“As we said, we come to serve the Unholy Trinity. At the moment they are scattered and weak. As powerful as you are, Harbinger,” she offered the appellation with a derisive curtsy, “You remain weakened while Grotton’s Harbinger remains uncrowned. You are unable to fulfil the entirety of your duties.”
Recognition flashed almost imperceptibly across Kreed’s face. The falter was not lost on The Crow.
“Yes Harbinger, we know your truth and your shame. We bathe in the Shadow Tide. We know of your power and your weakness. We’ve been watching you, Kreed. We swim in the wake of your dreams. We watched you fight alongside the Unbound during the siege of Oberon Temple. We wrapped you in Hope, watched you clutch it like a blanket. With the blessing of Sorronis, we buried you in your own Despair, then filled you with the Hatred you needed. We tempted you with Grotton’s promises, and by Decreath’s graces we infected your mind. You wield Fear like your favored blade, but it is the very thing that will be your undoing. You Fear those whom you betrayed so long ago. You Fear the Unbound.”
More black smoke poured from Kreed’s mouth, filling the rooftop with acrid Fear. Habbad wrapped himself in the minds of his Domina, throwing their sanity into the fray while protecting his own.
Kreed threw his head back and screamed like a child, wrapping his arms around himself as he released an endless breath. The otherworldly sound rose from the depths of his body, rising to a tight plateau before he cut it short. Steadying himself, he faced the Crows with murder in his blackened eyes. Decreath’s influence faded as he resumed control of his body.
“I mastered my Fear!” Kreed spat. “Decreath crowned me Harbinger! His approval is all that I need.”
The Crow bowed her head in acknowledgement. “The Dread Father’s trust is well-placed, but as you know, no mortal is perfect. You have your flaws, though you have fulfilled the duties of Harbinger to the letter. Not one soul in this world is more deserving of Decreath’s graces. You even gifted Sorronis a Harbinger, a feat beyond what is expected of you. And with your guidance, Grotton is sure to coronate your young associate here.” The Crow stilled her twitching fingers and pointed them at Habbad.
Habbad swallowed, drawing upon the bravery of his more cavalier Domina to maintain a stoic demeanor. He forced his eyes into the Crow’s sheer bandana. Judging by the size and sheen of the orbs behind the cloth, her eyelids had been removed in the same manner as the rest of her features. He gave her a nod, breathing through his pursed lips so that he wouldn’t have to smell her breath.
Kreed coughed, hacking a black mass of phlegm onto the marble tiles, which began to fizzle and smoke. He shot Habbad a disdainful look before addressing the Crows again: “That settles the matter I think. As you just admitted I’ve been making out fine on my own, and I certainly don’t need your lot creeping over my shoulder. The Three will have their second coming and I will be the conductor of the black orchestra. I will personally see to it that the remaining Unbound and their offspring are dealt with.”
The Crow’s lips stretched over grey gums as she clicked her teeth. Her oily voice spoke with unwavering certainty. “You will fail.”
Habbad leaped over the bar, standing next to the crow and braving her breath. “Listen to her, Father Kreed. Listen to me. My ears stretch to every corner of this world. The Unbound learned too much from the last war. They’ve adapted. There are rumors of the human as well. Wild rumors that I’m reluctant to believe, but they grow more valid by the day.” He took a step closer to Kreed, locking eyes with him. “A portion of Varka lives within him.”
Air hissed into clenched teeth as Kreed ran his fingers through his hair. He swore, then spoke in a slow, defeated whisper. “I Feared as much. Decreath felt Varka’s presence in the little bastard during the Devotion. We tried, but we hadn’t the power to snuff his Rage. There is no need to persuade me further. This news confirms my own suspicions.” Kreed shook himself and took a long breath. “What do you propose then?”
A sigh fluttered from The Crow’s chattering teeth. “The Unholy Trinity are scattered and weak. They must be reunited. We know the ones who hinder their revolution: Alvani, the Flame of Passion; Roth the Mountain of Rage; Chiron, the Light of Wisdom. Together they form the antiforce to The Three. All is not lost, however, for we see all from the eddies of the Shadow Tide.”
“Explain,” Kreed said, taking a step closer.
The Crow brought a skeletal hand to her chest with a little bow. “We are but artists. Ripe souls are our canvas, our blades are the brush, the snuffing of souls is the art. We desire not for money or power. Those who do are desperate, lacking a proper muse. They need the job. As true artists, we possess ardor for the kill, we make it beautiful, we make it our own. We pour ourselves into the craft, which gives it value. You will pay for our art. The Unbound are nothing more than a canvas, which we will gladly paint, for a price.”
Kreed swiped his drink from the bar and downed it in a long draught. A measure of calm returned to him. “Name your price.”
The three Crows clicked and stirred in unison, excitement building as their shadows deepened around them. The Crow looked up with her lipless grin and veiled eyes. “We demand Varka, and the human, Cole.”
Chapter 20
Enter Evil
Cole’s bare feet padded over a rooftop slick with dew. He leaped, clearing the street below without the aid of magic. He gazed upon Oberon one last time before crossing the roof and dropping to a paved alley on the other side. Though the drop was a little over three stories, Cole resisted the urge to slow his fall with Wisdom. Brimhallow Village appeared vacant, but there was no telling what might be hiding nearby. Domina had sharp ears, and Corpulants could smell Wisdom from a block away. Cole was entirely alone on his first mission. The slightest miscalculation would leave him to deal with the consequences without his giant magic-wielding friends. He had to be his own hero today.
Cole landed roughly, his legs buckling as he sprawled painfully over the stone pavers. The condensing prevented his bones from snapping and tendons from tearing, but the impact left him bruised with bloody palms. He slumped up into a crouched position, shuffling behind a stack of wooden boxes, where he could wait and see if anything had heard him. After five minutes there was no sound besides the chattering of exploring rodentia. Guessing he was safe, he stalked away from his hiding spot and made for the side streets.
A week prior, Earth’s Wisdom Walker, Larkin, had contacted Chiron with an urgent message. Larkin had curried favors with the rest of the Celestial Council, awarding Cole a sanctioned mission. The mission was to investigate the village of Brimhallow, which recently had gone dark on all communications. Brimhallow was a village comprised of Passion-followers, and had reported harassments from Domina. Though the mission was beyond the scale of a single student, the Council saw it a fitting task for one who claimed to be Varka’s second coming. Larkin insisted that Cole take the mission without aid, as its success would go a long way to mitigating his offenses. Chiron hadn’t pressured him to accept the mission, though nor had he opposed it. He’d left the decision entirely up to Cole. Cole thought on it for a few days, eventually concluding that he lacked the training for such a task. However, when Chiron had left for a mission of his own, Cole’s Rage had urged him towards the challenge.
Cole spent an entire day circling and observing Brimhallow from the surrounding treetops, though after only an hour he had a good measure of the fate of the village. Now that his feet kicked up flakes of dried blood, there was no doubt. Brimhallow had been razed.
Cole darted through the alley, listening and watching without the aid of magic. It was difficult to discriminate between an echo of a footfall and the dripping of a gutter, or the flapping of a clothes line and evil laughter. Something in the atmosphere felt wrong. Cole slowed to a quiet halt. He shut his eyes and chanced his Passion, reaching out into the buildings around him. There was no living thing larger than a cat within two blocks. Cole opened his eyes and drove deeper into the village.
As he explored, he peeked through windows both low and high, but there were no bodies to be found. Signs of death and struggle were painted over every surface, however. Murky brown stains soiled beds and walls, while hunks of shiny flesh black with rot clung to the furniture and stairs. Cole imagined the assault must have been so swift that the residents hadn’t even had time to get up from dinner. Dropping from a second-story window, Cole noticed deep gouges on the partially-torn doorframe below. He ran his fingers through the rough cuts, unable to touch the bottom. Nothing short of a Domina or munisica could make claw marks like that. Cole kept his eyes wide and threw a rag over his mouth. The stench of death thickened as he plodded on.
Cole was not entirely walking through the unknown. Chiron had taught him the general strategies The Three used for places like Brimhallow. Their forces moved from town to town like a virus comprised of a small, yet dynamic force. As this had been a town full of Passion followers, priests of Sorronis likely had set a cloud of Despair over the village, weakening the civilians with crushing depression and murky lethargy. Thus weakened, the victims would make easy prey for the Domina, who would normally be susceptible to the empathetic facets of Passion and lose their thralls. Brimhallow was not a small town, but Cole judged that perhaps two or three priests could have taken it with the aid of no more than a dozen Domina. With grim admiration Cole acknowledged the efficiency of The Three. The strategy made sense to Cole, but he kept his mind open to all possibilities. For all he knew this was all an elaborate trap set by some unnamed horror he had yet to encounter.
Cole wandered deeper into Brimhallow, chancing the main roads here and there. He was careful to maintain part of his mind within the stone confines of his center, where he could observe the rest of himself objectively. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure whether the Fear that tickled him was born of his own dread or seeping from an external source. He wished he’d had more training, or at least another person with him. Eliza’s bond had to be suppressed to an insubstantial hair of thought to avoid rousing the attentions of Sorronis’s Priests.
As he crept by the shattered remains of several homes, Chiron’s lessons coincided with his observations with increasing solidarity. There were no bodies to find because it was custom for the priests to have them consolidated in a larder and prepared for harvesting. The priests of Sorronis would take parts to repair their Colossi, while Decreath’s priests would feast on their Fear-ripened souls. Whatever was left afterwards would be quartered out by Grotton’s priests and fed to the Domina. The system left no part of the victims to waste. Cole went over the facts with a steely pragmatism that shed light on the unknown, easing his Fear. With quiet confidence, he poked his head around the final corner to where his reconnaissance told him the temple would be.
Cole swore, his curse echoing throughout the temple square. The temple, once a place for worshiping love and life, was now a totem of desecration, a profound insult to innocence. Covering every inch of the two-story building were the skins of the Brimhallow residents.
The Three’s minions hadn’t spared child or elder from the grisly quilt. While flies and birds picked at remains throughout the rest of the town, not a single creature fed upon the temple’s bloody coat. The entire area was devoid of any life or sound. It was as if the bloody light spilling from the temple windows poisoned the very air, mixing with the sweet tang of rot.
Cole fell against the wall of a house, slumping down and panting as he clutched his knees. This was real. This was not training. This was beyond life and death. He had stumbled upon a demon’s nest. Should he enter the temple no one would ever know what happened to him. Sickly heat flashed up his face, soaking his forehead with cold sweat. Fear had him now.
From his center, Cole drew upon a thin stream of his vast ocean of Rage, careful not to overdo it. His sprinting heart didn’t slow, but its cadence changed from fluttering panic to hammering fury. The Fear sizzled and puffed into irrelevance.
Taking a steady breath, he rose to his feet and strode out into the open street. He had to go in. He had to kill the ones responsible. If he left now the monsters inside would spread like a blight, stronger and hungrier for the next town. If Cole walked away now then the skins of every man, woman, and child would be on his head.
The horrible smell hit him harder with every step as he approached the main door. A childhood memory of finding bad ham in the fridge came to him. These people were nothing more than meat to The Three. Cole’s toes clacked over the crusted steps as his munisica spread over his hands and feet. From the quiet of his center he could feel the Fear pouring into him, threatening to choke and freeze him. The dark magic permeated from the temple itself. He loosened the leash on his Rage, just enough to burn the Fear away faster than it could blossom. Holding his breath, Cole pushed aside a gently billowing drape of Aenerian hair and passed through the threshold, entering the demon’s nest.
There was an empty foyer cast in the same bloody light that seeped from the windows. The light had no source and cast no shadows, giving the impression that the hall was submerged in wine. The silence from the exterior had carried inside, making Cole’s burning heart the loudest thing in earshot. Scattered about in messy heaps were broken statues and torn paintings, as if the priests had wanted to make sure no aspect of Passion would ever be found.
Unsure of where to start, Cole decided to treat the temple like a maze. Keeping a mental hand on the right wall, he followed it as he slinked to the first room, creaking open the door.
Inside the chamber was a hospital bed resting upon a framework of bent brass and broken gratia stones. Cole crouched and snatched a shard of gratia from the floor, unable to guess its color in the red light. He threw the piece onto the bed, where it plopped on the remains of the ripped cushions. His heart hammered on.
The next room was near the end of the hall. He passed over every door on his left, keeping his mind’s hand on the right wall. The shadowless light began to wear on him, diminishing his sense of depth as he crept deeper. A whisper tickled his ear.
Cole snapped his head about, searching for the source. He heard it again, unsure if he was imagining it or not. Shaking between Fear and Rage, he pulled more of himself into his center.
The next few rooms were similar to the first, each with hospital beds and gratia stones. It was a shame to see such waste of a facility that could have helped so many people. The desecrators had opened every single drawer and cabinet, mangling everything from intricate medical tools to children’s toys. The minions of The Three had taken meticulous care to ensure that the temple would never be used for Passion again.
After clearing the first floor, Cole made for the second. He planted a clawed foot on the landing, stopping when he heard a sickening wail beneath the floorboards. It was the cry of someone tortured beyond all reason, someone who had long earned the solace of death.
Swallowing, Cole turned from the second floor landing and found a heavy wooden door set into the floor. The area around the door was clear of debris and muck, looking as if it had only just been closed. Cole bent and wove a clawed finger through the iron latch, jumping as another scream cut the blood-soaked air. The door opened smoothly and silently, revealing a spiral staircase devoid of light. Whispers crept up from the deep black, warning yet tantalizing.
Without the shadowless red light, Cole relied upon his Rage-sharpened ears to guide him down the steps. The air was dank and stagnant, somehow worse than the smells above. Cole wandered blindly, hoping there was more than one exit from the lower levels.
As he continued blindly underground, sounds of scuffling and slapping skin wound their way up to him, replacing the monotony of his heart’s tattoo. The noises grew louder, their sources multiplying as if they were something vast and many. Cole stopped at the corner of the very bottom. Whatever things made the noises were right on the other side of the pitch blackness. He needed his magic, Corpulants or not.
His entire body vibrating, Cole jumped from the bottom landing, c
asting an orb of pure white light above his head as he charged forward.
He stopped abruptly, nearly running himself face-first into a wall made from hundreds of charred, groping arms. The limbs flailed, desperate and eager for anything that might come within reach. The ones nearest Cole stuck straight out, twitching and stretching for him. Cole took a step back as the cold hand of Fear tickled his guts.
There was an echoing rumble from Cole’s left. He crouched, baring his claws as the body of a woman fell from a rusty chute, flopping lifelessly at the base of the wall. Waiting hands found her face and hair, pulling at her with the tenderness of a mother holding a newborn. The arms out of reach of the body slapped and clawed at the stone floor, tearing fingernails and flesh from their tips. Just as quickly as she came, the woman’s body disappeared through the bundle of limbs.
Cole knew what he had to do. He called to his Wisdom, casting an invisible barrier around his skin branded with a simple rule: Nothing shall touch him. Tugging his floating star along, he inched himself into the wall. Maintaining his barrier, he allowed the arms to pull him in. Thankfully, he didn’t feel a thing, though he could hear the drumming of hundreds of fingers on his magical shield. He held his breath as he passed through.
A claw ripped through the air, bouncing off Cole’s head and shattering his barrier. The broken spell jarred his mind as his eyes blurred. He ducked instinctively as a follow-up blow whooshed above him. Guarding his face, Cole thrust his floating star into the face of the Domina. The creature howled and stumbled backwards. Cole followed it with a bladed kick, cleaving its furry kneecap open. The Domina dropped, exposing the back of its broad neck. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Cole jumped on the Domina’s back, landing blow after blow to the top of its spine until the beast stopped moving.
Saving The Dark Side Book 2: The Harbingers Page 42
