by Rob J. Hayes
Then he was gone. My friend. My brother. The other half of me. Gone.
Getting to my feet was easy. I felt stronger than I had in days, despite the battering my body had taken. Like there was new life flooding into my limbs. I saw Hardt, cradling his arm and leaning against the second doorway. He soon faded as the light in the room grew dimmer, and dimmer still, until Yorin was all I could see. My rage boiled inside of me. In that one moment, I fucking hated Yorin more than Prig or the overseer. More than the Terrelan Emperor. More than myself. More than Josef. I was rage incarnate and all of it was focused on him!
He stood there in front of me, knives in hand and both still dripping with blood. It wasn't all Josef's. I wondered who else Yorin had killed. It didn't matter. He backed up a step. It was the only time I ever saw fear on Yorin's face. The only time I ever felt it oozing from him. I advanced slowly, flexing my hands and already imagining tearing him apart bit by bit, drinking down his terror. Ripping him into pieces and smearing him over the walls as a monument to my pain.
"What are you?" Yorin hissed.
A simple question, and it should have had a simple answer. But it didn't. It made me confront the truth. In that moment, I recognised the unnatural darkness around us. I recognised the cold and the fear. It was the first time I looked inside myself and I recognised Ssserakis.
Strange to say, but I heard the ancient horror laugh. You are the weapon. A voice in my head mocking my stupidity that I hadn't seen it earlier.
The darkness faded, the light of the lantern flooding back in, and I collapsed to my knees. Yorin could have killed me then. I was weak and barely conscious. I think, perhaps, he should have. Maybe he could have saved the world all the pain I have since visited upon it. I would have died there next to Josef. Together again, forever.
Self-reflection is a personal thing. The act of looking inside oneself and shedding light on all the bits you would rather left hidden. Only there was no light inside of me. As I knelt there, amidst the rubble, and the blood of my best friend, I looked inside and saw darkness. And the darkness stared back at me.
I have since had many conversations with Ssserakis. I know the horror almost as well as I know myself. Back then it felt alien and cold. Like a part of myself I didn't recognise. A festering wound inside my mind, coiled around my soul. And Ssserakis just laughed, amused that it had taken me so long to realise the horror wasn't just along for the ride. It was a part of me. Possession, it turns out, is a complicated matter where horrors from the Other World are concerned. That, too, I have discussed at length with Ssserakis.
It's hard to say how long I spent looking inside myself. When eventually I came out of my daze, it was to a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to find Hardt kneeling in front of me. He looked tired. Grief, exhaustion, and pain all mixed together in the lines of his face. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around, crushed in his embrace and told that everything was going to be alright. But he held me at arm's length and I could see something in his eyes, a wariness. Fear. Maybe a little disgust. I couldn't take it. I dropped my eyes to the ground, anything to not see how he looked at me.
"Are you alright, Eska?" I cannot count the number of times I have caused Hardt to ask that question. "You look..."
"Older," Tamura finished.
They weren't wrong. It was a while before I caught a glimpse of my reflection, but I didn't need to. I felt older. I don't know how long I had the Chronomancy Source inside, maybe only a minute, but I believe it aged me a decade in that time. Some of the prime years of my life stolen from me. Even now I hope it had no lasting effect on the little life that was growing inside of me. Time will tell.
"We should get you out of here." Hardt pulled me to my feet with his good arm and I let him lead me from the room. I think it's quite telling about the strength of the man. He had just seen his brother, a broken mess of a corpse, and yet he was more concerned for me. But I know Hardt has grieved for his brother. We have spent many nights drinking to his memory. And the stories I have been told... The brothers lived an eventful life, even before they met me.
Tamura lingered, gathering up the two Sources before following us. There were bodies out in the corridor, soldiers wearing Terrelan uniforms. It appeared Josef had not come after us alone. Whether it was to protect him, or ensure his cooperation, the overseer had sent others along. They were all dead now. Some had the broad cuts of a sword, while others had shallow stabs from knives. I have often wondered if Hardt used his fists to beat any of them to death. It is a question I have never asked him. None of us really want reminding of that day. Some things are best left to gather dust as half-forgotten memories.
I regret leaving the bodies of our friends down there. I regret many things about that day.
Chapter 37
In our fourth year at the academy, I was just ten years old and Josef was twelve. We were progressing well, though all the tutors seemed to agree that my own studies could have been better. According to them, I spent too much time reading fictional accounts of heroes and monsters, bards' tales full of danger, action, and romance. They even tried banning me from the library for a while. I enlisted Josef to bring me copies of the stories I wanted to read.
I have long since learned that heroes only exist on the pages of books, and the lips of bards. Out in the world there are only choices. Those choices might appear heroic to some and villainous to others. I often wonder how my own people look at my choices, how my daughters look at my choices. I think I have played the villain far more than the hero.
Josef and the bitch-whore were well into their studies of Empamancy. It was a tough time for Josef, having to use Spiceweed every day so he didn't fall asleep with an Empamancy Source inside. I hate Empamancy. I really fucking hate it. Some people think it the weakest of the biological schools, but I know better. Empamancy is the magic of forcing emotions upon people. It's a violation of the mind. And it can be used to plant suggestions.
I was excelling at Pyromancy, top of the students of a similar age. Lesray didn't like that. Like me, she has always had an affinity to fire and ice. I wonder who she hated more; me for being better than her, or herself for not being better than me. I'll wager it was the latter, given the punishment she dished out.
The tutors had just given me back my library privileges and I was making my way there. I have always loved libraries. I find it peaceful to sit amongst so much knowledge. I find it humbling to think on how many lifetimes of experience and wisdom rest upon the shelves. I find it empowering to know I could burn it all to the ground and render all those lifetimes mute. I should admit I have never set fire to a library, I just like to know that I could.
I never saw Lesray, but I know it was her. She gloated afterwards and it wasn't the last time I felt the touch of her magic. I came to recognise it all too well. I remember I had just sat down with a book on Impomancy, studying the monsters that could be summoned. Then a wave of despair washed over me and dragged me out into a sea of hopelessness and self-loathing.
I should probably feel sorry for the bitch-whore. An Empamancer doesn't create emotion. They can dig it up from within a person and amplify it. They can project their own emotions onto others, but they cannot create an emotion out of nothing. I had never felt such despair or self-loathing before. I never felt like ending it all before. That came from her. At some point, Lesray had wanted to kill herself and she projected that emotion into me. I should probably feel sorry for her, but I can't because I hate her too much. That was the very first time I felt like ending my own life, and every time since, I can't help but think it was all because of her. I can't help but wonder if that magic she used to invade my mind planted a seed I can never be rid of. All wounds leave scars and not all wounds are physical. She made me want to kill myself… And I still do.
As the wave of despair crashed over me, I found it hard to breathe, as though my throat had closed up. I went hot and cold all at the same time. I remember my fingernails digging gouges into t
he desk, breaking on the wood. I knew, at that moment, that I couldn't take it. It was just too much. I felt the weight of the world bearing down on me; the weight of expectation, the sure knowledge that I would fail and it would hurt those I loved. I knew I couldn't take it, and I knew there was only one way to make it stop.
I stood, leaving my books and my notes. My copy of the Encyclopaedia Otheria was on page two hundred and twelve, depicting a ghoul with detailed explanations of sexual dimorphism within the species. Strange that I remember that so clearly, as though what page the book was on is etched in my mind when so much else around the event is a blur.
The library roof was flat, a full five storeys above ground. I opened the door and walked out into a pleasant summer breeze. It should have lifted have my spirits, yet I barely noticed. My eyes were fixed on the edge of the rooftop; on a drop that I knew ended in flagstones. A short drop, headfirst, and it would all be over. The pain, the despair, the crushing feeling of not being good enough. They were not my feelings. But it all felt so real, and I knew the only thing that could release me from it all was death.
I was all but falling when Josef caught up to me. He had followed me all the way from the library, calling out and I hadn't heard him. I hadn't even heard him running to catch me. One moment I was leaning into my end, and the next I was tumbling backwards into his arms.
We never talked about it, not really, but I think he knew what had happened. I think he knew it wasn't really me. I just remember him holding me tight, not saying a word, and using his own Empamancy to flood me with feelings of love. The whirl of emotions was too much. I burst into tears and lay there in Josef's arms, shaking, sobbing, senseless.
I should feel grateful. I do feel grateful, even now, for him pulling me back from the brink. But just like Lesray planted a seed of despair and self-loathing that I don't think I can ever truly purge from myself, I wonder if Josef planted a seed of love. I miss him every day more than anyone I have ever met, and I can't help but wonder if those feelings are truly mine. If they ever were. Do I look back on my life through the tinted vision of glasses he forced me to wear?
Chapter 38
Yorin was waiting for us by the cave entrance. He had a new lantern beside him casting light on our way out. I should probably have been glad that he waited for us, but all I felt towards him was hatred. That hate has waned over the years, but never vanished. I don't blame Yorin; he had no idea the Terrelan soldier he was killing was my best friend. No, I don't blame him. I blame myself. That doesn't mean I forgive him.
He was wary of me as we approached. I have come to recognise the signs, and a hand on a knife hilt is a fairly obvious one. I think Tamura was the only one of us who didn't look exhausted, though he was starting to look his age. We had all suffered in one way or another.
Without a word, Yorin picked up the lantern and edged his way into the cave mouth. I let Hardt follow and trudged along after him, trusting Tamura to our rear guard. I didn't think anything or anyone would be coming after us, nor did I care. I was feeling raw. Like leather stretched too thin and starting to show holes.
The cave wound back and forth through the rock, but always upwards. It had a low roof so Hardt had to stoop the entire way and I saw him bump his head on more than one occasion. I don't know how long we spent in that cave, squeezing our way between rough walls. I know the breeze continued to grow stronger and I could feel the bite of it on my skin. It was winter after all.
I walked along in such a daze, too numb to feel anything. It was a surprise when Hardt disappeared from in front of me. I looked up and wondered when the tunnel had gotten so bright. It took me a moment to realise the tunnel was gone, nothing but a small crack in a cliff face behind me. What lay in front was a craggy landscape of rocks, heather, and the edge of a forest stretching into the horizon all covered in a blanket of white.
I dropped to my knees in the powdery snow and looking up to a washed-out sky. A blue I thought I had forgotten. I couldn't stop the tears. I didn't try to. I had equated the sky to freedom for so long and now I could see it again. I was free. A deep, genuine laugh bubbled up from inside and burst out. It sounded strange, alien, and I wondered how long it had been since I had really laughed.
Tamura joined in. He has always loved to laugh and rarely even bothers to look for a reason. Some people think him mad because of it and, while they're not wrong, it is not madness that allows him to find laughter at any situation. It is wisdom. I turned to find him lying in the snow moving his arms and legs up and down. I didn't bother to ask what he was doing, only marvelled at the grime that was staining the snow beneath him.
"We made it," Hardt said, his voice soft, heavy with suppressed grief.
I'm not sure if it was shock or disbelief, but I kept expecting it to be some sort of trick. I felt like any moment I would realise the sky was just a cavern roof painted blue. I found myself holding my breath, scared that to breathe in would somehow break the illusion.
Yorin dropped the lantern on the ground, drew in a deep breath, and started walking.
"Where are you going?" Hardt asked.
"Anywhere away from her." Yorin stopped for a moment and glanced back. "I followed you down there because you were my best shot at getting out. But there's something fucking wrong with you, girl." He turned his back on me again and started walking.
I think I scared him. Well, Ssserakis scared him, but he didn't know that. I got to my feet and stared at Yorin's back as he walked away. My emotions a whirl.
"I'm surprised," Hardt said. "I didn't think you'd just let him go after what he did to Josef."
I waited a while, long enough to be certain an errant breeze couldn't carry my words to Yorin's ears. Long enough that his silhouette was a thin black line against the white of the snow around him. Then I let loose a savage smile. "Fuck him! He's walking straight back towards the Pit," I said. "I don't need to kill him. They'll do it for me."
Tamura stepped in front of me, blocking my view. "Ancient eyes," he said. "Past lives lived long but not forgotten. So much pain."
Silva once told me there was an infinite well of sadness inside of me. That even when smiling, she could see the endless sorrow in my eyes. I think maybe she was right, and Tamura saw it too. I keep the sadness coiled inside of me. It is mine and mine alone. I wonder if it started underground, in the Pit or the buried Djinn city. Maybe it started even earlier. Maybe it has always been inside of me.
I looked up at the sky, at my freedom, and felt a grin spread across my face. I had finally escaped my captors, but it was far from over. They were still alive. The overseer, Prig, Deko. The Terrelan Emperor. They were all still alive, and I had sworn vengeance on them all. My escape was only the beginning of my legacy. Now it was time to set the world ablaze and watch my enemies burn.
Eska's journey continues in
The Lessons Never Learned
(coming 28th April 2020).
Pre-order it now.
Read on for brief excerpt.
The Lessons Never Learned
Chapter 1
A terran philosopher once told me that when you stare into the darkness it stares back. I've always thought it was yourself you should find staring back at you. I found Ssserakis. The ancient horror wore many faces, always of those whose deaths weighed upon my conscience. I stared back into the cave on that cliff face and I saw the ghost of Isen standing there.
My friend. Hardt's only brother. My first love, though I'm not sure I should really call it that. My first lust maybe, my first encounter with sexual desire. My first time with a man inside of me. Isen was a mess, his leg cut open and oozing, his rags torn and bloody, his eyes were pale and misty. For just a moment I hoped it was him. I hoped he had somehow survived. I hoped Hardt would turn and see his little brother and all the pain his death was causing would be forgotten in an instant, but I knew better. I knew I was looking at nothing but a ghost conjured by Ssserakis in an attempt to scare me. But I wouldn't let it. I was not afraid of death. I
would not let it affect me. I am the weapon. The mantra drilled into me by the tutors at the academy, designed to absolve me of guilt, of conscience, of doubt.
I was still staring at the face of my lover when a creature erupted from the darkness. It was not much larger than a child, but then, neither was I. The creature hit me and we went down in the snow. Sharpened nails tore at my skin as I fought to keep the thing from my face. The wail it let loose set my ears crackling. Hardt tells me I screamed bloody murder and his recollection is often better than my own. If I did, I'm sure it was more battle shout than cry of terror. I think, these days, the little beast wouldn't have shocked me at all. These days I expect monsters to come flying out of dark corners. Such is the way of raising mischievous children.
Hardt was there in a moment, dragging the wailing thing off me and throwing it to the ground. I have no doubt he could have crushed its skull in his giant hands, but Hardt wanted nothing more to do with violence or death. Too much blood on a person's hands can do that. Blood never washes off. It sinks into the skin and stains a person's soul. I didn't know it then, but Hardt was stained the deepest of crimsons. I was relatively clean of it at that point, though I soon managed to change that.
I saw then the creature was one of the Damned we had met down in the ruined city of the Djinn. It was small and stooped at the shoulders with grey skin and wispy hair on its head and arms. It wore no clothes and I could see yellow puss oozing from a number of wounds that looked to be caused by tooth or nail. The poor man, and it had obviously once been a man, writhed on the snowy ground. It clawed at its face and shrieked loud enough to raise the dead. And believe me, it takes quite a din to bring anything back from the grave.
We stood there for a while watching the thing roll about and wail. I think none of us knew what to do. Hardt had already killed so many of the poor creatures and I could see the guilt written in the dirt-smeared lines of his face. I've always thought it foolish to feel guilt over killing the Damned; they're little more than beasts and I wouldn't feel guilty over killing a lion before it killed me. Tamura obviously felt no guilt either, by the look on his face he was probably thinking about jumping down beside the creature and joining in with the thrashing about. The crazy old man likely thought it looked a lot of fun.
