Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  She withdrew her tendra, and the rihnemin fell dark once again.

  * * *

  As Winter was on her way to find Urstadt, Selldor stopped her.

  “I have news from our scouts, Commander.”

  “Walk with me and report.”

  “A massive army is approaching, from Triah. Our scouts estimate at least eleven thousand infantry, and four thousand cavalry. When they join the Steel Regiment, they’ll be twenty thousand strong.”

  Winter tensed, but kept walking. She knew this response would come. They had only fought bits and pieces of the Khalic army so far; this approaching force was a much larger contingent.

  “How close?” Winter asked.

  “They’re nearing the southern edge of the Eastmaw Mountains,” Selldor said. “Likely be here in two weeks’ time. Three at the most.”

  “Two weeks,” Winter repeated. She shook herself. “Marshal our forces. We will convey this information immediately, and begin preparations for battle. We will ride out to meet them.”

  “Of course, Commander.”

  “We will choose our own battleground, just as we did with the Setso,” Winter said. “We have defeated the Legion twice, now. We will do it again, twenty thousand soldiers be damned.”

  Selldor bowed his head. “Yes, Commander.”

  “Good. I have a sparring session, Selldor. In the meantime, after my session with Urstadt, summon the Ranger captains and the clan chiefs. We’ll need to discuss strategy.”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  “Gather the Rangers we still have in the city, and as many new recruits as you can round up. Tomorrow morning, we ride for our main camp in Eastmaw Valley.”

  Winter walked with purpose now. This would be her moment. She thought of the look on Mazille’s face. There was nothing she could not do with faltira—and that included besting the most powerful armed force on the Sfaera.

  Winter was about to demonstrate her value.

  * * *

  Winter walked away from the strategy meeting with adrenaline coursing through her veins. The feeling was almost as good as faltira. Not quite, but good enough for now.

  Urstadt, however, was cautionary. “The coming weeks will be long and tedious. The weight of the force moving upon us will sink in, and morale may be difficult to maintain.”

  “Then we will do what we need to do to maintain it,” Winter said curtly. She frowned at Urstadt. The woman could not allow them one evening of energy, of strength, without pointing out where they would become weak?

  “Of course, Winter.”

  They walked in silence for a moment, and slowly Winter accepted the truth of Urstadt’s claim. “I believe our strategy is sound,” she said. “Our discussions this afternoon were productive, were they not?”

  “They were,” Urstadt said. “And riding to meet them is the strongest option, I am sure of it. Nevertheless, time is the greatest enemy of any force. Everything erodes with time.”

  In a few moments, they reached Winter’s quarters. “Thank you, Urstadt,” Winter said. “I will see you in the morning, for our practice session.” They intended to meet before sunrise, before they left Adimora for the Ranger camp in Eastmaw Valley.

  “Of course. Until then, Winter.” Urstadt saluted, then turned and walked away.

  Winter took a deep breath, opening the door to her quarters. They were small and practical, but she did not care for much more than that.

  She suddenly realized she had not seen Mazille, or any of the other tiellan psimancers, since early that morning. She had been so busy with preparations for the oncoming campaign against Carrieri that she had almost forgotten about them.

  Winter had too many questions for them. And, of course, she would require them to join the Rangers. She would need as many psimancers as she could marshal to meet the force that marched against them.

  Pouring herself a goblet of water, Winter sat down at the bare wooden table in the middle of her room. She pulled the faltira pouch from her waist, checking the contents. Three crystals. She would take one tonight, she had already decided, in celebration of the way she had handled the news about Carrieri and his fifteen thousand legionaries. But she wanted to refill her pouch first; she preferred to keep five or six crystals on her at all times, just in case. Winter moved to the chest she kept beneath her bed, and stopped cold when she saw it.

  The chest was open.

  Winter tore the box from beneath her bed. Open, and empty.

  Winter gasped short, shallow breaths. She looked underneath the bed, but there was nothing else. The majority of her faltira stash—upwards of sixty crystals—had been in that chest, and now it was gone.

  Winter turned to the cabinet where she kept the rest of it. Her pack, the one she’d carried with her since Izet, was there.

  It, too, was empty.

  Winter stood, empty pack in hand, breathing fast. Her faltira—all but the three crystals she had in her pouch—was gone. And there was only one person she could think of who would’ve taken it. She bolted from the house, envisioning what she would do to Mazille and the tiellans who had betrayed her. Death would be a mercy for them.

  She burst into the tents the tiellan psimancers had occupied, only to find them empty. Mazille and her band were gone, as were all of their belongings. She ran from the tent and grabbed the first person she saw. “Have you seen Mazille? The people in this tent?”

  The woman shook her head, eyeing Winter warily.

  “Commander?”

  Winter whirled to face the Ranger who spoke. “You’ve seen them?” she asked.

  “Aye, saw ’em this morning,” he said. “Looked like they were packing up and heading out.”

  Winter stumbled backwards, the world spinning around her. Mazille would be a day’s ride away, now. Winter could send riders out after them, but Mazille and her band were still psimancers. Even if her Rangers found them, they might not come back.

  Winter’s faltira was gone, and that was the cold reality.

  When she made it back to her quarters, she did not bother closing the door behind her. She shivered, her skin sticky with dried sweat.

  Somehow she found herself with her back against one wall, facing her open door. She slid down to sit on the wood-paneled floor, and stared emptily out into the night. She had three frost crystals left, and a force three times their size was advancing on them.

  I can do anything with faltira, Winter thought to herself, unable to stifle a crazed laugh.

  Without it… I am nothing.

  33

  Somewhere in Kirlan

  KNOT ONCE AGAIN LURKED in the shadows of Astrid’s memories. It had taken him a few days after the first memory he had accessed from his cell to work up the courage to go back inside Astrid’s past. But as horrific as the last memory had been, the more time Knot spent thinking about it, the more he thought there had to be some kind of explanation, something behind what he had seen. The girl he had seen murder her own family was not the girl he knew.

  Knot had been back time and time again since that memory, seeking some explanation, but he’d yet to find it. He’d seen all sorts of things—a few variations of that first memory, where Astrid procured groups of children from humans, always taking them back to her “employer.” He’d even seen her take children from another group of vampires, killing one brutally in the process. Other memories played out her days with Cabral, all of which made him sick to his stomach in one way or another. He’d witnessed times when she’d spent days, months, years absolutely alone. He hated coming across those memories almost as much as he hated the one where he’d watched her kill her father; experiencing her isolation only compounded his own.

  The monotony of his captivity was enough to drive Knot mad. He ate the same meal three meals a day—porridge that was too watery, a crust of bread, and, inexplicably, an apple, of all things—at the same time each day, as far as he could tell. The same four Sons of Canta guarded his cell, switching shifts roughly the same times each day. N
o contact with anyone else, no explanation of why he was here. Considering how much the Black Matron had wanted him in the first place, she seemed to have little idea of what she was actually supposed to do with him. He was clearly being treated well, for a prisoner—fed consistently, not tortured, and so forth. That only confused him all the more.

  Finding a reason, some purpose behind’s Astrid’s actions, had become perhaps the only thing that kept Knot sane while in the Black Matron’s captivity.

  And now, here he was, in yet another memory.

  Astrid walked along a curving road in Triah. Knot did not recognize the street; he had no idea when this memory was, but based on the businesses and tower-houses he saw along this section of the city, he guessed it fell between the Twenty-fifth and Thirtieth Circles.

  The sun was low on the horizon, and Astrid moved quickly. This time, however, Knot noticed she was not alone. Another young girl, roughly of an external age with Astrid, walked next to her. Knot glided along beside them, staying in the shadows. For some reason, he felt more comfortable there than out in the middle of the road.

  He looked closely at the new girl, wondering if he might recognize her from another memory, but she did not look familiar at all. The two spoke almost constantly, even laughing and joking. Knot wondered if this girl was another vampire.

  They stopped at a large building with just one sign hanging from a horizontal pole out front that said “We Welcome All Children.” Astrid and the other girl entered, and Knot was transported with them.

  He moved with them through a reception area, and then toward a large common space with a very high ceiling. Stairs led to a loft above that housed almost two dozen bunks, and through a hallway to his right Knot saw a busy kitchen—most of the people working inside of which were children.

  A woman with long blonde hair stood near the stairs of the common area holding the ears of two young boys, both squirming. Knot did recognize both of the boys, from two separate memories of Astrid gathering children and bringing them back to her “employer.”

  “The two of you will behave,” the woman said sternly, looking down at each of the boys in turn, “or you’ll both end up on dishes duty for the next week!”

  “Yes, Homemother,” the two boys said in unison.

  Homemother?

  The Homemother looked up, and her face brightened. “Astrid!” she exclaimed. “I am so happy you’ve returned safely.” She smiled at the other girl who’d entered, now hovering shyly behind Astrid. “And who have you brought with you?”

  Astrid squirmed out of the way in a gesture that was surprisingly childlike. “Camy, this is the Homemother, the woman I told you about. Homemother, this is Camy, from Cineste.”

  The Homemother’s eyes widened. “Cineste! That is quite the journey. I am happy to see the two of you made it here safely. Welcome to the First Light Orphanage.”

  An orphanage? Was this where Astrid had been taking all of the children she’d been rounding up?

  “Thank you,” Camy said, her head bowed.

  Astrid laughed. “You’ll love it here, Camy.”

  Camy glanced around the room, strands of messy brown hair falling in front of her eyes.

  A loud knock sounded at the front door of the orphanage. The Homemother cleared her throat. “I’ll go see who that is. Won’t take me long.” She bent down to look Camy in the eye. “Astrid and I can show you around later this evening,” the Homemother said, “but first, we’re all going to have dinner together. The children have helped cook up something special this evening.”

  Camy smiled, nodding quietly.

  The Homemother went to the door while Astrid and Camy began to chat excitedly.

  This is what she’s been doing this whole time, Knot realized. Helping children. He’d been right; there was more to her story, after all.

  From down the hallway, Knot heard anxious, whispered voices in a harsh conversation. Then, despite the Homemother’s cry of “Wait!” a group of adults entered the room. Knot recognized the red and white livery. A priestess, a Goddessguard, and half a dozen Sons of Canta, two of whom supported a young man between them. The lad had likely not yet seen his twentieth year, and he did not look in good shape, hanging limply between the two Sons.

  The priestess, however, drew Knot’s eye the most. The subtle slope of her jaw and the way she wore her hair in a tight bun were hints, but what gave it away was the flatness of the woman’s eyes; Knot felt that if he were to look on them, he would not see the reflection of any light whatsoever.

  This was the Black Matron. The Black Priestess at this point in time—she was at least fifty years younger than the woman Knot knew—but it was certainly her all the same.

  “My dear Homemother, thank you for inviting us in. I was so looking forward to seeing your orphanage with my own eyes.”

  The Homemother bowed, but she seemed confused as well. “It was the least I could do, Priestess, after your generous donations to our cause.”

  “More of which are sure to come, my dear,” the Black Matron said.

  “Might I ask what brings you by so early?” the Homemother asked.

  Knot narrowed his eyes. Something about the way the woman spoke felt off to him.

  “We found someone,” the Black Matron said, indicating the young man her Sons carried. “Someone very ill, that we are going to help care for. He says he knows you, Homemother. He goes by the name of—”

  “Jidri,” the Homemother said quietly, rushing to him. “Are you all right?”

  Knot recognized the name immediately, and as he looked more closely at the young man, realized he truly was looking at an older version of the young boy he had seen in the first memory of Astrid’s he’d experienced.

  “He needs medical attention,” the Black Matron said. “We can provide him with what he needs, but we wanted to stop by here first. He seemed very insistent on seeing you before we treated him.”

  Slowly, Jidri looked up, taking in his surroundings. “Where… am I?” he asked.

  The Homemother hugged him, holding his face. “Please,” she said, looking at the Sons, “put him down. Let him rest.”

  The Black Matron nodded, and the Sons set him down on a large chair near the center of the common area. The Homemother knelt beside him, holding his face in her hands.

  “Jidri,” she said, “can you hear me?”

  The lad looked up, his eyes a sickly yellow.

  “Homemother?” he asked.

  “You see?” the Black Matron said. “He recognizes you. So touching.” Then, over her shoulder, “Bar all the entrances and exits.”

  The Sons of Canta quickly obeyed. The Goddessguard stayed by the Black Matron’s side.

  Astrid stared at Jidri, her feet rooted where she stood. “Homemother, what is going on?”

  “Astrid?” Jidri asked. He coughed violently. “Is that you?”

  The Homemother looked over her shoulder at the Black Matron. “This was not part of the plan,” she said, tears in her eyes.

  Astrid’s eyes never left Jidri. “What plan?” she asked. The sun must have set outside, as Astrid’s eyes were beginning to glow, but her voice quavered.

  As the Sons had moved to the exits, children had slowly filed into the common area. Knot counted twenty-two in total, including Camy, all watching what was going on.

  “It’s Astrid, is it?” the Black Matron said, stepping towards her. “I have a gift for you.”

  The Black Matron tossed a small flowered sprig toward Astrid, and the girl fell to her knees.

  “Vampires are a curious race,” the Black Matron said. “So powerful, but their weakness is so… weak, is it not? Nightsbane. A simple herb, and you’re completely incapacitated.” She shoved Astrid over with her foot, and the girl toppled to the side, the nightsbane just touching her shoulder.

  Knot had attempted to interact with Astrid’s memories numerous times to no avail, but never in his life did he want something more than to take the nightsbane from next to the girl
and move it far, far away. He tried, but just like every time he attempted to interact with a memory, his hand passed right through the object.

  “There’s a phenomenon associated with newborn vampires,” the Black Matron said, walking over to Jidri and leaning over to look into his eyes. “Once a vampire has completed its transition, it experiences what most vampires call the Bloodlust. An insatiable thirst for human blood. They will tear apart anyone nearby to satisfy that craving. It is completely involuntary, uncontrollable, and truly horrific to watch.”

  She shrugged. “Or so I’ve heard. The tradition surrounding that phenomenon,” she continued, “interests me even more. Many vampires, while siring another through the transition, lead the sick, disoriented soul right to their family’s doorstep just as they are about to complete the process. They leave that soon-to-be daemon, unattended, in the arms of the people they once loved most in life.”

  A low groan echoed throughout the common area, and Knot thought at first that it came from Jidri. But the boy was still, his head hung limply in front of him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Knot saw Astrid move, one arm slowly dragging across the floor towards the nightsbane. Goddess, the girl was trying to push the herb away from her.

  “Pleeeaaaaase,” Astrid moaned, barely above a whisper.

  The Black Matron raised one eyebrow. “Impressive,” she said. “From what I understand, most vampires are hardly coherent when that close to nightsbane, let alone able to move. I think we chose right when we sought you out, my dear.”

  “Pleeeeeeaaaaaaaase…”

  “You know the tradition of which I speak, don’t you, girl?” the Black Matron asked, looking down at Astrid. “Someone did it to you, if my information is correct.”

  “Get up, girl,” Knot whispered, his eyes not leaving Astrid. A tear, reflecting green light from her eyes, slid at an angle down one cheek towards the floor. “Fight.”

  “Priestess, what is the meaning of this?” the Homemother said, tears streaming down her face as she turned to face the Black Matron. “Our deal was for you to take the vampire, not to threaten my entire orphanage.”