by S D Simper
“Etolié, you cannot be suggesting that everyone else will die.”
The universe answered Lunestra’s damning challenge—beyond, Etolié heard the first screams echo across the cavern. “The undead have breached the tunnels,” she managed to say, voice quivering. “Please, trust me.”
Lunestra ran, and Etolié couldn’t see her expression. But she saw Sora, heard the half-elf mumble a prayer as they followed.
The dead-end tunnel should have been a death sentence. Etolié caught a glance of cruel undeath rapidly approaching. Ghouls howled, but Etolié stood at the turn and held up a hand, the other still wrapped around the small girl clinging to her body. “Don’t even breathe,” Etolié whispered to the girl. She cast her spell. Though to Etolié the wall maintained some translucence, to the rest she knew they’d see nothing—merely brick.
The ghoul who had followed slowed before them, sniffing around the walls before releasing a guttural cry. Etolié stared at the wall she had summoned, willing it to hold—she trusted it would, but one distraction, one flicker of doubt, and the ghoul would come to slaughter them.
And even if Sora chopped off its head—which she would, Etolié held no doubt—the attention it would attract would damn them all, and the precious cargo in Etolié’s arms might be lost.
The ghoul moved on.
Etolié dropped her hand; the wall stayed. When she tried to place the child down, the girl released a desperate sob. “Shh,” Etolié cooed, and beyond she heard the screams of thousands. “What’s your name?”
The small girl, surely no older than four, stole a gasping breath. “C-Ceile.”
“Ceile, do you sing?”
The girl nodded.
Etolié turned to Sora and said, “I’ve blocked sound and sight.” She looked to the children weeping at their feet, though some were too panicked to even do that. “But while I’m pretty fu—freaking good at sight, sounds can slip through. I can only block my own with any certainty, or people I know well.” Etolié soothed the girl in her arms, then looked to Lunestra, who visibly fought to keep composure.
“When I was young,” she said softly to Ceile, a part of her mind always on the wall beside her, “I would make up silly songs to cheer up my momma.” Etolié heard scratching—when she glanced toward it, a small group of ghouls ran past, paying them no mind. She sat on the ground and beckoned the children to join her. “My grandfather, Eionei, also knows lots of songs—he’s a god of secrets, and there are no better secrets than those found hidden in the songs of travelling bards.”
The children gathered around, their tear-stained faces old beyond their years. All of them had lost parents and families—only orphans took residence in the cathedral. “I know a few about Sol Kareena. Eionei made certain I had a wide repertoire.”
Etolié dared to smile as she softly sang:
Sol Kareena, She of Light,
Let my sword be filled with might
All my trust shall be in thee
Your banner waves;
my enemies flee
Before her, the children listened, their cries soothed. Etolié’s voice was something she kept as a hidden weapon of sorts—Eionei was a fantastic tenor, and Etolié held talents as a soprano she was quietly rather proud of.
Few beyond Staelash knew. She had concocted a few ditties for Khastra in the past.
Etolié’s slurring words echoed across the high library ceiling.“Your tattoos glow as bright as your eyes, but they ain’t as slammin’ as your thighs!”
“Etolié, you are embarrassing yourself.”
The children listened; Etolié continued, singing hymns to praise the Goddess these children loved, almost lost in the words until a horrid scraping of stone and rough dirt caused the children to cringe and cover their ears. Etolié kept her song, faltering only when a figure slowed beyond the wall, unseen to all but she.
With a battalion of the dead came the transformed Bringer of War, covered in gore, her armor splattered in blood. The horrid sound was her hammer dragging upon the ancient stone floor, casting a faint purple glow upon the walls beyond. Her entire body had stretched to impossible capacity, growing in every dimension—the true power of her demonic blood. She glowed, her tattoos illuminating the cavern around her, the skin beneath them taut enough to tear. Her horns nearly scraped the ceiling. Khastra’s lips bore no smile, but Etolié saw sharp fangs and a bestial visage.
Etolié’s lip trembled as she sang:
Courage, come and set me free
My Goddess, I ask to shelter me
Etolié knew that gaze; it had torn straight through her time and time again, seeing past her layers, illusionary and not. Khastra knew her better than anyone, better than she knew herself. They matched eyes, though Etolié’s welled tears.
Grant me mercy; grant me life
May my days be free of strife
Demoni words echoed across the halls—everyone within her cavern cowered; the children sobbed. Only Etolié saw the great half-demon, however. Only Etolié pled at her feet.
I’ll pledge my soul to glory thy name
Until my final, dying day.
And when I pass, give my soul flight
I love thee, Goddess, She of Light
The dead swarmed past the Bringer of War, and when one ghoul faltered, peered a moment at the wall, the great demon tore its head from its shoulders. The undead fell to the ground in two meaty pieces, slumping against the stone floor. “Etolié.”
Etolié’s voice faltered; everyone froze. “Step back,” Etolié whispered, and the children scrambled to obey, them and Sora and Lunestra backing against the far wall. Etolié stood tall, her ward in her arms as she looked up to Khastra through the false wall.
The monstrous visage looked a moment to the ceiling. She released her beloved weapon and instead tore her claws through the stone above. The entire cavern shook.
With a great heave, the Bringer of War yanked the wall down. Etolié screamed, turning to protect the child from falling rocks and debris.
She heard fading, clopping footsteps, but now was hardly the time for jokes about goat hooves. When the dust settled, Etolié saw that the ceiling had collapsed before them—creating a physical barrier where Etolié’s had been illusionary.
Horrendous screams echoed beyond, sickening sounds of carnage and pain. Etolié and her party were trapped.
But they were safe.
* * *
Flowridia awoke to the setting sun and the sounds of misery. She sat up, neck throbbing, and as her vision settled instead of swam, she realized she lay in a small cage.
Within a clearing in the woods, she saw more cages and tents. A temporary camp from the looks of it, with a caravan of empty carts surrounding them, but in the center were cages of captured humanoids, helpless as they peered from their bonds.
She saw Demitri, still chained and helpless in a cart, much too far away to speak to. An odd barrier surrounded him—like lightning, cast between four great poles around the cart. Perhaps not impossible to penetrate, but Flowridia knew it as a branch of magic she held no talent in.
She saw General Irons and Coal still shackled but stripped of their bloodied armor and clothing. Clad in their underclothes, lest they be hiding any weapons, Irons still kept his calculating gaze, visibly contemplating escape.
In a cage beside her own was Empress Alauriel, collapsed in the corner. Blood stained her back, the fabric soaked in deep, vicious red. Flowridia saw hints of her neck, of the collar suppressing her powers—then touched her own.
She bit back a curse as she tugged on the maldectine collar, fury rising in tandem with her tears. She willed her breath to steady as she placed a hand upon the small, rough stone, focusing on the inherent power within it, trying to grasp it and—
Splitting pain shot through her head. She gasped and drew back; the pain immediately dissipated. There was something more here, and Flowridia fought the urge to scream.
Something sharp pierced her thigh. Flowridia peered
into the pocket of her skirt and saw the sliver of bone she’d manage to drop inside.
She remembered Ana. By every god, she recalled her darling Ana with her prancing feet and enormous eye sockets—destroyed beneath Shem’s boot.
Tears welled in her eyes, along with the pulsing heat of rage. When she looked up, Shem approached. She swallowed her tears, refusing to show weakness. Behind him burned a fire at the center of camp, perhaps meant to warm the chill of the oncoming night. “Glad to see you awake,” he said, his grin wide and leering. “You aren’t worth anything dead.”
Flowridia forced her own smile. Using the bars, she pulled herself into standing. A stark chill washed over her skin—but unnatural, not from within. At her sternum, the ear burned from cold. “Shem, you do realize you’re inciting the wrath of three kingdoms in this useless gamble of yours?”
“Am I?” He kept his grin. “I’ve pissed off royals before.”
“If I’m not returned, Imperator Casvir won’t stop hunting you. I assure you that.”
“You’re Nox’Kartha’s pet? Perhaps they’ll match the money I was offered for you. If they pay double, perhaps you’ll be sent back untouched.” He kept coming forward, and Flowridia’s blood boiled at the slight lick of his lip. “I almost hope they don’t, with a face like that.”
Of course it scared her. Every hair on her body stood on end at the threat, but Flowridia grit her jaw and glared, even as ice as sharp as daggers suddenly suffocated her. “You don’t know who you’re instigating.”
“It’s true you fancy women, yes? Will I be the first man who’s ever fucked you?”
“You would be.” She kept his eye, wondering if her lips were blue from chill. “You’d be my first, and I’d be your last.”
His chuckle held no ire; merely amusement. “I like a girl with fire.”
“Tell me who sent you,” she replied, fury rising with her fear.
He chuckled as he said, “I’d be a piss-poor businessman if I told you that.”
“Tell me!”
But shook his head, amusement twisting his lip. When he stepped away, Flowridia dared to reach into her blouse and touch the ear, knowing full well it remained.
Ayla held awareness, slight as it was. Were she restored, nothing, not even Flowridia’s pleading, would protect Shem from her wrath. Not that Flowridia would besmirch her the pleasure.
In the cage beside her, Lara hadn’t stirred. Flowridia reached through the bars, not quite able to touch the empress. “Lara?” she whispered, as loud as she dared. “Lara?”
Whatever they’d done, Lara held no awareness—and truly, what safer way was there to transport a Solviraes? Flowridia feared it might be a poison and tried again, her shoulder aching as she failed to touch the prone woman. “Lara, please,” she said, but her arm fell slack, hope seeping away.
She pulled back, instead slumping against the bars. With the ear grasped in her hand, she wondered to what god she could pray, wondered if Sol Kareena cared or noticed, if Izthuni would think her a fool for failing.
For Ayla to have once written Izthuni’s sigil in Flowridia’s blood did not mean she belonged to him—a demon could take no one without their will behind it, with a few exceptions. And to ask his help, to use her blood to summon him herself, would be all but a pledge to his name . . . as well as a death sentence to her mortal body.
She could ask the Shadow God for help, but even if he answered, no one could say the consequences.
She shut her eyes, meditating upon her fear. She wondered who would have the cruel audacity to do this.
Soliel came to mind, but this spat in the face of all she knew of him. Perhaps Murishani—rid the world of her without getting his hands dirty. Perhaps that was all his help was—a farce. Fury seeped into her breathing, spiking her heart.
Within the hour, the sun set.
“Flowridia?”
Flowridia gasped. Not Lara’s voice. Instead, when she turned, she saw an eerily familiar figure. “Mereen?”
Mereen wore a hood and sat with her back to Flowridia’s cage and the camp, staring into the woods, perfectly still. How she had gotten there undetected was for the gods to say, but when Flowridia sat at the opposite side of her, she felt the vampire shift. “Quite the conundrum you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Suspicion rose, her blood running cold. “I think it’d be redundant to say I need help.”
Mereen turned ever so slightly towards her, her alabaster skin practically glowing in the dark, the white-blonde of her hair hardly a shade off. “Sweetie, before you ask, I fight vampires, not slavers. I do, however, occasionally steal keys.”
A gloved hand touched hers. Mereen slipped a small key into her hand. “For your shackles. There’s also a horse waiting in the woods—animals don’t exactly love me, so it was a testament of my liking to you to steal it.”
Flowridia wasted no time in poking the key into the hole in her collar, keeping her gaze on the slavers around the bonfire all the while. Barrels of ale had been provided for the men, reminding her of the dwarves and Etolié a lifetime ago.
The latch clicked. She pulled the collar away, cringing as it tore strands of hair with it. But when she tossed it away, the world returned to her fingertips. Energy coursed through her veins, and for the first time, she breathed.
“Brace yourself, sweetie.”
Flowridia stood up and away from the cage. Mereen, with the strength of the damned, snapped the metallic bar at the top and then the bottom, leaving just wide enough of a space for Flowridia to slip through. “Why are you here?”
“Quite the story. Perhaps once we’ve gotten you and your empress out of here, we’ll share, yes?” Mereen crept toward the opposite cage, easily snapping the top of the bar.
“What the—”
Flowridia saw men approaching from the bonfire. “Mereen—”
When she turned back, Mereen had vanished.
Flowridia stood with her back to the broken cage, blocking it from their view in the dark. Her hair hid her neck, and with a slight motion of her feet, the maldectine collar hid beneath her skirts. “Gentlemen?”
Five men approached, Shem among them. “Thought I heard something,” he said, his words slightly slurred.
“Perhaps you’re simply drunker than you think you are.”
His laughter chilled her blood. “I like your spirit, Lady Flowridia of Staelash.” He placed his hand on the door of her cage, leaning slightly against it. “You’ll be a fun one to break.”
He reached for the keys at his hip, beside which Flowridia recalled there was an orb. Not quite paralyzed, but not quite aware, she gripped the bars beside her as the door swung open, her body hiding the gap.
It wasn’t Shem who entered, but the four other men, each smelling heavily of ale. The cage door shut. One grabbed her arm, his intentions clear by his leering eyes and grin. She stole a breath as he tugged her forward.
Necromancy, they said, came from setting aside pain, but Flowridia forgot every lesson, every word and warning Casvir had taught she threw aside because by every god—she so loved to be angry.
She grabbed his forearm; the man screamed as her body suddenly crackled with illuminate energy, purple and black, like lightning across her skin. She felt his life escape in droves and breathed a heavy sigh, gaseous magic escaping with her breath. In the thrall of euphoria, she felt him fade; she heard the chorus of dying men.
When she opened her eyes, four corpses lay around her, and Shem stared with wide, baleful eyes. “Foolish of you,” she spat, “to lock them in here with me.”
“Witch!” he cried, with all the hate of a time long past. “Men! Grab this woman!”
His attention stolen for the moment, Flowridia ran through the opening in her cage and stared into the woods.
“Flowridia!” came a loud whisper.
In the darkness, Flowridia saw a flash of white skin—Mereen beckoned, and in her arms lay Lara.
Her body itched to run. Magic pulsed through her v
eins, bringing energy and awareness.
She looked back to the camp, watched Shem and his men congregate to chase her, saw droves of people—but among them lay half her heart.
Demitri matched her gaze.
“Flowridia?”
Flowridia’s very skin seemed to tear as she moved toward them both—for Lara, safe enough in Mereen’s embrace, and to Demitri, whose golden eyes spelled fear.
An arrow shot past her head. She hardly heard it. Instead, she stared at Shem as he and a small envoy ran to her.
Within her, there was no void, no absence of feeling—instead her rage spiked. She recalled the forest of months’ ago, her anguish manifesting in destruction and death. Here, the ground around her withered and dried, the very life sucked from the roots, bombarding her with radiant, sickening energy.
By every god—the power was bliss. She relished the sensation, held to the energy until one man aimed his crossbow.
She released. With a scream, the dead earth infused with life, the ground churning as the dead creatures within rose from below, as grassroots strengthened and grew, grasping at the men’s legs. In their shock, Flowridia had a moment to breathe and calculate.
Pain suddenly tore at her shoulder. Fueled by adrenaline, she tore out the crossbow bolt, managing to duck as another might have ripped into her face. She saw the man from afar and commanded the dead grass beneath his feet to consume him.
Focused on one, Flowridia guided the grass to climb around him, then inside him, relishing in his cries as the plants grew into his pores and ravaged him from within. Unlike their animal counterparts, the plants required more focus, more guidance, but as the man collapsed, grass sprouting from lacerations in his skin, the results were no less powerful—merely more precise.
More approached. She ran around the outskirts of camp, toward where Demitri waited, leading the envoy away from the empress and Mereen. A cloud of death emanated from her figure, though it would do nothing if they shot at her again.
But they wanted her alive. Dead, she was worth nothing.
