For a year and a day, she'd waited for this moment. The time for vengeance had come.
One step forward, two, three. The distance between Fern and her retribution closed. She raised the dagger.
Derelana, guide my aim. A quick thrust of the blade and Emetana would die, choking on her own blood.
Fern's crutch slipped on the tiled floor, flying out from beneath her. She fell hard. The iron leg brace clattered loud in the darkness. Fern struggled to rise.
A sleepy voice spoke from the bed. "Wha—?"
Fern half-lunged, half-hurled herself at the prone figure. She lashed out at the woman's throat a heartbeat before she realized the voice didn't belong to Emetana. Only her reflexes, honed by years in the Warrior Priests' training yard, spared the woman's life. The dagger buried in the blanket a finger's breadth from the Novice's head.
Fern heard a sharp intake of breath and something slammed into her ribs. She groaned at the blow and again as the Novice's elbow struck her cheek. The woman went still as Fern pressed the edge of the dagger against her throat.
"W-Who are you?" the Novice asked, her voice quavering.
"Who are you?" Fern snarled. "And where is Emetana?"
"E-Eme-who?"
Fern leaned on the blade. "The woman who lives in this room."
"I don't know!" Desperation edged the woman's words. Not a woman, Fern realized, a girl barely into adolescence.
Her mind raced. Could she have come to the wrong room? She mentally retraced her steps. No, this was the room where she and Emetana had lived, where Emetana would be quartered upon her return from her travels.
"What happened to the person who lived here before?"
"I-I don't know!" A sob burst from the Novice's throat. "Please, don't kill me!"
Fern ground her teeth. Had she ever been this terrified and cowardly? She doubted it.
"Wait," the Novice said, "y-you said Emetana?"
"Yes," Fern hissed. "She was among the returning Warrior Priests."
"There was a Warrior Priest named Emetana, but…"
"What do you mean, was?"
* * *
Fern stared, stunned, at the tiny plaque on the Pillar of Requital, the four-sided marble column in the temple's main courtyard where the servants of Derelana commemorated those fallen in service to their Goddess. The name Emetana had been etched into the copper plate.
"How?" She shook the Novice, fingers clamped on her frail arm. "How did it happen?"
"Illness, they said!" Fearful tears slipped down the girl's cheeks. "Caught the Spotted Flux her first week out of Voramis."
Her first week. The words rang in Fern's mind. Emetana had died while she lay in The Sanctuary, recovering from her burns. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. A harsh chuckle burst from Fern's chest. The Novice stared horrified, but Fern couldn't stop the manic laughter that gripped her at the futility of her actions. She had spent a year plotting vengeance against a dead woman.
The Novice ripped her arm from Fern's grasp and raced away, crying out an alarm. Fern didn't try to stop her. The girl was innocent; Fern had come to deliver the Lady's vengeance, not to lash out in murderous rage.
Her eyes wandered back to Emetana's pitiful plaque and her deranged mirth bubbled up again. She sheathed her dagger, tucked the crutch under her arm, and spat a gob of phlegm on the copper plate.
May you rot in the deepest, darkest, foulest of the hells, Emetana. You may have escaped vengeance, but you will not avoid the Long Keeper's judgement. The God of Death would not be kind to the vile, deceitful woman.
Shouts from the barracks pierced the buzzing in Fern's ears. With a final sneer for Emetana, she hobbled toward the gardens and her tunnel.
* * *
A numbing chill turned Fern's limbs to lead as she hobbled through The Sanctuary. Her aches and pains faded beneath the wave of emptiness washing over her.
For hours, she'd sat in the mud beside her tunnel, unable to move, her mind as dull as her leaden limbs. She couldn't believe Emetana was dead.
The first rays of dawn had finally snapped her from her stupor. She shuffled across Divinity Square with a heavy gait, uncaring if the Heresiarchs spotted her. She'd done what she intended to.
No, that was a lie. She'd accomplished nothing. Emetana had escaped her vengeance. Fern would never have justice for what was done to her. All her efforts over the last year had been in vain.
She mumbled greetings to the passing Ministrants, vaguely aware of the strange looks they gave her dirt-stained clothing, hands, and face.
"Fern!" Ministrant Etta's sharp tone pierced the fog filling Fern's head. "The doors are opening and you are needed in The Sanctuary's main chamber."
"Yes, Ministrant," Fern mumbled, her thick tongue slurring her words.
"Are you drunk?" the priestess snapped, eyes narrowing.
"No, Ministrant." Fern gave a weak shake of her head.
"Best be about your duties, then." Ministrant Etta waved her away. "There's a corpse in the cot beside the door that needs dressing before the undertakers arrive."
Fern complied, too drained to protest. Leaning on her crutch, she limped across the room toward the cadaver.
Horror pierced Fern’s gut like a knife. She knew the silent, unmoving figure in the bed. Blood stained Dayle's thin lips and sparse beard. The pallor of death accented the gauntness of his cheeks, emphasizing the odd patches of white peering through the suntanned skin of his face and hands.
Fern's knees sagged and she slumped to the floor beside the bed. She couldn't tear her gaze from the corpse.
"Y'know this one?"
Fern's mind, rendered sluggish by sorrow, failed to produce coherent words.
"Shame." Ministrant Opal shook her head. "That cough of his turned nasty. Drowned in his own fluid, he did."
Fern could only stare uncomprehending at the priestess.
"A bad way to go." With a sigh, Opal kissed her fingertips and pressed them against Dayle's bloodless forehead. "May the Bright Lady smile on you and bear you to the Long Keeper's arms in peace."
Suddenly, Fern felt so very tired. Fatigue, emotional and physical, held her bound. Her eyes never left the figure lying next to her.
She took Dayle's thin, white-spotted hand. Cold to the touch, stiffening in death, it hung limp in her hand. Yet she would not let it go. She couldn't let him go.
For a year, rage and a desire for retribution had consumed her. She'd thought of nothing but vengeance on Emetana. Months spent working herself to exhaustion digging the tunnel into the Temple of Derelana. All wasted on a woman who had died almost a year ago.
Her anger hadn't faded; if anything, the sight of Emetana's name on the Pillar of Requital only added to it. The Warrior Priest would never taste the Lady's vengeance.
But Fern's obsession with Emetana had blinded her to those who truly mattered. Dayle had saved her life after her expulsion from the Temple of Derelana. He had dragged her to The Sanctuary and insisted on treatment when Fern wanted to die. And how had she repaid him? She'd left him living in that pitiful shelter, ignored his worsening illness.
I should have insisted that he come to The Sanctuary for healing. I should have bought more food, blankets, and warm clothing for him, rather than wasting it on Emetana. After all he'd done for her, she should have done more for him.
She could never go back, never regain the time she'd squandered on her fruitless quest for vengeance. She wouldn't have a chance to thank Dayle for pulling her back from the brink. He had seen past the burned, crippled girl. If only she'd been able to.
The path of vengeance had proven futile. Emetana's death didn't restore strength to her arm or heal her leg. The scars remained—those twisting her face and staining her heart. But she couldn't permit her need for retribution to continue consuming her life. Her past must not destroy her future.
What would she do now? She'd dedicated her life to Derelana: first as a Warrior Priest, then for her own revenge on Emetana. Without that, who was she?
She'd become a healer to earn a living, but she had no passion for the Bright Lady's priesthood.
Right now, none of that mattered. She had to dress Dayle's body for the undertaker and minister to those who came to The Sanctuary. She'd have plenty of time to figure out what came next for her.
Sorrow panged in her chest as she rose, took a washcloth from the bowl beside the bed, and set about cleaning the blood from Dayle's face.
A familiar sobbing sounded behind her. Fern turned and found Lourda ushering Udela to a nearby bed. Tears streamed down the little girl's face and she cradled her right arm against her chest.
Anger surged within Fern, pushing back the fatigue. She waved Ministrant Opal away and hobbled toward Udela.
"Udela, Lourda." Fern winced at the dark bruises around Lourda's eye and the blood trickling from a cut in her cheek.
"F-Fern." Lourda paled. "Her shoulder, it's—"
"Dislocated." Fern examined the limb. "Let me guess, she fell from another tree."
Lourda dropped her eyes, cheeks flushing.
Udela's wailing intensified in volume as Fern removed her shirt. Bone bulged beneath her skin.
Fern glanced at Lourda. "It must be relocated. I'll get something to help with the pain."
The woman nodded, tears in her eyes. "Thank you."
Cold fury burned away the last of Fern's numbness as she hobbled toward the cupboard where Ministrant Opal kept the pain-relieving draughts. No one—man, woman, or child—deserved to suffer as she had, but she was not alone in her misery. Voramis was filled with people condemned to lives as miserable as hers. Perhaps she could do something about it.
Her quest for retribution against Emetana had shown her the futility of revenge. Yet the Warrior Priests of Derelana served as the Goddess’ champions around the world of Einan, carrying out the Lady's vengeance against the unjust.
Therein lay the secret: she couldn't seek vengeance for what was done to her, but perhaps for another. No will of her own, but the Goddess working through her.
She could serve Derelana after all. Udela's father would be the first to taste the Goddess’ wrath; he would not be the last.
Author's Note:
If you're familiar with my work, you may have recognized the setting (Voramis) and perhaps even a few of the characters throughout. Keen-eyed readers will find an "Easter egg" for The Last Bucelarii (Book 1): Blade of the Destroyer in each story; in some cases, there will be multiple treasures. If you think you've found all the hidden hints and clues, send me an email at [email protected] with a list. There will be a prize for anyone who finds them ALL!
If you haven't read my books and would like to find out more about this grimdark fantasy world, check out the links below:
The Last Bucelarii:
A faceless, nameless assassin. A forgotten past. The Hunter of Voramis--a killer devoid of morals, or something else altogether? (The Last Bucelarii: dark fantasy with a look at the underside of human nature.)
Book 1: Blade of the Destroyer
Book 2: Lament of the Fallen
Book 3: Gateway to the Past
Books 4-6: Coming soon…
Queen of Thieves:
Ruthless criminals are made, not born. Queen of Thieves—an insight into the transformation from innocent child to thief and killer. What would you do to survive in a world of assassins, thieves, and murderers?
Book 1: Child of the Night Guild
Book 2: Thief of the Night Guild
Book 3: Queen of the Night Guild (coming January 2018!)
About the Author:
I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette. Fantasy is my genre of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of fantasy heroes, villains, and everything in between. I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy novels.
Fantasy provides us with an escape, a way to forget about our mundane problems and step into worlds where anything is possible. It transcends age, gender, religion, race, or lifestyle--it is our way of believing what cannot be, delving into the unknowable, and discovering hidden truths about ourselves and our world in a brand new way. Fiction at its very best!
Visit my Website: http://www.andypeloquin.com
Tweet at me: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin
Connect on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin
Join Andy Peloquin's Fantasy Fiends: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1383986274994456/
YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYAKG5k06vcmc02Uy4fGLfA
Want to find out more about me, my writing, and the news of my new releases? Sign up for my semi-monthly newsletter: http://andypeloquin.com/join-the-club/
A Unique Recommendation
If you enjoyed the concept of disorders in a fantastical setting, I believe you'll like the novel that inspired the idea: Queen of Bones by Gregg Zimmerman. I loved how the author took the disability (rheumatoid arthritis) and turned it into the "ability" that made the character special.
Queen of Bones
A seventeen year old orphan, alone in the deadly post-apocalyptic world. She’s feisty, yet vulnerable; a woman, and yet a young girl. And with her discovery, she just might be humanity’s savior. Meet Sara Hill…
Two years after the advent of the deadly solar storms known as sunthrobs, civilization is in a shambles. Most animal species are extinct. The few people who survived have formed roving bands of sun-scorched degenerates who scour the land for scarce provisions. The periodic sunthrobs continue to take their deadly toll. Survival is a day to day struggle.
Sara Hill and two other teenagers are driven from their fallout shelter home. They head west, hoping to find asylum in a rumored Seattle colony that is striving to re-establish civilization. If caught by the marauding bands, they will be robbed, the two girls raped, and all of them most likely killed. Sara brings her discovery of how to survive the sunthrobs with her. But will she herself survive the horrors of the road? Does the fabled Seattle colony even exist? Either way, there is no turning back.
Find the book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Queen-Bones-G-Zimmerman-ebook/dp/B01DMPDXVM
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