by L M R Clarke
Emmy jerked back, covering her pointed ears as another explosion ripped through the air. She stared, wide-eyed. The ships sent burning masses through the sky, a grim imitation of the fireworks they’d expected. Emmy cringed as a missile passed overhead and dealt a killing blow to buildings on the other side of the Circle.
With giant sailed vessels sending balls of fire through the air, the friends struggled to break their fascination with the macabre display. Eventually, Emmy shook her mind clear and grabbed Charo’s wrist. “Come on!”
They bolted the rest of the distance to the apothecary. At the door, Emmy fumbled for her keys. Taming her hands, she thrust the door open and pushed the others inside. She slammed the door shut and fell against it, breathing hard.
From upstairs, Krodge screamed. “Emena! What’s going on?”
“I’m coming Madame!” Emmy called. She turned to her friends. “Gather what you can. Blankets, food, extra clothes. Forget everything else.”
Charo nodded and dashed to the kitchen. Zecha stayed in the shop front, his bow taut and ready in his claws. Krodge was still screaming.
“I’ll be there in a moment, Madame!”
Emmy stumbled on the words. It would be so easy to leave Krodge to her fate. It might even be a kind of justice. The thought kept returning. Teach her a lesson. Emmy’s throat tightened as she pulled a woven satchel from under the shop counter. Krodge wasn’t her mother, after all. Krodge was her keeper, the one who shackled her to the apothecary with cruel words and terror. If the situation was reversed, Emmy told herself, Krodge wouldn’t risk a talon to save her. This could be Emmy’s chance to escape once and for all.
Unwilling to face the choice, Emmy turned to her glass cabinets, fumbled for her keys once more, and jammed one in the lock.
It wouldn’t turn.
Emmy pulled and jerked at the key, but it wouldn’t twist in the lock. Krodge kept screaming. Emmy’s heart hammered in her chest. Why did I come back? I should have just left her!
“Argh!” Emmy wrenched the key out and shook her head. She looked from the cabinets to the keys and grimaced. There wasn’t time for niceties. It had to happen.
She plucked up her measuring scales and cast them forward. The glass shattered into countless glimmering pieces, taking many of the jars and phials with it. There was renewed screeching from Krodge. Emmy closed her eyes, berating herself for her tears. Crying over cupboards when their lives were at risk was foolish, yet she still felt sharp sorrow. Her precious order was gone.
Shaking herself, Emmy filled her satchel with what she thought she needed and what hadn’t been destroyed. She shook her head. It wasn’t enough, but she didn’t have much choice.
A crash came from outside. She shared a harried glance with Zecha. His face was drawn. Families streamed past, females wielding weapons from glinting blades to kitchen ladles and table-top shields. Younglings hung from their fathers’ arms. Emmy spared Zecha another glance before running to her chamber.
She threw on a pair of heavy boots and ripped the headdress from her horns. The metal bent and torqued. Grabbing another bag, Emmy stopped. She bit her lip and made another decision.
She wrenched her bed aside, revealing a trapdoor. Snatching her keys, she released the heavy latch.
Inside the hidden chamber were thousands of bickles, half-bickles, cren, crom, and pip. The light of the moons’ rise made the slumbering coins sparkle. This was the money she’d earned, her money, something that had once been Krodge’s but wasn’t any longer. Emmy’s coin, a well of gold, something that gave her hope on her darkest days.
But not this day. No amount of coin could save her from the Masvams. Grabbing fistfuls of wealth, she stuffed some of her savings into the bag.
There was a thunderous smash. Zecha screamed. “They’re here!”
Emmy shoved the trapdoor closed, hefted her bags, and tore from the room. The usurpers bellowed. Krodge screeched.
“I’m coming, Madame!”
Charo appeared in the doorway, armed with two knives. “It’s all I could find,” she said.
Emmy grabbed her wrist and propelled her into the kitchen, bags swinging around them. “Krodge always kept weapons under the kitchen table.”
She threw her bags on the floor and upturned the table. It smashed on its side but revealed glinting knives—fighting knives—attached underneath by leather straps.
Crashing and smashing invaded. Zecha still screamed, but Emmy couldn’t make out his words. Krodge screeched and screeched. Blood roared in Emmy’s ears as she unbuckled the knives from the table, keeping one and giving Charo the other.
“We have to get to Zecha and Krodge,” Emmy said. “Then we need to get out of here. Come on!”
She hefted her bags and flew from the kitchen, ready to take the stairs two at a time and pull Krodge from her bed—but she smashed against a hulking body that stank of sweat and seawater and blood. She bounced backwards, skidding on the rushes.
“Well, well, well,” the Masvam soldier said, grasping her tunic. His eyes narrowed in first realization that she wasn’t like other Metakalans. “What this is? A demon, yes?”
Thick fingers snatched at her but Emmy twisted from his grasp and drew her arm up, ready to attack. She launched forward, striking out, but the knife connected with a sudden shield. It bore a sigil, a lightning bolt as strange as the Masvams’ words. The blade quivered, then clattered to the ground. Emmy drew back as Charo leapt forward. The Masvams slipped aside, sending Charo headlong into the wall. She crumpled.
One Masvam grabbed Emmy while another lifted Charo by the throat. Emmy did the only thing she could think of. She screamed. “Zecha!”
She was silenced when strong talons coiled around her neck.
“You play nice,” the Masvam whispered, his breath hot on the side of her face. His words were strange, just like Charo’s when she first arrived. They spoke another language, but it was similar enough for Emmy to understand parts. “Don’t try your magic or I’ll dispatch you right quick. I would arrange that gladly.”
Emmy writhed in his grasp, staring at Charo. Charo’s eyes pleaded as she stared back. Emmy sucked in a sharp breath. Her head swam from the choke-hold, white moons dancing in her vision. Her ears filled with the blows of her own heartbeat and the screeches from upstairs.
Three more Masvams tore in. One of them headed straight up the stairway.
“Krodge, ” Emmy choked.
The hand grew tighter around her throat.
“What keeps you?” the oldest of the new arrivals asked. He had a hatchet face and a snarl on his lips. “Have you them yet or not?”
“We got nasties, Ysmas Mamusan,” Emmy’s captor said. “Tried to slash with knives. But not now. They subdued.”
Both Emmy and Charo were released from death grasps. Air raced into Emmy’s chest, sweet despite the stench of unwashed soldier. Charo tried to slip the Masvam’s grip entirely, but he was on her again. He grabbed her from behind, shoving her to the wall.
“Tie them,” the oldest Masvam, Mamusan, barked. He glared at Emmy and crossed his hands in front of his face, some kind of ward against evil. “Double knots on this,” he said. “Tainted.”
A soldier wrenched Emmy’s arms back. Rope bit her wrists. Charo received the same treatment. Trussed like game, they were deposited in the shop. Emmy struggled to right herself, writhing against her bindings. Question upon question came at her. Why were the Masvams tying them up? What was their goal? Masvams were famous for killing their victims. But they were also famous for their battles against other armies, soldier upon soldier. It had never been their way to attack the common folk. That was why towns like Bellim had no army, no protection. They weren’t supposed to need it. But now... Emmy shook off the questions, bringing her mind back to the present.
The apothecary was in ruins. Shelves had been torn from the walls. Soil and blood littered the floor like a gory carpet. The grand front window was in pieces, sparkling like a thousand tears. But that paled in
comparison to the pitiful lump on the floor.
“Zecha!”
Their friend was tied like a hunted carcass, bleeding from his mouth. His head lolled. His eyes were glazed. Emmy’s heart lurched and she tried to wriggle from her bindings, willing the goddess—any goddess—to help her. But it was in vain. She was bound tight.
For a moment there was silence. Emmy’s breath stuttered. Silence—nothing from upstairs. Krodge? Emmy thought. Is she...? Her stomach dropped. Bile rose in her throat. Yet at the same time, the little voice was back. Justice.
“Right, petals,” said the older male, “let see us what you’ve in your bags.”
He tipped out the contents. Money spilled like a golden wave.
“Look to this,” he said. “Much coin.”
The gathered soldiers bayed.
“Is good,” the leader said. Then he turned to one of his wiry companions. “Kelom, what have you?”
“Food and rags, Mamusan,” the one named Kelom replied. “That all.”
Another Masvam appeared. His front was soaked with fresh blood. He grinned.
“No things of worth up there,” he said, wiping his dagger on his leg. “Just an old pchak with big mouth. To us no use. Finished her off, I did.”
The Masvam’s words rolled in Emmy’s head. Finished her off, I did. She looked at him. She looked at the blood. Krodge’s blood. Her stomach pitched. She’s dead... Her mistress’ words from so long ago came back to her.
Once I’m dead, there’ll be no one left to protect you!
In a strange way, the old crone had been right.
Emmy was filled with despair, yet it was tinged with something else. It was a kind of macabre relief. Krodge was finally gone. Unfortunately, Emmy couldn’t enjoy it.
“Right,” Mamusan said, brushing off death as he brushed off his hands, “take these to the boat. Search for more coin. Then burn it.”
Kelom bowed and turned his attention to the prisoners. Emmy screeched and writhed as he hefted her over his shoulder. She got a clout to the face as a reward. “Shut up,” he grunted. “Demon thing.”
Battered as she was, Emmy still wanted to spit at him. Beyond the blows and the choke-holds, there was something that consumed her last strength.
Finished her off, I did.
Those words reverberated in her mind as the Masvams moved off with their newfound riches.
The dark streets were filled with the clash and wail of battle. Mamusan and the others joined a stream of Masvams bearing bodies or herding cowering Metakalans to their ships. Many were still caught in the heat of blood lust. Corpses littered the ground.
Even as she was hefted through the streets, listening to Charo bite and kick against her captor, fearing for Zecha, so limp over a Masvam’s shoulder, hearing the blasts of bombs and the snick of metal through skin, those words kept playing in Emmy’s mind.
Finished her off, I did.
When they passed a mangled corpse with its throat cut, her eyes widened. Blood pumped from the wound, spilling down the male’s neck, but the expression etched on his face in death was worst of all. It was harrowing.
It was one of betrayal.
It wasn’t just the gore or the expression that caught her eye. It wasn’t just the loll of the head. It was the face: unmistakably Amra Bose. The words changed in her head.
Finished him off, I did.
Looking away, Emmy jerked upwards. Her gaze latched on the shop. Her home. Now gone.
The building was dark.
Then a Masvam threw a lighted torch through the broken window.
Her work. Her world. Everything she had ever known. Her memories. Her life.
Then there was fire.
Flames burst onto the street, enveloping the building in red destruction.
“Madame!”
She cried despite knowing Krodge was dead. She cried despite the cycles of pain and torture she’d endured. She cried because, though things had been bad, she’d wanted it to end this way.
“NO!”
For her outburst, she received another blow to the head. Everything went dark.
Finished her off, I did...
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bandim
The only sound in Bandim’s chambers was the rhythmic in and out of his breathing. The emperor sat in an opulent chair by the empty fireplace. The cold ashes within were as grey as his mood. The shutters were closed tightly against the midday brightness and his servants had long since been banished. Bandim sat, alone and silent, staring at his reflection in his gilt-silver handplate.
As he moved it from side to side, his image warped, growing thinner or fatter depending on the angle at which he held it. Fitting, he thought. Warped is exactly how I feel.
It had been days since Dorai had given him her presence, yet all was not as Bandim had anticipated, or how Johrann had prophesied. He felt the goddess within him, but there was no symbiosis. Johrann had claimed he would become the goddess herself, and that all her might and power would flow through him.
Johrann was wrong.
Worse still, his brother’s dead body had disappeared. No matter what Johrann said, it still worried him. He wouldn’t settle fully until his brother’s body was burned.
Bandim shook his head but kept his eyes fixed on his reflection. Since Johrann had channeled Dorai into the world and into him, all Bandim had felt was himself as always, but with a vacant pocket somewhere within that hadn’t been there before. It was as if Dorai had invaded his body but was hiding in the dark recesses of his mind, constantly out of reach. He leaned forward and brought the handplate closer to his face. His careful examination of his features continued, yet he could still find no trace of the goddess there.
“You’ll see her in yourself,” Johrann had said. “She’ll give you a sign to show you she’s there, ready to share all she has.”
Bandim stared deeply into the reflection of his own face, searching for something. Anything. But he saw nothing that hadn’t been there before. He had the same flat face, the same yellow eyes blinking back at him.
There was nothing.
Frustration built in his chest like the swelled banks of a river in flood. Bandim grunted and cast the handplate from his grasp. It skidded across the stone floor, clearing a path through the fresh rushes. The situation was intolerable. Johrann had lied. He wasn’t the goddess. He was still just a male.
Not known for his patience, Bandim had quickly tired of his advisor’s vapid assurances that all would be well. Instead of his constant companion, Johrann was now seldom a guest in his presence, despite her pleading. With or without the goddess, Bandim was still emperor, and his word was law.
“Your Grace,” Johrann had said, her eyes brimming, “if you don’t let me work with you to unleash your inner power, the goddess will never grant you her gifts. Don’t send me away. Let me help you.”
Working for Dorai’s power wasn’t part of Johrann’s promises before. She had felt her failure through the harsh flats of his hands.
The handplate discarded, Bandim instead stared into the dim grate of the fireplace. He didn’t know for how long, but eventually his attention was diverted by a deferent knock at the door.
“Enter,” he said, not turning.
Soft footsteps entered. The door was closed gently. His guest waited in obedient silence until Bandim deigned to grant them his attention. As soon as he saw who it was, his face drew tight with anger.
It was Johrann.
“I told you not to return,” Bandim said, rising slowly from his chair.
Johrann kept her eyes averted from his gaze and clasped her hands in front of her waist.
“I know, Your Grace,” she said. “However, I’ve come to appeal to you to let me try once more to help you.”
He could have simply turned her away. Told her to get out, even shouted it had he wanted. But even that seemed too easy. Bandim was an emperor, and emperors must be obeyed. It was time to reinforce that issue with Johrann.
H
is soft slippers made little noise as he crossed the room to her. She kept her eyes on the floor as he walked, just as she should.
Bandim grasped her throat with his claws and pinned her to the wall before she knew what was happening. White-hot anger coursed through him, boiling his blood. The edges of his vision blurred as fury consumed him. Bandim bared his teeth and growled.
“You need to learn your place,” he snarled. “You may live in the empress’ chambers, but that doesn’t make you the empress. You have played me a merry tune, promising me the sun, the moons, and the stars, and what have you delivered for me?” He tightened his grip around the thin slip of her neck. “Nothing!”
His temper burned brighter and his whole body flashed hot, as if he was engulfed in flame. He clamped his jaws together as ire consumed him. His nose slits flared.
Johrann squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to extricate herself from the tight clamp of his claws. That only urged Bandim’s temper to flame.
“My word is law!” he said. “I told you not to return here, yet you have. Not only do you lie, but you disobey as well. You have promised me much and delivered me nothing. And now you have the audacity to enter my presence again, your arrogance leading you to think I’ll take you back into my favor. No!”
Something flared within him with that word. A well of power rose within him, and his claws squeezed tighter.
He smelled the charred flesh before he saw the smoke.
Under his fingertips, Johrann’s skin smoldered. She shrieked in agony, writhing to escape from his grasp. Bandim’s eyes widened at the sight, shock keeping his grasp tight around her neck. Then thought dawned like a tawny sun and he released her.
Bandim stumbled backwards, staring at his hands. A bright red glow formed in his palms and snaked to the tips of his claws. Inside, fire as hot as a funeral pyre coursed through him. But fear began to dampen it, and he stuttered.
“What...what is this?” he asked. “What is this power?”
Johrann’s neck still smoldered, but it was as if she couldn’t feel the pain. Instead of tending to her wounds, she stared at him, jaw slack with awe.
