by Phil Tucker
There. Deep, careful breathing. The sound of a man trying to be quiet. He could almost hear Athanasius’ heart pounding.
He wanted to say something to torment the man. Threaten him. Express why his death was coming. But for a twist of fate, Asho himself could have been one of his victims, could have ended his life here in the dark, broken and shattered and moaning like the others.
The breathing stilled. Had he given himself away? He stopped flying forward and pressed up against the ceiling. His blade was pressed down the side of his leg. Was he close enough to incinerate the man? Would doing so harm the other Sin Casters? Were they behind bars or closed doors? He didn’t know. Couldn’t risk killing innocents.
The silence was shattered by the roar of demonic flame. The roiling air scalded him as the corridor filled with death, and Asho gritted his teeth, panic flaring in his heart as he turned his face away and pressed his cheek against the rock. He felt his skin blister, felt his sword heat up — but then the flames died away, and in the place of their roar he heard the mad dash of someone sprinting back down the tunnel below him.
Asho dropped down behind Athanasius and caught up with him quickly, reaching the man just as he broke back out into the torture chamber. He slid an arm around the man’s scrawny neck and lifted him off his feet, pressing the edge of his blade against the side of Athanasius’ throat as he did so.
Athanasius bleated in horror and scrabbled at Asho’s arm, then raised his palms to unleash flame only to freeze as Asho pressed the sword tighter to his neck.
“Try it,” Asho said quietly into his ear, “and I’ll cut your neck open right here and now.”
It was madness for Athanasius not to attack, but Asho knew the terrible allure of self-preservation, the temptation to believe that there was yet hope of surviving this encounter. Of talking his way out. Athanasius hesitated, then dropped his hands.
Asho flew over to the shattered table with his prisoner sagging from his arm and beginning to choke. Studying the ruined table, Asho saw how chains had been extended from the original manacles, how even in its state of ruin it had been converted into a functioning altar of torment.
It would be fitting to place Athanasius down there. Chain him down and then slowly pierce his body with his spikes of gatestone. Bleed him to death and allow him to taste what would be only a hundredth of the torment he’d inflicted on the others.
Athanasius tried to say something. An offer, it sounded like. A promise.
Asho’s heart thudded in his chest. This man deserved an eternity of torture. He deserved pain. He deserved to be broken and then broken again.
“Show you... how to... freedom...” gasped Athanasius.
Perhaps Asho could release the Sin Casters and let them have their way with him. He envisioned them crawling into the light, seeing their tormentor helpless, bound, terrified. Imagined them tearing him apart, howling in their savage hatred as they bathed in his blood.
“Please...” said Athanasius. “Power. Show you how... wield...”
Asho drew his blade across the man’s throat in a quick and forceful motion, then dropped him.
Athanasius gurgled and grasped at his slit throat, fighting to stand, kicking his feet as he writhed. Blood sprayed everywhere, then slowed into a rhythmic pulsing. He managed to get to his feet and stagger toward one of the counters, where several towels were piled, but he fell before he could reach them. With blood pooling out around his throat, the man shivered and went still.
Sickened, Asho lowered himself to the floor and cast his sword aside. It rang loudly in the silence.
The air was thick with the tang of copper. Four dead men lay around him. Had they taken the sick knowledge of their craft with them to the grave? That might be too much to hope for.
Asho felt no satisfaction, no pleasure at the sight of them. His disgust and fury only deepened until tears prickled his eyes. Horror rose within him, not over what he’d done, but what had transpired in this room and what the room represented, the terminus for everyone like him. His terror and paranoia over his abilities seized him, and he cupped his hand over his mouth.
A world where this room could exist was not a world that should continue. This room was all the proof he needed that the Empire was rotten, that Ascendancy was built on a foundation so foul, it could not be allowed to persist. There would be no more black formulas, and with their disappearance, the Virtues would sicken and die. Ascendancy would wither away.
Good, Asho thought.
Dropping his hand, he moved to Athanasius’ lectern and set the book on fire. He then methodically opened each of the cabinets and torched their contents, along with all the written records that lay atop the counters. For a long time, he stood staring at the spikes of gatestone and the vials of black formula he found within their wooden cases, but the pragmatic side of him held him back from destroying them. There was still a final battle to be won.
At last, when he could put it off no longer, he took a ring of keys from Athanasius’ corpse and turned back to the twin tunnels down which the Sin Casters were waiting.
Taking up a lantern, he walked into the first. It was broad, devoid of ornamentation, and almost immediately gave way to archways blocked by bars into which were set barred doors. Asho stopped at the first of them and gazed inside.
The stone-walled cell was barren except for a pallet against one side and a bowl of water in the center of the room. There was nothing else to be seen but a man lying half on the bed and half off, staring up at the ceiling as tears ran down and wet his bedraggled hair.
He was emaciated, and his clothing was little more than rags. Asho could see the terrible scars that had accumulated across his body after who knew how many years of torture. The man’s pigeon chest rose and fell with very shallow breaths, and his eyes didn’t move at all. Just a blank, blind stare at nothing.
Asho forced himself to swallow and moved to the next cell. Inside, a woman was lying in a similar manner, though she at least was aligned with her pallet. The next five cells had equally catatonic Sin Casters, all of them immobile and barely breathing.
Asho was peering into the sixth cell when a woman’s voice came to him from the darkness beyond.
“Who’s that? What’s going on?”
Asho raised his lantern and looked down the rest of the tunnel. It extended farther than the beam of his light, but he could make out some twelve more cells before the light died.
“My name is Asho,” he said, surprised to hear his voice shake. He took a deep breath and spoke with more authority. “I’m a Sin Caster like you. I’ve come to get you out.”
Laughter from several throats greeted his words. Then silence. Asho stood still, watching as hands closed around the bars of the cells, as he caught faint reflections of his light from eyes peering at him through long hair.
“That so?” This was a man. He spoke hoarsely, and his accent was that of a Bythian. “Most like, it’s a trick to break us further.”
“No trick,” said Asho. “I’ve killed Athanasius. The Minister of Perfection is dead. The Empire itself is coming to an end, attacked by demons and heresy. I’ve come to get you out.”
“Then, get us out already,” came a stronger voice from the darkness beyond. “Action, not bloody words.”
Asho turned to the closest cell, where a cadaver of a man was sitting cross-legged against the wall, his hair a dirty halo around his saturnine face, his body so skinny that Asho could count his ribs.
“Here,” Asho said, throwing the door open. “Come on out.”
The man didn’t move. He blinked blearily at Asho but remained seated.
“You won’t get much out of Aloysius,” said one of the other occupants. “He’s about done.”
“Fine,” said Asho, and he strode down to the closest cell with a standing prisoner: an Ennoian woman whose hair was shorn close to the scalp. Her face was square around a broken nose, and her knuckles were bloodied where they gripped the bars. “If I open your door, will you c
ome out?” Asho asked her.
“Count on it,” was her only response.
Asho fished through the keys, then unlocked her door and pulled it open.
The woman stood still, staring at him, then, ever so slowly, stepped out into the hallway.
“By the Black Gate,” someone whispered. “He’s let Sigi out.”
Sigi was watching him warily. “What now? What do you want?”
“Want? I told you. To free the lot of you.”
“To what end?”
Asho wanted to laugh, to shout. “No end. I’m a Sin Caster like you. I would have been in here if they’d caught me. I’m just letting you out — all of you — because it’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s not how the world works,” came the voice of the first man. “You’ve got some angle. You’re just not telling us yet.”
Asho raised his hand and unleashed a torrent of black flame down the length of the hall. The heat was staggering. He cut it off just as abruptly. “You see that? That’s your proof right there. I’m one of you. I have no angle. You want out? I’ll let you out. You want to stay here and wait for the next Athanasius? Be my guest.”
Sigi had stepped away and pressed her back to the bars. “You got a demon inside you? How’d you do that?”
“What? Call fire? It’s what we do. We’re Sin Casters.”
“I can’t bloody do that,” she said. “If I could, I’d have roasted the lot of ‘em years ago. Only the damn Fujiwaras can call flame.”
A chorus of agreements echoed down the hall.
“The Black Gate’s closed, true enough,” said Asho. “But I absorbed the power of a demon earlier. Two of them, from their Fujiwara hosts. I’m using their magic to fuel my own.”
Sigi’s eyes turned glassy. “You what?”
“I’ll explain later. First, I’m getting everyone out.”
That said, he walked down the line, unlocking doors as he went. Men and women emerged hesitantly, but he paid them no mind. After he had unlocked the last one, he turned and strode back through the prisoners and out into the main chamber, then down the second hall, where he set to unlocking more cells.
A few minutes later, Asho climbed the steps so he could gaze out over the torture chamber at everyone who had gathered there. There had to be some forty Sin Casters in all, with perhaps ten of them standing only with the help of others. They ranged from all across the Empire; he saw as many Aletheians as he did Bythians, as many men as women, but they all had that same haunted, hollow gaze. They kept flinching and glancing over their shoulders as if they expected a blow. Their backs were hunched and their mouths were gummed shut.
“My name’s Asho. I’m a Sin Caster like you. I only found that out when I traveled to a remote place with a second Black Gate. It’s open and allowing magic into the world. I used that magic to serve my lady, and she made me her knight.” He paused, considering. It was close enough to the truth. “Since then, I’ve fought to change the Empire, to free the Bythians, to end injustice. After I found out about you all, I made my way here, killed anyone who got in my way, and freed you.”
One man pushed his way to the front. He had to be a recent prisoner; he was dark-skinned in the manner of all Zoeians, with his hair falling about his bony shoulders in thick ropes. The wounds on his shoulders and in other vital spots were still fresh and raw and had yet to scar over.
“So, we’re free to go?” He gestured at the crowd. “All of us?”
“Yes,” said Asho. “If that’s what you wish.”
“And the Fujiwara? They just going to let us dance our way out?”
Asho smiled grimly. “They may protest. I’ll deal with them.”
The man simmered down, looking almost confused. “And where are we to go? What’s to stop us from being hunted down again?”
Asho gripped the balustrade tightly. “The Empire’s under attack. First, it was assaulted by kragh led by a new Ogri the Destroyer. That invasion ended when demons were freed from their prisons by the thousands. Now, the kragh and the humans are fighting together against them. It’s not just the survival of the Empire that’s on the line, it’s our survival in general.”
“There it is,” Sigi said from the back, a knowing smirk on her lips. “His angle.”
“No angle!” Asho glared down at them. “You want to go home and hide and lick your scars and hope for the best? Do so! Do so and be damned! But if you want to fight, I won’t turn you away. It’s a fight that will find you in time, no matter how far you run. So, think hard. I’ll see you to Aletheia — if it’s still floating — and then you have to make your decision.”
The Sin Casters turned to mutter to each other. He realized then, watching them whisper, that he wasn’t one of them after all.
Of course he wasn’t. Just like he hadn’t felt at home amongst the Bythians when he tried to free them too. He’d not been tortured for decades. He wasn’t a victim. He wasn’t broken or nearly broken. Yet he’d thought — perhaps hoped — that here he’d find his own kind, a group that would see him as one of them. A damned Sin Caster.
“We saw you throw fire,” said a man with his arm slung around another man’s shoulders. “None of us here can do that. How are we supposed to help?”
Sigean, maybe? He’d clearly been here longer than most, and he looked more like a horrific scarecrow than a person. His eyes were sunken, his gums had receded from his teeth, and his hair was wispy and mostly gone, but there remained in his gaze a fierce light, and he kept his chin high.
“Over there,” said Asho, pointing at one of the cabinets. “Black formulas. If you drink it, you can throw fire.”
Again, there was muttering. Amazement, disbelief, shock.
“I don’t want to fight demons,” said the Zoeian. “I want to kill the fuckers who locked us up.”
That elicited a resounding roar of agreement.
“You can try,” Asho said, calling out over the din. “But most likely, you’ll die. There are too many of them, and most of them have demons in their souls. They’ll drown you in fire.”
He saw distrust flicker across more than one face.
The scarecrow of a man cast a ghastly grin at him. “Are you saying we should forgive and forget?”
“No,” said Asho. “What’s your name?”
“Number Twenty-Two. But I was called Elias, once.”
“Elias, I don’t want you to forgive anybody. I do want you to strengthen yourselves first. Learn to use your power. Then, when you’re ready, come back and kill them all.”
Sigi pushed forward a few steps. “You said we had to fight these demons first!”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Asho said, fighting for calm. “I’m just giving you advice. There’s a war going on. Do you want to go hide, get strong, then come back here and kill some Fujiwaras while the world burns?” He shrugged. “Your business.”
The anger subsided. Asho thought he could make out four figures of influence to whom the others were turning. The Zoeian man, Elias the scarecrow, a silent older Bythian woman whose face was horrifically crisscrossed with scars, and a gaunt giant of an Ennoian who watched Asho without answering the questions the others put to him.
“So?” Asho looked from one leader to another. “Decide.”
Elias hitched himself up a little higher with his friend’s help. “I’ll go with Asho. At the very least, there should be some good food on Aletheia.”
The Bythian woman nodded her agreement. “My name is Sora. I’m proud that a Bythian has freed us. I will go with you.”
The Ennoian giant scratched slowly at his matted blond beard. Asho thought he could see lice crawling in it, even from this distance. “I’m Arnulf. I’ll go with you.”
The Zoeian man, however, turned his head and spat. “To hell with good food. To hell with Asho. I’ve been here for less time than the rest of you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let the Fujiwaras get away with it. A surprise attack – who’s with me?”
Seven of
the Sin Casters rumbled their assent and moved to stand behind the Zoeian.
“It’s your lives,” said Asho.
“Damn you for judging us,” said the Zoeian. “You’ve never been tied down to that table. You’ve got no idea what we’ve been through.”
Asho rose up into the air and floated over the railing. The Zoeian man’s eyes widened as he backed up, but Asho ignored him as he moved down to the cabinet that contained the spikes and potions.
“Here,” he said, and set eight of the black formulas aside. “These will give you each enough power to get you into battle. I’ll take the rest with me to share with the others.”
“Good,” said the Zoeian man, and he rushed up to snatch away the formulas. “But you ain’t going till you tell us how to throw those flames.”
“You’re going to stop me?” asked Asho.
“You’re no better than they are if you leave us here to die,” snarled the man.
“Idiot,” said Elias. “He freed you. He’s got no further obligation.”
“Show us,” said the Zoeian man. “I say you’re as good as killing us if you don’t.”
“No,” said Asho, and he stepped forward till he was toe to toe with the man. “You’re killing yourself. That’s your responsibility. Now, get out of my way.”
The man glowered but then reluctantly stepped aside. Asho strode past him to the stairs, then up to the balcony with a chest under each arm. “Those who want out of this hellhole, who want to learn how to use your magic, who want to grow strong so you’ll have a chance at real revenge down the road, come with me.”
“Cowards!” yelled the Zoeian man.
No one paid him any mind. Asho watched as the crowd slowly began to file up the steps, and for the first time he allowed himself a small measure of satisfaction and pride. Never again would these people suffer. They’d die before they were caught, and he’d die protecting them if he had to. No matter what came of this, no matter how this changed the world, he would never regret its doing. This was one irrevocable change that no one could undo.
