by Scott Hale
“Vrana!” Aeson cried, pleadingly.
He got a response, but not from the shape of his love above. A flesh fiend a few feet away looked up. It was holding a still-dripping severed head, and it had been trying to shove the head down over its own, like a mask.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Aeson raised his sword, locked his arms to stop them from shaking. In his peripheral, another flesh fiend had taken notice of him. This one had a long strip of coarse black hair running from its neck down to its crotch, and in its hands, two broken ribs, like daggers.
“Vrana!” he screamed, spit flying out of his mouth.
The flesh fiend dropped the severed head, giggled, and rushed him. It got down on its hands and feet and bounded across the front yard like a dog. Aeson backpedaled, trying to keep the other flesh fiend who was watching him in sight.
By the lake, Bjørn had just suplexed a flesh fiend onto a boulder, breaking its back like a buckling ship.
I can do this, Aeson thought, remembering the little boy inside. He held the sword out and ran forward to meet the fiend in its death charge.
Blade inches from the dog-like fiend’s chest, Aeson was suddenly thrown off his feet and pounced to the ground. From behind, a third flesh fiend had sprung. Aeson slid across the smoldering grass, the edges of his armor digging up dirt and fat earthworms. In less than a second, three full-sized flesh fiends were on top of him.
“Stop, stop,” he begged, bucking his legs. One flesh fiend grabbed his knees and held them down, while another stretched Aeson’s arms over his head and locked them into place. The third flesh fiend, which was female, crouched over his pelvis and started tearing through his pants.
Vrana, he thought, jerking his body to throw off the female flesh fiend. He could hear her wings overhead, and another body hitting the ground, exploding on impact. Did she know he was here? At this point, did she even care?
The female flesh fiend pulled down his pants. She shoved her blood-caked hand into her mouth. She shook, heaved, and vomited gore onto his cock. Wheezing out a laugh, she massaged the curdled lubricant into his flesh until he was hard.
A wave of repulsion rocked Aeson. His eyes rolled back into his head. As the fiend gripped him and worked herself onto him, he started to retch, started to cry. He gave one last shake, but with fiends as fetters, the fetters were too hard to break. He was helpless, hopeless. He had left home expecting pain, and he had gotten something worse, instead. His body wasn’t his anymore. He didn’t want it. It belonged now to the fiend who rode him, and those that would come later to wear his withered remains.
The female flesh fiend started to moan, to quiver. She grabbed Aeson’s mask to steady herself. He said nothing, did nothing. He lay there, playing dead, preparing himself for the real thing. Something stirred inside him—not pleasure, but practicality. The sooner this ended, the sooner he could die. The sooner he would see his parents, and be able to finally ask them “Why?”
The flesh fiend arched back, braced itself for climax. Her thighs tightened. The fetid swamp of pubic hair and viscous desire puddled in the pockets of Aeson’s bones. The flesh fiend clenched her muscles, twisted her nipple until it tore off, and—
The air snapped like tendons, and a black blur smashed into the fiend, ripping her off Aeson. The two flesh fiends holding him let go. He sat up, dazed.
A few feet away, Vrana stood, the female flesh fiend at her feet. She was everything the elders had warned him of, and more. Her body was narrow, severe; a malnourished monument of jagged feathers and rough, scaled skin. Her hands and feet had become claws, and her nails talons, like pieces of sharpened obsidian. She still had arms, but they were now attached to the massive, ragged wings that had grown out of her back.
He looked at Vrana’s face, or what little was left of it. The raven skull had been stripped of feathers and fused directly into Vrana’s own. The mask’s beak was as big as it had ever been, but now it moved, because the Witch had grafted it to Vrana’s mouth, and bones and tendons, so that she wouldn’t be a raven in appearance only.
The only thing that kept Aeson from turning away from her in disgust and disbelief were her eyes. They were the only things he recognized, the only things he could point to and say were hers. They sat in the sockets of the raven skull, far back and surrounded by swollen skin. They were dark, distant; lidless eyes that never knew sleep and lost the sheen of sympathy. And yet when Aeson looked into her eyes, he saw a glimmer in their darkness; a pinprick of light, a spark of recognition; the smallest gem of hope in an otherwise excavated soul.
It was her, and he was hers, and now it was time to take her home. “I’m here,” he said, quivering. “Vrana, I’m here.”
Blue light burst out of Vrana’s eyes. She sank her talons into the female flesh fiend and ripped her in two, flinging her torso toward Gloom, and her legs toward the orchard.
She then lifted off and flew over Aeson. He pulled up his pants, came to his feet, and faced the lake. At the center of it, on top of the rot, surrounded by strands of sinewy light, Pain stood, one arm outstretched, as if she meant for Vrana to land on it.
Aeson grabbed his sword off the ground and ran towards the lake. As he did so, ten more men on horseback riding out of Pang converged on the lake, torches in their hands, bows and quivers on their back.
“There she is!” the man at the front of the procession shouted. “Burn her to the ground!”
They fired tens of arrows into Pain, but still she didn’t budge. In twos and threes, they hurled their torches at her. She went up in flames, her silvery, spidery hair falling off her head in crackling clumps.
Aeson pushed himself harder. She had to be weakened, and she wouldn’t see him coming. If anyone was going to kill her, it had to be him.
But as he made for the lakefront, Pain shrugged, and the flames slipped off her body like a cloak. She was charred, blackened to the bone, but it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t seem to care. The men fired more arrows at her until she was riddled with shafts, but even then, she kept on breathing.
Pain rolled her eyes, raised one finger at the men on horseback, and sent Vrana after them. She swooped down from the sky and tore through their ranks.
“No, stop!” Aeson shouted, waving his hand at Vrana to get her attention.
But Vrana couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. In a flurry, she ripped the men and their horses to pieces.
“Leave a few,” Pain told Vrana, laughing. “They’re no good to us dead; at least, not yet.”
Vrana grabbed a man and his horse off the ground and flung them into the wild blaze that was house Gloom. While she made her way back to the Witch, a wounded man crawled out of the carnage she had just created.
“Go on,” Pain said to the man. Her scorched flesh was dropping off her in sheets, revealing new flesh underneath. “I’ll give you one chance.”
The man grabbed a machete off the ground and rushed the Witch. Instead of stepping into the rotten water, his feet moved along top of it; the crust of decay somehow able to support his weight.
Aeson stopped, and when he did, he noticed Bjørn, about ten feet across the yard, had done the same.
Wait and see, he thought, watching the man with the machete make his way to the Witch.
The Witch dropped her arms, her burnt flesh almost completely replaced now, and smiled. “Go on,” she goaded, the man inches away from her. “Go on, and get it out of your system.”
Vrana landed behind Pain, her tattered wings fully outstretched.
Aeson’s grip tightened on his sword; under his breath, he muttered every prayer he could muster from every religion he had ever known.
The man lifted the machete, paused; the decay was climbing up his legs now, eating through his clothes, spreading to his flesh.
“This is for everyone!” he cried.
Pain rolled her eyes. “That’s nice.”
And then he swung the machete through Pain’s neck.
And the blade passed right through, severing he
r head from her smoking body.
But there was no blood, and there was no wound. In a matter of seconds, Pain’s head reattached itself to her neck, and she continued to stand there with a stupid smile on her haggard face.
“Shame,” Pain said. “At least when you get to hell, you can tell everyone you tried.”
Pain snapped her fingers. Vrana jumped over the Witch and bore her beak down through the man’s gaping mouth, killing him instantly.
Oh no, Aeson thought, the sword in his hand no better than a branch. Oh shit. Oh no. We’re too late.
He turned to Bjørn.
Bjørn was already sprinting towards him, waving his hand, screaming at him to run.
“Go!” Bjørn crashed into Aeson, spinning him like a top. “The other one is here, too.” He grabbed Aeson. “There’s nothing we can do.”
Aeson shook off the Bear and looked back.
Vrana had taken to the sky again and was headed for Misery, while a pack of flesh fiends followed her from below, like rats let loose from a ship.
Out of Gloom, the Witch’s sister, Joy, emerged with an armful of children, both dead and alive. Even more children, Corrupted and flesh fiend, clung to her white satin dress, which had escaped the inferno unscathed. Joy shivered with joy and glided towards the luna lake; she was so happy she could barely contain herself.
And then there was Pain, who was moving her hands over the surface of the lake, opening a portal to the Void. She kept touching her neck where the machete had passed through; she had healed it, but maybe not entirely.
“Hurry, Sister!” Pain howled. “Where’s Ichor?”
Joy stopped, picked up a few babies she had accidentally dropped. “Incapacitated.”
Pain growled. “Fetch Ezra and Belia. They’ll do until the next town over.”
“Seriously?” Joy huffed and dropped all of the children she was carrying. They hit the ground hard, and those that weren’t dead started to cry.
Bjørn tugged on Aeson’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said.
They made it to the woods a few minutes later, and in the woods, they stayed, for it was dark and dense, and there was no flesh here, aside from their own, for the fiends to feast on.
“Are you okay?” Bjørn panted. He dropped his bastard sword. He dropped to the ground.
“No.” Aeson tore off his mask. He found the nearest tree and banged his head against it. “No, I’m not.”
“That was her,” Bjørn said. He slipped off his mask, wiped the tears and snot off his face. “What did they do to her?”
Aeson balled his hands. He could still feel the flesh fiend gyrating on top of him, mining misery from his loins.
“There were… too many.” Bjørn got choked up. “Did she talk to you?”
Aeson shook his head.
“Did she… recognize you?”
“Yeah, I… I think so.”
Bjørn opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He dug at the ground, rolled the dirt around in his hands.
“What if this wasn’t a coincidence?”
Bjørn looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“We can’t stop them. I can’t. You can’t. No one has for thousands of years. They weren’t killing her the right way. No one was.” Aeson pulled away from the tree and knelt in front of Bjørn. “I know you don’t want to do it, but we have to.” He rolled his eyes, and tears swept across his face. The words clung to his throat, reluctant to go any farther, but go farther they did, and so he said: “We have to talk to Death.”
CHAPTER XIII
R’lyeh ran her fingers over her fetters and wondered if she could get used to this. Like her poisons, if she were imprisoned long enough, could she become immune to the numbing horror of being at the mercy of something far worse than herself? She rubbed her shackles together and glanced at Deimos. He didn’t look scared. He’d been through about as much as she had—probably more.
If she had nothing to give, then there wouldn’t be anything to take. R’lyeh smiled at the thought, and wept at another. She had a birthday coming up.
R’lyeh stood outside, near the bonfire and the Cult house she had passed earlier. Elizabeth and Miranda were beside her and Deimos, shivering themselves deeper and deeper into the snow. Every few seconds, they would each rub their arms, legs, chests, and faces to stop the Rime Rot from breaking out across their skin. Ghelys had stripped them of their coats and weapons. If a spear didn’t kill them, then the weather would.
At least twenty armed Rimeans were standing behind R’lyeh, Deimos, Elizabeth, and Miranda. The rest of the village was in attendance, too; they were farther back, on every stoop and porch, in every shop and stall. There was little fog on the air, because most everyone was holding their breaths, waiting for a response or reaction from the invaders at their gates.
Isla Taggart. Could anyone rock a name like that and not be an asshole? R’lyeh had never heard of or seen the woman before, but even so, it was easy enough to spot her. Isla Taggart was about ten feet away. She stood beside her horse, separate from the line of sixty riders she had brought to Rime. From her neck and down to her feet, Isla was covered in pieces of red leather that had been tailored to give the appearance a flowing dress. She was short, a few months of bad meals away from being full-on stubby. The right side of her head was completely shaved, while the left side was a mess of blonde tendrils that twisted down to her waist. Small tattoos—eyes and moons—circled her neck, like a choker. She had weapons, too; in one hand, an obsidian sword, and in the other, the holy text, The Disciples of the Deep.
R’lyeh hated to admit it, but Isla Taggart did look kind of cool.
“Those tattoos are fake,” Elizabeth said, lip curled.
“And that sword is bullshit,” Miranda added. “First thing she hits, it’ll shatter.” She rattled her chains and said to Deimos, “Your people have her outnumbered. What the hell is this?”
Deimos turned; flakes of dried skin and tufts of hair drifted off his garish mask. “There used to be three elders in Rime.”
At that moment, Ghelys shoved past R’lyeh, knocking her to the ground. The octopus slid off her head and flopped across the snow.
“No, no.” R’lyeh grabbed it and, clumsily, threw it back on. Without the mask, she was just another member of the Marrow Cabal. Without the mask, she was just another prisoner, and Rime was just another pit.
“Where is Audra of Eldrus?” Isla boomed.
Deimos bent down and offered R’lyeh his bound hand. She smiled a smile he couldn’t see and took it.
“Stand closer to the fire,” he whispered.
R’lyeh did, but didn’t need to. A half an hour at the village and already her body was immune to the Rime Rot. If only the same could have been said about the spears at her back.
Ghelys stopped a few feet away from Isla. He slammed the end of his spear down hard into the ground and puffed his chest out, as if he were challenging the whole of the sixty Winnowers gathered here.
From the west, snow blew in. It whipped across Rime in painterly swirls that were painful to the touch. Cold was still cold to R’lyeh, and this cold front was freezing. R’lyeh shuffled closer to Elizabeth and Miranda; they took her in and pressed their bodies against hers. They didn’t have much warmth to offer, but in some ways, it was better than the bonfire’s.
“Are you Night Terrors hard of hearing with t-those masks on?” Isla was shivering so badly R’lyeh thought she might shatter. “Bring h-her out.”
“Should I know this woman?” Miranda asked.
“No,” Deimos said. “She’s no one.”
Elizabeth threw her arms over R’lyeh and pulled her in closer. “She seems like someone, yeah?”
Deimos sighed. “She’s trying.”
Isla slipped the obsidian sword into its sheath. Taking the Disciples of the Deep in both hands, she started forward. “You are h-harboring an enemy of God. You are—” the thickening snowfall was taking its toll on her, “—are over-privileged, cultural-appropriat
ing, f-fascist f-freaks. But God will forgive that f-for now. And so will the ghost of Lux.”
“That’s good,” Ghelys said. “You had me worried.”
“Where is—”
“You’re from Penance. Aren’t you used to the cold?” Ghelys held out his hand and caught snowflakes. “Or is this your first time out of Pyra?”
“I have a d-direct line with King Edgar. I am his r-representative on the Western f-f-front.” Isla sniffed her nose and spit at Ghelys’ feet. “Give me his sister, or I will burn your village to the f-fucking ground.”
“He’s stalling, yeah?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, he is going to give you three to her,” Deimos said, while looking at the Cult house. “This storm isn’t natural.”
She’s an idiot, R’lyeh realized, watching Isla open The Disciples of the Deep and furiously flip through its pages. I have to kill her. She flexed her hands; Vrana’s ax, the faerie silk cloak, and the Cruel Mother’s talons had been taken from her. It made her stomach turn thinking she might never get them back.
“‘And God will rise from Its slumber and destroy those who do not bear Its red mark, for they are imposters. However, even beasts can be baptized, and those who cast their minds and hearts into the heaven below will be spared. Those who seek salvation need only ask, but those who seek it should ask soon; there is nothing pride can purchase on the day of reckoning but oblivion.’” Isla shut the holy text and smiled cruelly.
“We’ll pass,” Ghelys said, unimpressed. “The two women and the Octopus behind me. You know them?”
Isla’s smile shrank into a frown. She stowed the holy text in a bag on her horse and drew the obsidian sword. Holding it like it was too heavy, she marched past Ghelys.
