Sin and Soil

by Anya Merchant

  He slammed his elbow into the side of the last ones neck, slipping behind his guard to grab, lever, and break his arm at the shoulder. Shank’s lackies let out a variety of groans and pained noises as the ones still conscious attempted to drag themselves out of the fray.

  “A true man of performance,” said Shank. “I am of appreciation for that. I see now why you harbor so much stubbornness.”

  He ran a finger across Vel’s neck. Damon gritted his teeth, wanting to shout for him to stop but fearing it might lead to worse consequences.

  Surprisingly, Shank shoved her away after a moment, resting his hand on his sword and taking slow steps forward. Vel sprinted toward the inn, shooting several panicked glances that all but invited Damon to run with her. He knew he couldn’t, not without turning his back to an opponent with an extremely dangerous reputation.

  “I overheard a rumor that you have a wrathblade,” said Shank, slowly drawing his own curved longsword.

  “Does this look like a wrathblade to you?” asked Damon. “If you were hoping it might be an extra perk in the contract, you should speak with your employer about that.”

  “Ah, I am not of concern for it,” said Shank. “Curious coincidence, it would have been.”

  Damon wondered about the meaning behind those words as they began to circle each other. In the glow of the ghost moon, he could see Shank’s sword clearly enough to tell it wasn’t a wrathblade.

  There was no warning before the first attack. Shank moved swiftly, almost matching Damon’s own speed, which was annoying. The limitation of not being able to use the edge of his sword without revealing its dullness was even worse, forcing him to pass on an early opportunity to strike what might have been a fight finishing blow.

  Their blades sang and clashed, a mockery of the beautiful music Bylia had played for the inn earlier that night on her chime chord. Shank was a more than worthy opponent, but that fact brought out the best in him.

  He fought with everything he had, reacting to blurring movements in his peripheral vision, sensing strikes and feints rather than seeing him. He struck back with ugly aggression, hammering his sword against Shank’s, pushing the scarred Remenai onto defense.

  He felt the fight slowly but surely shift in his favor, which made Shank’s smile all the more horrifying when it came. He slashed, the tip of his sword fluttering Shank’s tunic, but not slashing into it as a sharpened sword would have.

  “An opponent of capabilities,” said Shank. “Most interesting. But many would describe me in terms of the same vein.”

  He let go of his sword, lifting his right hand and making a fist. Damon stared in stunned disbelief as a symbol began to shine with a chilling azure blue glow. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that he recognized the shape of the rune, the very same pattern which had been imprinted onto the base of the metal of his wrathblade.

  Shank’s eyes took on the same brilliant color of azure as he took up a grip on his weapon again, smiling and tensing his shoulders. The whistling of the wind provided an interlude that held in that empty moment.

  Damon attacked, slashing at neck level, expecting Shank to deflect. Instead, he disappeared, body blurring from the speed of the movement. Stinging pain pulsed through Damon’s left shoulder as he felt his opponent’s sword make contact, sinking through skin and muscle and pulling back with the same unreal swiftness.

  He spun around. Shank wasn’t there. Quiet, mocking laughter came from all directions at once. Damon felt like he was in a dream, a nightmare, searching for glimpses of a monster in the background.

  “Damon Al-Kendras,” said Shank, voice echoing. “Can you not fight what you cannot see?”

  A blow took him in the side of the head, either from Shank’s blade flat or sword pummel. Damon spun, swinging his blade in a circle and finding nothing.

  “So slow,” said Shank. “So weak. Might you need motivation? I could seek out your companion and pull her from the inn?”

  Shank manifested, in front of him, spinning his sword in a flourish. Damon rushed to block, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough and fearing that the fight’s end was close.

  He blocked at random, guessing at where the next attack would come from. He was wrong, simply unable to predict Shank at the unreal speeds at which his magic was allowing him to move.

  Though as it turned out, he didn’t have to be right. A faint crimson hue surrounded Shank, holding him in place, sword pulled back in preparation for the final strike. Damon whirled, looking toward the inn and gaping in total shock.

  Malon stood on the outskirts of town, her eyes brimming with a crimson glow a twin to the light emanating from Shank’s own eyes. Her hand was outstretched, and the grass surrounding her seemed to blow outward in even, concentric waves.

  Shank made a gagging noise, and Damon suddenly became aware that the other men, his lackies, had regrouped behind him. Malon strode forward, her red braid dancing with energy like a snake dangling from a tree branch.

  “This is not your territory,” she said. “You made a blunder tonight.”

  She opened her fingers slightly.

  Shank coughed and then spoke, though the rest of his body remained frozen in stasis. “Another… crest? It can’t be.”

  “It can be,” said Malon. “I know you’re here to collect on a debt, one which I will provide a partial payment for. Tell your master what happened here and make no attempt to return.”

  Malon extended her other hand, tossing a purse of coins onto the grass in front of Shank. She relaxed her magical grip, lowering her arm. Shank fell to his knees, snatching up the coins and glaring out his fury.

  “This isn’t over,” muttered Shank.

  “For your sake, you should hope that it is,” said Malon.

  CHAPTER 22

  Damon clutched a hand over his wounded shoulder, watching as Shank and his lackies disappeared into the trees. He turned toward Malon, still in awe of her display of power, in time to see her waver and fall to one knee.

  “Aesta!”

  He hurried to her side, ignoring his own injury in lieu of whatever had stricken her. Malon reached for him and he embraced her, expecting a hug.

  She kissed him hungrily, running a hand through his hair. He felt her push her tongue into his mouth, which he was fairly certain she’d never done before.

  “Aesta?” he whispered, as their lips parted.

  “Mmm…” she moaned. “Solas…”

  She pulled him to the ground with her, hands roving, exploring places that he knew they’d never go normally. Damon felt his disbelief pivot toward arousal as she groped his crotch, and then they were kissing again.

  “Damon!” Vel’s voice came from the direction of the inn. “Aesta!”

  Hearing Vel seemed just enough to snap Malon out of her intimate trance. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath, biting her lower lip and setting a hand on Damon’s chest. It was only then that she seemed to notice his wounded shoulder and back to the true nature of the moment.

  “We need to get inside the inn,” whispered Malon. “I’ll explain everything once we’re sure we’re safe.”

  The Smoke and Stage’s remaining patrons gaped at Damon, sword out and shoulder bloody, as he entered. Jonna immediately began fussing over them and assembling clean water and bandages. Bylia grabbed Damon’s good hand and followed him, Malon, and Vel upstairs.

  They closed themselves inside one of the rooms Jonna had reserved for them. Bylia began tending to Damon’s injury as soon as Jonna brought the supplies up, carefully stitching and dressing the wound, which was thankfully a clean and surprisingly shallow cut.

  “Aesta…” he said. “What was that?”

  He was sitting on the bed with Bylia and Vel, and all three of them looked toward Malon, who stood near the door. She seemed recovered was watching him with her arms crossed, expression neutral, eyes knowing and confident.

  “That…” she began. “Was a sorcerer. The azure mark on the back of his hand was Wrath’s
crest.”

  Vel shook her head, making a face somewhere between a frown and a pout. “What are you talking about? What does that mean?”

  Malon gave her a chagrined smile. “It means that he’s been chosen to serve one of the Divine Remnants, in this case Wrath. The crest gives him certain magical abilities not unlike those of a spellblood, but far more potent, as you experienced, solas.”

  She looked toward Damon, who furrowed his brow.

  “Shank… wasn’t the only one using magic, aesta,” he said. “Tell me the truth. Do you also have a crest?”

  For a moment that seemed to stretch and linger, Damon was left wondering whether she would admit what he already knew. She looked back and forth between him and Vel for a beat before slowly nodding.

  “I do,” she said. “My situation is… rather unique, though not more so than many other crest sorcerers and sorceresses. My crest contract is with Lascivious, and I have served her over the past three years in a variety of different capacities.”

  “Lascivious?” snapped Vel. “You serve the Forsaken of passion and lust?”

  “I have a crest contract with her, but it isn’t that simple,” said Malon. “My magic comes at a cost that I must pay in a predetermined way. A crest sorcerer in service to Wrath would pay a similar price in violence and death.”

  Damon winced as Bylia pulled another stitch through his skin in pursuit of closing his shoulder injury.

  “You said that tensions between the Forsaken were rising in this area the last time we spoke of them,” he said. “Aesta. Is this related?”

  “Not in the way you might think,” she replied. “The man who accosted you tonight was not acting directly on behalf of Wrath, but if we were to strike against him, it would risk instigating the situation.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Malon moved to crouch by where he sat on the bed, taking his hands into hers. The memory of their deep kiss and her pawing hands came unbidden to his mind, and he suddenly found it extremely hard to ignore her intoxicating scent and the way her beautiful eyes roved over his face and chest.

  “What I’m saying, solas, is that if this man continues pursuing the debt you’ve inherited, you must find a way to pay it,” she said. “It’s not a simple matter of killing him or fighting him off.”

  “I… saw some of the fight,” said Bylia, speaking for the first time since Damon had arrived back. “You almost managed to win, Damon. Even though you just had your sword and he was so powerful.”

  She’d finished the last stitch and begun dabbing the last bits of blood from the wound with gentle movements. Damon smiled at her, and just was aware enough to catch Vel pouting out of the corner of his eye.

  “You’re asking me to do the impossible, aesta,” he said, turning back toward Malon. “The amount is several gold crowns. I don’t see how I could ever pay it off in a reasonable amount of time.”

  “I gave him most of the money from the harvest today in that purse.” Malon held up a hand before Damon could protest. “It was necessary, please understand. This is larger than you, Damon, larger than your father’s debts or your reputation. It was a small price to pay to potentially delay or avert what’s coming.”

  “It’s my responsibility,” he said. “If you think paying the debt is the way to go, I’ll take heed. But I insist on being the one to find the money to pay it with from now on.”

  Malon nodded slowly. The room was silent as each of them exchanged worried glances. Damon reached out, taking Vel and Malon’s hands into his own.

  “We’ll make it through this,” he said. “I promise. This is why I came back. To protect you both.”

  Vel looked like she was about to cry, but Malon seemed as confident and capable as ever. She squeezed his hand for a moment and then stepped back.

  “Now,” she said. “I must rest. My display of my abilities was… fairly draining.”

  It was subtle, but Damon noticed a slight flush that came to her cheeks, along with an intensity to her eyes, as though whatever price Lascivious forced her to pay for her magic was still taking its toll.

  “Goodnight, aesta,” he said.

  “Goodnight, solas.”

  Malon left the room. Vel looked back and forth between Bylia and Damon, as though unsure whether she felt compelled to follow.

  “Damon…” said Vel, voice uncharacteristically shy. “You came looking for me.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “As soon as I realized that you weren’t at the inn.”

  “I went for a walk to clear my head, I suppose.” She shrugged, still looking sheepish. “They surprised me. I tried to scream, but I guess nobody heard.”

  “Did they do anything to you?” asked Damon. “Hurt you, or…?”

  “No,” she said. “I think they would have, though, if you hadn’t arrived when you did.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, teasingly.

  Vel exhaled and folded her arms across her chest. “Thank you. When we get back to the farm… I think we should probably talk.”

  The look she gave him left almost no doubt as to about what, at least from what Damon could read into it. He felt an odd flutter in his heart, not unlike what he’d felt on the night of the Turning Festival, leading the young woman in the cat mask up to his room.

  “Let’s talk, then,” he said. “As soon as we’re back.”

  She nodded slowly, blinking and glancing at Bylia with an expectant air.

  “I should check him for other injuries,” said Bylia.

  “Of course,” said Vel. “Thank you for your help as well.”

  She left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 23

  Bylia began running her hands over Damon’s hair and head, feeling a few of the lumps he’d earned from various blows throughout the fight with gingerly touches.

  “I bet this wasn’t quite what you had in mind when you considered catching up with an old friend tonight,” he said, smiling.

  “You mentioned your debts once or twice back when we first traveled together,” said Bylia. “A surprise, for sure, but not a completely unexpected one.”

  The hand she currently had intwined within his hair shifted downward, briefly cupping his cheek and running along the edge of his chin. Damon had taken off his tunic when she’d first begun dressing his cut, and she suddenly felt very close and very kissable.

  She didn’t stop him as he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. She did stop him as he tried to take it further than that, catching his hand by the wrist as it slid up the fabric of her tunic to cup one of her breasts.

  “Damon,” she said. “You came very close to dying tonight.”

  He smiled and perked his eyebrows up. “Not for the first time, and likely not for the last.”

  “This isn’t one of your mummers fights where you’re expected to build up the danger,” she said.

  “I’m aware of that. Bylia, this is why I came back to the area. Gavel, the gang leader who is currently the most pressing of my father’s debt holders, threatened Malon while I was still in Avaricia.”

  “I know the type of man you are, Damon.” Bylia weaved her fingers through his. “It’s not like you to ignore such a threat. You took it seriously and made it your responsibility. But what if there is another option?"

  “Bylia…”

  “Just listen, for now,” she said. “This assassin seemed as intrigued by the idea of fighting and killing you as he did by the objective of collecting his employer’s debt.”

  “He probably liked the idea of killing a gladiator,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d go as far to say that he’s intrigued by me.”

  “Lots of people are intrigued by you,” said Bylia, flashing a small, knowing smile. “Damon, what if you’re putting Malon and Velanor in danger by staying at the farm?”

  He was already shaking his head, but Bylia pressed her finger against his lips before he could raise an objection out loud.

  “As I told you earlier tonig
ht, I have been looking for a traveling companion. Someone who I trust with the strength to keep me safe on the road. Damon, if you were so willing, I would welcome your company.”

  “If you are right about Shank being willing to follow after me instead putting pressure on Malon and Vel, you’d be stepping into the fire in their place,” said Damon. “Bylia…”

  “Don’t answer just yet,” she whispered. “There are… other reasons why I think it might be an arrangement that would work for the two of us, specifically.”

  She ran a hand down his bare chest, letting her fingers trace the cord of his trousers and begin to play with the knot just above his crotch. It was a hard knot, though as Bylia slowly worked it loose, a harder thing rose to fill the newly provided space.

  “I never missed the way you used to look at me, Damon,” said Bylia.

  “I take offense,” said Damon. “You were seventeen, back then.”

  “Looking isn’t a capital offense,” she whispered. “Besides, it’s not as though I’m still underage.”

  Or inexperienced, Damon thought, but didn’t say. He felt the muscles of his abdomen tighten with excitement as she deftly worked his cock out of his trousers and began to stroke it with gentle, fluid movements.

  A part of him knew that her seduction had a secondary motive that she’d already all but admitted to. That part of him kept quiet as Bylia’s hot breath tickled the sensitive underside of his shaft. She licked her lips slowly, and then him with even more deliberate slowness.

  She kept her eyes on his as she continued pleasuring him with her tongue, prodding and polishing his cock with a dangerous amount of patience. Damon reached a hand down to affectionately caress her face and hair, aware of how close what she was currently doing matched his previously unfulfilled illicit fantasies of her from years before.

  She engulfed the head of his member with her mouth, soft lips pillowing downward to create a tight, hot seal. The pleasure was almost too much for him. With effort, he focused on his breathing, regaining just enough calm to keep from charging across his limit.