by Ben Wolf
He’d lingered long enough. He needed to return to the Sanctum. Then the High Cleric would decide Mehta’s fate.
Dawn would break within two hours, and he couldn’t be seen near the manse in daylight. He couldn’t be seen anywhere because to the rest of the world, he did not exist.
So Mehta turned toward Sefera, tucked his knives into the sheaths concealed within his clothes, and started to run.
And the thirst chased his every step.
As the first glow of morning light bloomed from beyond the distant, rocky horizon, Mehta knocked on the Sanctum’s hidden door in Sefera. A sliding panel at eye level opened, but Mehta could not seen inside.
“Requiem,” Mehta uttered the name the Xyonates had bestowed upon him five years earlier when he’d completed his training.
The sliding panel shut, and a bolt clanked from inside. The door opened with a creak, and Mehta slipped into the darkness, leaving the cold morning air behind him.
“Elegy.” Mehta bowed to the Xyonate at the door.
Elegy bowed back. As he did, Mehta caught sight of the knife hanging from his hip. Of everyone in the Sanctum, only Elegy had ever matched Mehta’s skill in combat.
“You fulfilled your charge?” Elegy asked, the candlelight glinting off of his dark, calculating eyes and bald head. Elegy wasn’t his real name, but it was the only name Mehta had ever known him by.
Mehta nodded. The run from the manse had partially stanched Mehta’s thirst for death, but he still had to fight the impulse to gratify himself with Elegy’s blood.
He wondered how it might go. If he drew his knives fast enough, Elegy would have little time to react. Elegy would doubtless counter and deflect Mehta’s first few attacks, but with the advantage of a surprise attack, Mehta would have an edge.
Elegy’s free hand moved to the hilt of his knife, and Mehta tensed.
“The clerics will be pleased, Requiem.” Elegy’s voice interrupted Mehta’s thoughts.
Will they? Mehta’s ruminations on killing Elegy dissipated, and he relaxed the tension that had built up in his body with a calm, silent exhale.
“They await you at Xyon’s shrine.” Elegy offered Mehta a candle, but Mehta refused it. He’d walked the Sanctum’s corridors hundreds of times. He knew every uneven step, every creaky floorboard, and he thrived in the shadows.
As he walked through the Sanctum, Mehta saw no one else. But when he entered the dark, windowless chapel, he found the rest of his brethren.
Before him, about a dozen Xyonates knelt before an icon of the god Xyon, their backs straight and upright, their hands clasped in reverence. Candlelight glinted off of their shaven heads. They all wore dark, form-fitting clothes, and their weapons lay before them, ready to receive the High Cleric’s daily blessing.
Mehta bypassed them all and headed for Xyon’s shrine and the three clerics standing before it. Two of them wore red ceremonial robes marked with ancient Aletian runes. The one in the middle wore the deep-purple robes of a Xyonate high cleric, and he faced toward the shrine, away from Mehta.
When Mehta reached the edge of the altar, he knelt, removed his knives, and set them on the floor. Then he bowed his head and clasped his hands together.
“Requiem,” a deep voice said.
Mehta lifted his head.
The high cleric, Ghazal, turned toward Mehta with his hands outstretched, palms up. “Have you fulfilled your commission?”
“Yes, High Cleric,” Mehta replied. “They await Xyon at the Gates of Hell.”
Ghazal’s head tilted, and he lowered his hands. “They?”
Anxiety swirled in Mehta’s chest. “Yes, High Cleric.”
“How many souls were sifted?”
“Fifteen, High Cleric.”
Ghazal’s jaw tensed. “Enumerate them.”
“Six guards. Five servants. Three of the charge’s family and the charge himself.” The admission twisted Mehta’s stomach. Again, he wished the children hadn’t seen him.
That was unusual. He hadn’t experienced true guilt since during his training, and he’d sifted dozens of souls in the years that followed, some of whom had been children.
So what had changed?
Ghazal stared back at the shrine and at the obsidian icon of Xyon at its center. Though human in form, the icon also had wings, and a third eye marked with an emerald glinted from the center of the god’s forehead.
“Xyon will be pleased,” Ghazal finally said.
“That is my only ambition, High Cleric. I live to serve Xyon.”
Ghazal turned to face Mehta again. “Rise and draw near, Requiem.”
Mehta complied.
Ghazal sniffed the air. “You smell of sheep’s blood.”
“I sifted their livestock as well.”
“Why?”
Mehta blinked. “I…”
Ghazal’s brown eyes scoured Mehta. “Because you had to?”
The mere suggestion deepened Mehta’s thirst yet again. He yearned to sift Ghazal next—but not because he hated or feared him. He just needed to sift someone, and Ghazal’s proximity made him the primary target.
Instead, Mehta clenched his fists and replied, “Yes, High Cleric.”
“Is the need overwhelming? Insatiable?” Ghazal leaned close to him and whispered, “Do you feel it now?”
Mehta hesitated. He’d seen what happened to Xyonates who could no longer be controlled, and he didn’t want it to happen to him.
But he nodded nonetheless. Mehta’s fate was in Ghazal’s hands, not anyone else’s—not even his own. Above all else, Mehta would serve Xyon, whether through his life or his death.
“Xyon has blessed you.” Ghazal grinned. “He has bestowed his appetite upon you, and every soul you commend to the Gates of Hell venerates him.”
Mehta’s breath caught in his throat. “I am unworthy of such blessing.”
Ghazal raised his arms again, palms up. “It is Xyon’s will. You have earned his favor. You are one of the elect.”
“Then I—I must be cleansed.” Mehta gulped. “Before I can be offered to him.”
“You shall be, as will your instruments.” Ghazal nodded to the two red-robed clerics on either side of Mehta. “Lament. Epitaph.”
The clerics took hold of his arms and held him in place.
Though he wanted to, Mehta did not resist. He was an obedient servant.
Ghazal removed a curved, ceremonial knife from its mounting brackets above the icon. He turned back and held the knife in front of himself, with its wicked blade pointing upward, and he recited the Liturgy of Offering.
“As the river of blood spills from your veins, its flow will ferry you to Xyon’s underworld throne.”
Mehta swallowed. He didn’t want to die, but Xyon demanded his sacrifice. He needed to obey. He’d been taught to obey all throughout his training. He would not stop now.
The image of the cratered mountain of his childhood surfaced in his mind. He would never see it again, just like he would never see his parents again.
Ghazal continued, “Your service to Xyon will continue in the Underworld, and you will hold a place of honor as one of his soldiers. As one of the elect, you will serve Xyon in eternity as you served him in life: nameless, faceless, and with absolute obedience.”
But why did Xyon demand the premature death of those who served him in life? It made no sense to Mehta. It never had.
Now, of all times, he should not be rewarded with death for his deeds. Instead, he should continue to sift souls for Xyon.
“And thus I commit you, Requiem, to Xyon’s realm, wreathed in the bones of your charges, clothed in the flesh of their bodies, and drenched in the blood of their sacrifices.”
The cratered mountain called to him. He wanted to go back there—back to his home. His true home.
The molten metal stirring in Mehta’s gut galvanized. He wasn’t done living. He hadn’t yet faced the men who’d taken him from his family—the soldiers wearing the sigil of the three-horned ram.
I do not want to die in the service of Xyon.
Ghazal rotated the ceremonial knife in his hand and gripped it with the blade pointed down.
And if Mehta didn’t want to die, that left only one alternative.
I want to live.
“I cleanse you, now, Requiem, for your journey to Xyon’s throne.” Ghazal raised the knife.
Chapter Two
Mehta jerked hard to his left, and Ghazal’s ceremonial knife plunged into Epitaph’s chest. Blood burbled out of the wound, and Epitaph stared down at it, wide-eyed and speechless.
Stunned, Ghazal and Lament didn’t move, but Mehta twisted free of Lament’s grip and shoved him back. Lament stumbled over the corner of the altar and fell over.
Epitaph dropped to his knees, clutching at the knife in his chest and gasping.
Mehta pushed Ghazal into the shrine, and it toppled under his momentum. Then Mehta snatched up his knives and turned toward his brethren, ready for a fight.
They were gone. All the candles were out. The chapel was empty and dark.
Mehta whirled back toward Lament and Ghazal, but they had vanished as well. Only Epitaph remained, and he lay on the floor, twitching, staring into the darkness with vacant, glassy eyes.
But Mehta wasn’t afraid. This wasn’t some horrifying occurrence or terrible realization. Though the danger was real and palpable, he was the most dangerous entity in the Sanctum. So why be afraid?
They should fear me instead.
Living within an enclave of Xyonates had its benefits: plenty of quiet, ample space for solitude, ready access to food, shelter, clothing, and numerous skilled training partners.
The drawback was that those same training partners were all skilled sifters, just like Mehta. If he meant to escape the Sanctum alive, it would come at the cost of much more death and gallons of blood.
He couldn’t give up now. The damage was already done. If he faltered, they would commend him to Xyon the instant he let down his guard.
Xyon will just have to make do with Epitaph.
Mehta evaporated into the nearest shadow and listened. As part of his training, he’d developed the ability to see in the dark, thanks to an incantation the Xyonate clerics had performed on him.
Nothing concealed in shadows escaped his gaze. Faint green lines outlined everything with depth, whether mobile or stationary. As such, he could make out his surroundings well enough, but movement especially grabbed his attention. And he’d seen some the instant he’d entered the shadows.
The other Xyonates had adapted similar vision capabilities, so he had no real advantage—at least not in that regard. But not all Xyonates were created equal. Yes, they’d all been trained to sift quickly and, at times, brutally, but Mehta had long since topped the Sanctum’s hierarchy along with Elegy and High Cleric Ghazal.
Movement flickered in his dark vision again, drawing ever nearer to him. Green lines traced the form of an arm and a sword swinging at him from the left. The attack was perfectly silent, yet were it not for Mehta’s enhanced vision and training, the Xyonate would’ve sifted him then and there.
Instead, Mehta ducked under the swipe and drove his knives under the Xyonate’s ribs. His thirst spiked, and he wanted more.
A faint gasp hit Mehta’s ears, and from that vocalization alone, Mehta knew he’d sifted the Xyonate called Covenant. Mehta ripped his right blade from Covenant’s torso and plunged it into the side of Covenant’s neck.
Hot blood spattered on Mehta’s hands and smacked the floor, and then Covenant dropped, motionless. Mehta moved on, heading toward the Sanctum’s door, eager to pour more blood into his thirst.
To his surprise, he made it to the first corridor without encountering another of his brethren. He scanned the corridor for threats and listened, thankful for his boots’ soft soles as he crept forward.
Something winked in the darkness from above, and Mehta hopped backward out of reflex. A spear thudded into the wooden floor beside him.
Canon. Mehta’s knives found Canon’s left arm, then his inner right thigh, then his left ankle tendon. Mehta’s thirst burgeoned at the prelude to a fresh kill.
Canon hit the floor louder than his spear, and he too gasped.
Xyonates weren’t permitted to react to pain with any vocalization louder than a sharp inhale. During the Xyonate training, the clerics had reinforced the idea by repeatedly subjecting Mehta and the other trainees to sudden, severe pain, albeit nothing that would cause permanent damage.
It taught them to anticipate pain, to not let it faze them, to not allow it to become a disadvantage. Xyonates had adopted only two responses to pain: submit to it and perish, or overcome it.
Canon wasn’t going to overcome it. Mehta saw to that with a deep slash to his throat. Yet Mehta’s thirst only continued to grow, continued to drive him forward.
Something whistled through the air, and Mehta’s instincts moved his head to the side. The thing swished past him.
In the distance, Myth retreated behind the wall at the end of the corridor. Myth was a female Xyonate, one of the few, and one of the best of any of them. She had mastered the bow with lethal precision.
More blood to sate his knives’ appetite.
As Myth nocked another arrow, Mehta raced down the corridor toward her. Myth emerged from her cover and took aim, but Mehta already had her. His knife severed her bowstring first, then it dug into the soft flesh on the underside of her chin. More blood oozed down Mehta’s hand.
She struggled at first, but Mehta wrenched his knife free from her chin, slit her belly open, and left her there for Xyon to claim. His thirst endured.
As he progressed through a few more corridors, he encountered and felled two more of his brethren: Chant and Tribute. They’d wisely attacked him together, but it hadn’t made a difference. Within seconds, both lay behind Mehta in pools of their own blood.
He needed more. Perhaps he should stay in the Sanctum after all; perhaps he should sift every one of them. Maybe then his thirst would finally be satisfied.
But he couldn’t stay. There were too many of them, and they would overcome him eventually. He hadn’t escaped ritual sacrifice at Xyon’s altar to perish now.
The candles near the Sanctum’s entrance were also snuffed, but it made no difference. He advanced through the darkness all the same.
Part of him wanted to abandon caution and run for the door. The other Xyonates would hear him, but he was quick. They wouldn’t catch him.
But if they awaited him ahead, then running would alert them to his approach.
Caution had served him well thus far. He crept toward the door, his head swiveling, watching for moving green outlines in the shadows, his ears keen in the silence.
Pain lit up the lower left side of Mehta’s torso, sharp and deep, just below his ribcage. He gasped and almost dropped his knife to check his wound, but he maintained his grip. He didn’t need to check the wound. He already knew it was bad.
Mehta slashed at the source of the attack. His knives hit nothing.
Elegy. It has to be Elegy.
Hot blood oozed down his hip and onto his thigh. His thirst dwindled, replaced with desperation. He fully abandoned his musings about staying here and sifting everyone. Now he needed to escape. His thirst would have to wait.
“As long as I serve Xyon,” Elegy’s voice whispered from somewhere in the darkness around him, “I will pursue you to the death.”
Of all the Xyonates in the Sanctum, only Elegy had ever matched Mehta’s capabilities. And now Mehta had the chance to prove he was better.
Except he wasn’t—at least not anymore. The blood seeping from his side condemned him, and the haze settling into his head confirmed it. They would soon send him to Xyon once he submitted to the pain.
No. I won’t let them.
The door lay ahead, bolted shut. He needed to get out. In his weakening condition, he couldn’t hope to overcome Elegy, Ghazal, and all the remaining Xyonates. His only chance was to escape.
He tucked the knife in his left hand into its sheath within his clothes and forced his legs into motion. He needed one hand free to unbolt and open the door, and he needed one knife to defend himself.
Mehta’s legs pounded the floor, no longer silent, and each step sent bitter pulses of pain through his torso.
As he ran, the darkness encroached on him. Shadowy tendrils reached out for his arms and legs. He slashed at them in a fury, unable to distinguish between reality and those conjured by his imagination until his knife struck either solid metal or soft flesh.
He dodged and ducked and parried and kept running until he reached the door. With all of his strength, he threw the bolt open and yanked on the iron handle. A thin line of early morning sunlight streamed into the Sanctum, and frigid air billowed inside.
“Do not allow him to escape!” Ghazal’s voice bellowed from the blackness behind him.
Amid the commotion and the creaking of the door, the whisper of careening metal caught Mehta’s ears, and he lowered his head and shifted his body.
Fire ignited the back of his shoulder, and he gasped again, but he continued hauling the heavy door open. He made for the opening and slipped between the door and the frame, into the cold morning light. Then Mehta continued to run.
He ran along cobblestone streets lined with grey and white buildings, heading east. He knew the cratered mountain was to the east, but it was too far away to see from Sefera.
Still, it gave his steps purpose. Visible or not, it was something to run toward as he fled his Xyonate pursuers.
Voices chased his footsteps, and people in the streets staggered and stumbled out of his path, their eyes wide with shock, no doubt at the sight of his dark, blood-spattered form. Pain matched him step for step, but he didn’t stop running. He couldn’t submit. He had to overcome.
Mehta darted into an alley between two buildings made of gray stone, then he cut over to the next street, searching for somewhere—anywhere—to hide. He needed time, and he needed help. He could clean his wound and bandage himself, but that marked the extent of his medical prowess. It wouldn’t be enough—not with the blood he’d already lost.
