it would. It had only taken a moment, before it slid in like butter, its quarry changed. Tossing him to the ground like a doll. Lifeless. No, no. Not here, no now. Impossible.
He was simply standing. Running. And then, he was not.
The sound that ripped from Zahraâs throat sounded alien to her. Not hers. It couldn't be. Begging, pleading, frenzied. Stop, no. It changed into a savage, blood-curdling howl. Vowing destruction. A monster, a creature, sordid and twisting and so far away. Her hands could not find Farajiâs throat quick enough. The arrow fumbled from her fingers, clattering somewhere, forgotten. She didnât remember shouldering her bow either. But she had. Her hands were empty now. Fingers clawing uselessly in the air, as she stumbled forward, cursing her clumsy legs. Jellied, weak. She could taste bile in her throat, rising up her gorge, threatening to spill as the blood had from Ydaâs mouth.
Her mother lay on her side, motionless. A corpse, hunkered forward onto her face, cheek pressed against the cobblestone. Sightless eyes staring up, smeared with gore. A husk. A nothing, emptied of whatever she was. A life force feeding that fuckerâs hands, his consumptive power, bleeding out from her. It was easy to put her at the back of her mind, shoving the thoughts under the rampant frenzy. Under a rug for another time, a better time. She couldn't ignore the desperation cloying its claws into her shoulders, riddling up her spine; cold, heavy. An anchor, drawing her to Cyrusâs side, where she fell to her knees, hands pushing at the weeping wound. As if she could close it with her hands, like Rom with his verdigris palm, luminescent, binding the sky free of its unholy breach.
This, this could not be.
âKill him, dammit,â an order, unneeded. Far away. Corveusâs voice, the veneer of calm long lost. It almost sounded frantic; an edge, despairing, but everything sounded that way now. There was a blast of energy that soared past her shoulders, sweeping up her wild curls with the force. Magic. More damn magic. A manic laugh echoed off the walls, all brittle, high-pitched. Inhuman. Like those reanimated corpses. Thatâs what he was, what he would be. She looked up only long enough to see Faraji pinned in place, leaning heavily against the stone wall at his back, mouth bubbling, frothing. Eyes bulging in his skull, lips peeled back from crimson-stained teeth. A mixture of drool and blood, though his hand was already raising to the air, pointed at an approaching figure.
A flash of movement, hurtling in his direction.
Rom didn't intend on letting Faraji transform into anything other than the man that he was, and was on the mage as the possession began to truly take hold. In this time Faraji was vulnerable to all but the horror stricken, and very little if anything seemed to have that effect on the Lord Inquisitor. With blade and marked hand he stabbed and blasted at him, plunging the pugio into flesh as it twisted and reformed underneath the steel. His mark blew open Faraji's belly, sending a flood of innards spilling down at their feet. Again and again the blade came down, striking high, aiming for the moving target of the head and neck, cutting apart whatever the demon inside him was trying to reform and strengthen. Within seconds he was covered in blood, but showed no signs of relenting until the task was done.
Zahraâs eyes blurred, hot. She could look no longer, because her hands were slick with Cyrusâs blood, and she could do nothing to push it back in. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes had shuttered themselves closed. The pressure, yes, important. Asala had told her so. But there was so much of it. Pooling between her fingers, onto her knuckles, onto the cobblestones, blooming outward, not in. She clamped her hands there, seeking to prove with touch, what she did not want to believe with sight. Dammit, dammitâ
Her mouth worked, words babbling out. Promises, curses, appeals. To who, to what? Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Someone hunkered down on the opposing side, pushing her hands away from the wound. Adamant. Hands she did not recognize, a stranger. An enemy.
âDonât you fucking touch himââ it came out all wrong. A weak, breathless whimper. Angry, furious, with no direction, no target to pinion. A beast hunched over, hackles raised. It was all she could do, couldnât she?
âLet me help him,â Corveus, again. He repeated himself. This time, she relented. His hands trembled, she felt it, as she took his place, pushing his palms down across the center of his sternum, dragging down along his stomach. This was not Asalaâs magic, glowing cerulean, cobalt, viridian. Blood drew up in the air, into beads, threading themselves into thin lines, before finally pulling back into the wound. It congealed to a sluggish pace, rather than the chute it had been moments before. But there was so much. On his hands, on hers. His voice was louder this time, for he no longer spoke only to her, âHe wonât die, but he will if we donât get him out now.â
The antechamber shuddered in response.
Leon appeared then, grimacing down at Cyrus. His eyes were still reddened from whatever alchemy fueled his fights, but clearly nevertheless aware of what was going on. Hastily, he pulled his cloak off, tucking it firmly against the entry wound, one more measure against the sluggish bleeding. "Keep it like this as long as you can," he said, glancing just once at Corveus. Either he assumed he'd be obeyed or he realized he had no choice but to put his faith in it.
Whichever it was, he wasted no more time with it, lifting Cyrus from the ground and settling him as carefully as he possibly could over a shoulder. Leon was an exceptionally-tall man, it was true, but Cyrus was not short or small by any means, and he had to take a half-step backwards to stabilize himself with the other man's weight distributed so unevenly. "We need the quickest way out of here, and now. Go."
As soon as Leon swept Cyrus up on his shoulder, Zahra found her legs once more, steeling herself for the next step. The muscles worked along her jawline, eyes narrowed. She felt the last dredges of her potion wearing off. Fatigue nipped at her heels, a warning that urgency was needed, if Leon would be tied up by the weight he bore. If there were more enemies just around the bend to face, they would tear them apart, in order to crawl their way through. She would.
They would. Gladly.
Corveus took the lead, back through the door theyâd come in from. This time, however, he stopped at the first cell, hands frantically patting down the cobblestones. Raking over the cracks, palms pressing down ineffectively. He was mumbling to himself, âWhere the hell is it? How did heââ Zahra wanted to scream at him for stopping so abruptly. For making things harder. They didnât have time for this, whatever this was.
Only then did one of the stones press inward, giving away under his touch. Much like the weighted plate Cyrus had stepped on, though this time no golem bugled out. The wall to the side shifted, scraped sideways, and revealed a hidden passageway that permitted two people to walk side by side. Certainly not large enough to defend themselves in. In the distance, back down the hallway theyâd previously come from, a faint echo of metal grated against metal, steel joints and gruff voices; the angry howl of wolves snuffling out intruders. âHurry, in.â
Once they entered, Corveus elbowed his way to the back and struck his hand out once more, into the darkness. He pulled something backwardsâan iron lever, well-worn and in the shape of a striking serpents mouth. The wall shifted back in place, undisturbed, as if it had never been there in the first place. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and squeezed back past Leon, pausing momentarily to inspect Cyrusâs wound. When he seemed satisfied, he strode back to the forefront. Lanterns had already been lit, most likely by Faraji himself.
It made sense, how heâd managed to find them so quickly. Perhaps, heâd always known.
The fucking monster, finally dead. Just another corpse alone in the darkness. Itâs what he deserved.
Zahra dogged Corveus's heels, another arrow clutched in her palm. She held her bow held at her side, once more. Just in case. Only three arrows left. Sheâd wasted so many against the golem in a futile attempt to distract. A lot of good that did. She wished sheâd just⊠if she had, if she had. But, she hadnât. Maleus had his shoulders hunched, head lowered. He brought up the rear, watching Leonâs back intently. She had no words for him. Not yet, not now. Sheâd have words for Cyrus when they got out of there, alive. Heâd wake up, say something smarmy and sheâd make him promise never to do something so stupid, so selfless.
The passageway wound, with no discernible direction. It stretched into a flight of stairs, and deposited them back into the estate, into another long hallway. Decorated, gaudy, carpeted. Seeing how there were no corpses here, theyâd appeared in another portion of the household. Fortunately, this one appeared remote, empty. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she couldnât hear any voices coming through any of the doorways. No servants, no thorns in their arses. Corveus gestured towards the other end of the hall, and started down it. âWeâre close, now. Keep down this way, and weâll come to the lounge. Slip out the way we came.â
Zahra had long given up thinking that things would go smoothly. That they would simply walk out of here, free from danger. It never happened that way. Not when people like this were involved. She almost laughed when she heard footsteps stomping down towards them, at the opposite end of the hall. Three men, armed much the same as the guards theyâd already faced. Swords and plate, youthful faces eager, pining for blood. She couldnât understand their words; a babble of rolling syllables. But she understood their laughter, and hated them for it. They advanced, whooping.
In one smooth movement, she drew back the string of her bow against her cheekbone, loosing the arrow. It whistled through the air, and found its mark, biting into the nearest manâs throat, sending him tumbling in a gurgling mess on the floor, hands clawing at the feathered bit that stuck out in front of him.
Leon made a discontent sound; it was clear enough that he wasn't going to aggressively strike at the soldiers, given that he was carrying Cyrus. It would perhaps be a mistake to assume he was completely incapable of it, though, even burdened down by the weight of another person.
Rom took the initiative instead, racing forward to outpace the others and reach them first. The guards had stopped laughing after one of them had been swiftly killed, and charged back. His marked hand began to glow under his shield as he reached them, and he drew back for a punch. He flowed around the first sword to swing his way, his shield rising and cutting across the jaw of the attacker, the mark bursting with energy as he did so. Violently the man's head was wrenched sideways, throwing him against the wall, dazing the other as well. Rom stepped forward at him, finding a gap in the plate with his blade, withdrawing it covered in red.
Rom caught the second guard's wrist while the dazed first tried to make a strike on his back. Twisting around, he pulled the guard in front of him, letting the blade fall down into the base of his neck and sink deep, the wound spurting backwards. Rom threw the body aside, taking the lodged sword with it, and he stepped forward into the opening of the disarmed man, jabbing with his shield into his temple. His head was thrown back, exposing the neck, and Rom slashed cleanly across it, dropping him. Youthful faces were now bloodied, laughter turned to choked gurgles and then silence.
It felt good to see them that wayâcorpses, tangled in a heap. Discarded. Finished. Deserving every bit of Româs brutality and more, if time allowed. It did not. These thoughts no longer frightened her. They were age-old recollections, revisited when circumstances turned sour. When there were hurts beating painfully in her chest. She wasnât sure what to do with it. Zahraâs lips peeled back into something that felt less and less like a grin, and more like scowl.
âOut through that door,â Corveusâs instruction bleated through her thoughts, forcing her legs back into movement. She brought up the rear with Maleus, tight-lipped, silent as the last gurgling breaths of the lads they left in the hallway. Dead, gone. A smear on the Contee household. She gripped her bow tight in her hand, and exhaled sharply through her nose, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they werenât being followed. Her free hand closed into a tight fist, fingernails cutting into her palm. It felt good, a distraction.
It seemed as if Maleus wanted to break the silence between them, the way his jawline bunched, but the sound of their footsteps were loud enough.
They needed to be free of this place.
The lordling led from the front with Rom at his side, whispering directions of where they had to go next. He occasionally held a hand up, indicating that they should halt, while he strained his ears, leaning slightly into the next hallway. Urgent as they were, he never waited too long before beckoning them forward. He hadnât been wrong. A few minutes stride, and they reached the lounging area, the same as it had always been. Cold, and empty. Fortunately, entirely vacant. There were no guards here, nor any unwelcome surprises. He pressed his bare hand up against the interior plate, and the magical inner workings shifted the doors wide, allowing them to slip back through the shrubbery leading to the hidden passageway.
Only when they were considerably safer, splashing through water, into the catacombs, did Zahra break the silence, âHeâs going to be fine, isnât he?â She didnât like the sound of her voice, how weak it was, pleading for a lie. For what she wanted to hear.
A pause, grim, âI hope you have a damn good healer.â
The blade, sanguine, and so, so sharp, pierced through Cyrusâs chest. Ripping. Cleaving. His armor had not held as she had thought it would. It had only taken a moment, before it slid in like butter, its quarry changed. Tossing him to the ground like a doll. Lifeless. No, no. Not here, no now. Impossible.
He was simply standing. Running. And then, he was not.
The sound that ripped from Zahraâs throat sounded alien to her. Not hers. It couldn't be. Begging, pleading, frenzied. Stop, no. It changed into a savage, blood-curdling howl. Vowing destruction. A monster, a creature, sordid and twisting and so far away. Her hands could not find Farajiâs throat quick enough. The arrow fumbled from her fingers, clattering somewhere, forgotten. She didnât remember shouldering her bow either. But she had. Her hands were empty now. Fingers clawing uselessly in the air, as she stumbled forward, cursing her clumsy legs. Jellied, weak. She could taste bile in her throat, rising up her gorge, threatening to spill as the blood had from Ydaâs mouth.
Her mother lay on her side, motionless. A corpse, hunkered forward onto her face, cheek pressed against the cobblestone. Sightless eyes staring up, smeared with gore. A husk. A nothing, emptied of whatever she was. A life force feeding that fuckerâs hands, his consumptive power, bleeding out from her. It was easy to put her at the back of her mind, shoving the thoughts under the rampant frenzy. Under a rug for another time, a better time. She couldn't ignore the desperation cloying its claws into her shoulders, riddling up her spine; cold, heavy. An anchor, drawing her to Cyrusâs side, where she fell to her knees, hands pushing at the weeping wound. As if she could close it with her hands, like Rom with his verdigris palm, luminescent, binding the sky free of its unholy breach.
This, this could not be.
âKill him, dammit,â an order, unneeded. Far away. Corveusâs voice, the veneer of calm long lost. It almost sounded frantic; an edge, despairing, but everything sounded that way now. There was a blast of energy that soared past her shoulders, sweeping up her wild curls with the force. Magic. More damn magic. A manic laugh echoed off the walls, all brittle, high-pitched. Inhuman. Like those reanimated corpses. Thatâs what he was, what he would be. She looked up only long enough to see Faraji pinned in place, leaning heavily against the stone wall at his back, mouth bubbling, frothing. Eyes bulging in his skull, lips peeled back from crimson-stained teeth. A mixture of drool and blood, though his hand was already raising to the air, pointed at an approaching figure.
A flash of movement, hurtling in his direction.
Rom didn't intend on letting Faraji transform into anything other than the man that he was, and was on the mage as the possession began to truly take hold. In this time Faraji was vulnerable to all but the horror stricken, and very little if anything seemed to have that effect on the Lord Inquisitor. With blade and marked hand he stabbed and blasted at him, plunging the pugio into flesh as it twisted and reformed underneath the steel. His mark blew open Faraji's belly, sending a flood of innards spilling down at their feet. Again and again the blade came down, striking high, aiming for the moving target of the head and neck, cutting apart whatever the demon inside him was trying to reform and strengthen. Within seconds he was covered in blood, but showed no signs of relenting until the task was done.
Zahraâs eyes blurred, hot. She could look no longer, because her hands were slick with Cyrusâs blood, and she could do nothing to push it back in. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes had shuttered themselves closed. The pressure, yes, important. Asala had told her so. But there was so much of it. Pooling between her fingers, onto her knuckles, onto the cobblestones, blooming outward, not in. She clamped her hands there, seeking to prove with touch, what she did not want to believe with sight. Dammit, dammitâ
Her mouth worked, words babbling out. Promises, curses, appeals. To who, to what? Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Someone hunkered down on the opposing side, pushing her hands away from the wound. Adamant. Hands she did not recognize, a stranger. An enemy.
âDonât you fucking touch himââ it came out all wrong. A weak, breathless whimper. Angry, furious, with no direction, no target to pinion. A beast hunched over, hackles raised. It was all she could do, couldnât she?
âLet me help him,â Corveus, again. He repeated himself. This time, she relented. His hands trembled, she felt it, as she took his place, pushing his palms down across the center of his sternum, dragging down along his stomach. This was not Asalaâs magic, glowing cerulean, cobalt, viridian. Blood drew up in the air, into beads, threading themselves into thin lines, before finally pulling back into the wound. It congealed to a sluggish pace, rather than the chute it had been moments before. But there was so much. On his hands, on hers. His voice was louder this time, for he no longer spoke only to her, âHe wonât die, but he will if we donât get him out now.â
The antechamber shuddered in response.
Leon appeared then, grimacing down at Cyrus. His eyes were still reddened from whatever alchemy fueled his fights, but clearly nevertheless aware of what was going on. Hastily, he pulled his cloak off, tucking it firmly against the entry wound, one more measure against the sluggish bleeding. "Keep it like this as long as you can," he said, glancing just once at Corveus. Either he assumed he'd be obeyed or he realized he had no choice but to put his faith in it.
Whichever it was, he wasted no more time with it, lifting Cyrus from the ground and settling him as carefully as he possibly could over a shoulder. Leon was an exceptionally-tall man, it was true, but Cyrus was not short or small by any means, and he had to take a half-step backwards to stabilize himself with the other man's weight distributed so unevenly. "We need the quickest way out of here, and now. Go."
As soon as Leon swept Cyrus up on his shoulder, Zahra found her legs once more, steeling herself for the next step. The muscles worked along her jawline, eyes narrowed. She felt the last dredges of her potion wearing off. Fatigue nipped at her heels, a warning that urgency was needed, if Leon would be tied up by the weight he bore. If there were more enemies just around the bend to face, they would tear them apart, in order to crawl their way through. She would.
They would. Gladly.
Corveus took the lead, back through the door theyâd come in from. This time, however, he stopped at the first cell, hands frantically patting down the cobblestones. Raking over the cracks, palms pressing down ineffectively. He was mumbling to himself, âWhere the hell is it? How did heââ Zahra wanted to scream at him for stopping so abruptly. For making things harder. They didnât have time for this, whatever this was.
Only then did one of the stones press inward, giving away under his touch. Much like the weighted plate Cyrus had stepped on, though this time no golem bugled out. The wall to the side shifted, scraped sideways, and revealed a hidden passageway that permitted two people to walk side by side. Certainly not large enough to defend themselves in. In the distance, back down the hallway theyâd previously come from, a faint echo of metal grated against metal, steel joints and gruff voices; the angry howl of wolves snuffling out intruders. âHurry, in.â
Once they entered, Corveus elbowed his way to the back and struck his hand out once more, into the darkness. He pulled something backwardsâan iron lever, well-worn and in the shape of a striking serpents mouth. The wall shifted back in place, undisturbed, as if it had never been there in the first place. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and squeezed back past Leon, pausing momentarily to inspect Cyrusâs wound. When he seemed satisfied, he strode back to the forefront. Lanterns had already been lit, most likely by Faraji himself.
It made sense, how heâd managed to find them so quickly. Perhaps, heâd always known.
The fucking monster, finally dead. Just another corpse alone in the darkness. Itâs what he deserved.
Zahra dogged Corveus's heels, another arrow clutched in her palm. She held her bow held at her side, once more. Just in case. Only three arrows left. Sheâd wasted so many against the golem in a futile attempt to distract. A lot of good that did. She wished sheâd just⊠if she had, if she had. But, she hadnât. Maleus had his shoulders hunched, head lowered. He brought up the rear, watching Leonâs back intently. She had no words for him. Not yet, not now. Sheâd have words for Cyrus when they got out of there, alive. Heâd wake up, say something smarmy and sheâd make him promise never to do something so stupid, so selfless.
The passageway wound, with no discernible direction. It stretched into a flight of stairs, and deposited them back into the estate, into another long hallway. Decorated, gaudy, carpeted. Seeing how there were no corpses here, theyâd appeared in another portion of the household. Fortunately, this one appeared remote, empty. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she couldnât hear any voices coming through any of the doorways. No servants, no thorns in their arses. Corveus gestured towards the other end of the hall, and started down it. âWeâre close, now. Keep down this way, and weâll come to the lounge. Slip out the way we came.â
Zahra had long given up thinking that things would go smoothly. That they would simply walk out of here, free from danger. It never happened that way. Not when people like this were involved. She almost laughed when she heard footsteps stomping down towards them, at the opposite end of the hall. Three men, armed much the same as the guards theyâd already faced. Swords and plate, youthful faces eager, pining for blood. She couldnât understand their words; a babble of rolling syllables. But she understood their laughter, and hated them for it. They advanced, whooping.
In one smooth movement, she drew back the string of her bow against her cheekbone, loosing the arrow. It whistled through the air, and found its mark, biting into the nearest manâs throat, sending him tumbling in a gurgling mess on the floor, hands clawing at the feathered bit that stuck out in front of him.
Leon made a discontent sound; it was clear enough that he wasn't going to aggressively strike at the soldiers, given that he was carrying Cyrus. It would perhaps be a mistake to assume he was completely incapable of it, though, even burdened down by the weight of another person.
Rom took the initiative instead, racing forward to outpace the others and reach them first. The guards had stopped laughing after one of them had been swiftly killed, and charged back. His marked hand began to glow under his shield as he reached them, and he drew back for a punch. He flowed around the first sword to swing his way, his shield rising and cutting across the jaw of the attacker, the mark bursting with energy as he did so. Violently the man's head was wrenched sideways, throwing him against the wall, dazing the other as well. Rom stepped forward at him, finding a gap in the plate with his blade, withdrawing it covered in red.
Rom caught the second guard's wrist while the dazed first tried to make a strike on his back. Twisting around, he pulled the guard in front of him, letting the blade fall down into the base of his neck and sink deep, the wound spurting backwards. Rom threw the body aside, taking the lodged sword with it, and he stepped forward into the opening of the disarmed man, jabbing with his shield into his temple. His head was thrown back, exposing the neck, and Rom slashed cleanly across it, dropping him. Youthful faces were now bloodied, laughter turned to choked gurgles and then silence.
It felt good to see them that wayâcorpses, tangled in a heap. Discarded. Finished. Deserving every bit of Româs brutality and more, if time allowed. It did not. These thoughts no longer frightened her. They were age-old recollections, revisited when circumstances turned sour. When there were hurts beating painfully in her chest. She wasnât sure what to do with it. Zahraâs lips peeled back into something that felt less and less like a grin, and more like scowl.
âOut through that door,â Corveusâs instruction bleated through her thoughts, forcing her legs back into movement. She brought up the rear with Maleus, tight-lipped, silent as the last gurgling breaths of the lads they left in the hallway. Dead, gone. A smear on the Contee household. She gripped her bow tight in her hand, and exhaled sharply through her nose, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they werenât being followed. Her free hand closed into a tight fist, fingernails cutting into her palm. It felt good, a distraction.
It seemed as if Maleus wanted to break the silence between them, the way his jawline bunched, but the sound of their footsteps were loud enough.
They needed to be free of this place.
The lordling led from the front with Rom at his side, whispering directions of where they had to go next. He occasionally held a hand up, indicating that they should halt, while he strained his ears, leaning slightly into the next hallway. Urgent as they were, he never waited too long before beckoning them forward. He hadnât been wrong. A few minutes stride, and they reached the lounging area, the same as it had always been. Cold, and empty. Fortunately, entirely vacant. There were no guards here, nor any unwelcome surprises. He pressed his bare hand up against the interior plate, and the magical inner workings shifted the doors wide, allowing them to slip back through the shrubbery leading to the hidden passageway.
Only when they were considerably safer, splashing through water, into the catacombs, did Zahra break the silence, âHeâs going to be fine, isnât he?â She didnât like the sound of her voice, how weak it was, pleading for a lie. For what she wanted to hear.
A pause, grim, âI hope you have a damn good healer.â