Ascending Shadows
Page 5
She purchased a modest home a few blocks away from the Jolly Pig. It had a single room and a place to rest her head and store her savings, and most importantly, her laboratory. It was almost everything she needed. It took her close to a year to acquire the flasks, burner, tongs, droppers, tubes, crucibles, needles, dishes, and so much more she needed to produce her poisons.
To her father’s behest and legacy, she had carried on the ways of the Scorpions, making poisons and eventually burying them once they expired. Someday, she thought she’d find a protégé or maybe learn to write it all down. She knew from her time in Helm’s Reach that poisoners were not a highly regarded profession, so she kept her craft to herself. She worked nights with the curtains drawn and the windows open to let out the noxious fumes. Neighbors often complained, but a sharp glare was all that she usually needed to quiet their ramblings.
Life here was easy compared to her upbringing in the unforgiving sands of the Nether. Here, some children worried about where they would get their next meal. She often wondered if they were aware that the body could go weeks without a meal. The Scorpions often had to worry about where they’d next find water. Food was an afterthought.
She arrived in the south-eastern quarter, an area where the downtrodden tended to gather, and she could pass unrecognized. It seemed that no matter how much thought was put into a city, merchants always found a way to ride the backs of those below them. Dark shapes lining the shadowed parts of the street were just starting to stir. The pale sky was peeling off layers of chimney smoke hanging on the rooftops. The streets here were speckled with refuse, choking excrement, buzzing flies, and urine stained walls.
Senka looked down at herself, checking to make sure she would fit in. The knees of her navy blue trousers were streaked with drying cow’s blood. Her shirt was darker than her trousers, an off black, though still showing the old stains that wouldn’t wash out no matter how much she scrubbed at them. She tugged on her shirt and opened two buttons, one side of her collar flopping over and showing the top edge of an espresso colored breast.
Her most valuable and priceless possessions were the twin daggers resting against the backs of her hips. The broad leather belt securing them was decorated with crawling Scorpions, a gift from her father on her tenth name day. If not for those, she would’ve blended seamlessly in the south-eastern quarter. The rest was replaceable. The darts under her bracers, the blowgun tucked against her back, and the poisons and salves stowed in the three pouches lining her hips could all be easily acquired. She felt at the nub of Angel’s Moss through her pocket, making sure it was still there.
She started for the park, passing cross-streets, seeing its distinctive swathe of stark color in the distance. It was less of a park and more a bench surrounded by a confine of flowering trees and shrubs, one spot opened and overlooking the Far Sea.
A drunk man staggered from an alley, shouting at her with incomprehensible words. She paused to face him and settled her weight into a fighting stance, a shift only someone trained would notice. A noxious cloud of stink telling of a poorly cleaned ass and too much wine wafted off his form.
In one hand was an empty bottle, the other a rusty makeshift blade. He lazily waved it at her. “Gimme your marks, cunt—” He hiccupped and squinted his eyes, trying to focus. “Bitch!” He belched and beckoned at his feet with his knife. “Give it here.”
She inched towards him. “Right there?” She pointed at his foot and raised an eyebrow.
“That’s— that’ll be fine. Fucking bitch.” He coughed and even covered his mouth.
How well mannered. She shook her head at him with disgust. “Here you are…” she fiddled in her pocket, but instead dashed in and stomped his foot with her heel, producing a crack, then shattering glass and a howl. His knife tumbled from his grip and into her expectant hand. “Shouldn’t play with toys,” she said, stepping around him. Bits of amber glass had spread across the street. She eyed a few larger pieces that he could use as potential weapons, but didn’t think him that aware or capable.
The drunk hopped on one foot, screaming and crunching glass. “My foot! What have you done to it? Fucking! Stupid! Arh!”
She gazed down at his blade and pursed her broad lips. The hilt was made of soiled rags. She hefted its awkward weight and eyed its misshapen edge. It was a pitiful weapon that should be smelted for scrap.
She gave him a gentle push with one hand. “What!” he growled as he toppled over. “Leave me alone! Leave me be!” He crawled back towards the alley, whimpering all the while.
Perhaps there is still some use for my skill, she thought with a tight smile.
She walked away, noting the street had been emptied of all but a few sleeping dark shapes. The park was just a block away.
A trio of whores flamboyantly chatted around a signpost noting the intersection of Hope Lane and Truth Road. One leaned out towards Senka, her hand clinging to the post as if she were incapable of leaving its perimeter. Maybe she was. Senka eyed a broad man watching them from a dilapidated stoop, arms crossed and puffing on a pipe. The Armsman didn’t spend enough time patrolling this area. Maybe they were paid off, maybe they didn’t want to deal with the mess.
“I can do you good,” the whore grinned at her with a mouthful of broken teeth. There was ash streaking over her eyes to give a sultry appearance, but to Senka, it only made her look like she’d spent too much time in a smithy.
Senka waved her off and felt her body growing light, crossing the last street on legs that weren’t hers. The roaring of her heart returned with a vengeance. The anticipation of release was almost too much to bear. She wanted to run but knew there were always unseen eyes watching. Calling more attention to herself now was the last thing she needed.
Long strands of grass swayed in the wind arcing towards the Far Sea. She felt the texture of the ground going from stone to earth, the world shifting in blurring greens. Her breath went shallow. Branches scraped against her arms and made her eyes wide, fighting to focus. The world drew back together, and she frowned.
There was a young couple on her bench, their faces pressed together, tongues greedily lapping at each other’s mouths. She cleared her throat. A pale-faced girl with red hair pulled away from the boy, her breath catching and brows bobbing up at seeing Senka. “I know you!” She pointed excitedly.
“What is it?” the boy asked with puzzlement, twisting around to see her.
“You’re in the Arch Wizard’s council! Aren’t you?” she said, her voice unsure. She wiped the shining saliva from her cheeks against her bare arm.
“Not anymore,” Senka snapped and plopped down next to the boy, pressing her shoulder against his back. She let out a long sigh, feeling as if her legs were made of goo.
He rose up and scratched his head. “Uh. Should we go?” he asked the girl.
“You should,” Senka said without looking at them. She leveled her gaze between the outcropping of trees and peered out at the Far Sea. Mesmerizing light danced on the waves, so bright she felt it should have been blinding. She wasn’t sure how long she had stared, but when she looked back, the couple was gone. “About time,” she muttered.
She opened a pouch on her hip and produced a small metallic bowl with a tiny nub for a handle. It was blackened on the bottom from the hundreds of times she had used it before. From the same pouch, she grabbed a firestriker and a small torch with just enough substrate to heat the bowl.
“You’re pathetic,” she hissed, crumbling a bit of the Angel’s Moss into the bowl and stowing the rest into her pocket, fingers trembling. “Weak, undisciplined, unworthy of the Scorpion’s title. Got what you deserved.” A desperate smile touched her lips. She flicked the firestriker against a stone, dropped it, and sparked the torch to life.
A strong gust pushed through the trees, cooling the sweat on her brow and making the flames dance. She cupped the bowl, protecting its contents. She listened for followers and peered over her shoulder. She was finally alone. She raised the bowl, touch
ed her flame to it for seven seconds and watched as the Angel’s Moss liquefied. It was easy to overcook. She had to be precise.
She let the torch fall and snuffed it out against the heel of her boot. She quickly snatched a needle from under her bracer and touched it to the glowing lime green droplet. It smoked and bubbled for a second when the metal touched it. She raised the needle, examined its gleaming tip, then jabbed it into the crook of her elbow, directly into a pulsing vein, avoiding the tens of other pinprick scars.
A shuddering breath was sucked from her throat. Blood pounded against her temples. A tingle rushed up her pierced arm and over to the other, down to her guts and into her legs. A wave of joy surged through her like exploding stars, worlds better than any leg-quivering orgasm she’d had before.
She slowed her breath, knowing it would help the feeling last. She was glad to be alive then. She felt love for everything— from the shimmering sea, the long needles dotting the trees, the dirt covering her boots, blood caked on their bottoms, the sun warming her cheeks. It was incredible to have a body, to be given the chance to experience this pure unadulterated bliss.
Some time passed, and then her nerves were on fire. The wind felt like a massage by a thousand hands. Her head lolled back against the bench, carotid arteries throbbing like roaring rivers. She felt as if the Dragon were cradling her in a blanket, shielding her from the ravages from Death Spawn, unrequited love, and abandonment.
All of her problems vanished. She realized how simple and meaningless they were. It didn’t matter if she was alone forever, never passed on the ways of the Scorpions. She accepted it all. Nothing mattered. She was life and death and saw that all things were the same.
The dull blues of the sea took on waving shades of green and burst alight with turquoise. Fat clouds moved in and light came down like spears. She watched the bright beams fade and shimmer. They were like us, she thought. Insignificant beings here today and gone a second after. Life was an ever-changing tapestry. Your dot added, then rubbed away a moment later.
Her lips tugged apart into an uncontrollably broad smile. It touched her eyes and made the muscles in her cheeks work harder than they had in days. A joyous laugh erupted from her lips, coming deep from within her belly. The world blurred behind her murky tears, giving it the look of stained glass. The light was so bright she wanted to close her eyes, but kept them open, afraid she’d miss all this beauty.
She blinked the tears away. Time felt like it dragged on into the reaches of infinity. She watched a leaf float and spiral on the air, saw the brown spots of rot and the beginnings of fuzzy mold on its edge. It seemed to take hours to cross past her vision. She observed its veins and saw how they branched out from the one running down the center. In here she could live forever, she thought distantly. Boats drifted across the water, some with enormous sails and others with a crew of rowers. She watched them laze past her vision as if in a waking dream. A bird twittered from a tree, its beautiful song echoing in her head.
She wasn’t sure if it was seconds, minutes, or hours later when time resumed its usual speed. She noticed the smile had slipped from her face, and the cool wind puckered her skin. The Far Sea was a dull, dead blue. Shouting came from the street beyond her refuge, sounding like a lover’s quarrel.
She started to move, and something bit her arm. She winced at the needle hanging from it, encircled by a bead of dried blood. A whimpering sob pushed out from her throat as she stowed the needle under her bracer. Her chest heaved and hot tears welled from her eyes. She put her head in her hands and pressed her eyes with her palms. “Not anymore. Not again, not again, not again,” she sobbed. “This is the last time. The last time.”
Just like the hundreds of times before, the voice of truth rang in her skull.
“No!” She thrust her hand into her pocket and flung the Angel’s Moss onto a pile of crawling grass. It was bright against the grass’ deep green. She stared at it, lips quivering as panic clamped down around her guts. “Coward. He was right. You’re just a coward!”
She reached out and snatched up the Angel’s Moss, stuffed it back into her pocket. Her cheeks burned with shame. This was not her. This couldn’t be her. But it is. Coward. She felt numb. What could she do? She lay down on the bench, her back muscles twanging and sore. Senka listened to the calling gulls as she stared up at the passing clouds. The clouds became a glowing orb of golden light, and she closed her eyes. Her stomach spasmed and brought new tears to her cheeks before, finally, sleep came.
THREE
Isa Dodred
“The war between the gods is timeless, only ending for the dead.” – The diaries of Nyset Camfield
Isa Dodred’s hips slapped against her heart shaped ass. Crystal glanced back at him over her tanned shoulder, her tongue darting out and licking her parted lips. She tossed her luxurious dark hair over her back, settling into thick layers. He rammed himself into her, lost in the ecstasy of her engulfing folds. He squeezed her round, soft ass cheek with one hand, readjusting his grip. The porcelain white of his hand seemed to glow against her bronze skin. With his other hand, he brought a smoking tobacco stick to his lips, sucked in its burning air. It made him feel part dizzy and part energized. It was a strange combination he found enjoyable.
Dim morning light filtered through the sheer red curtains, reflected around the red walls. Tens of silken pillows strewn about the floor shone with golds, reds, and blues. Their seams were torn with cotton spilling out, flattened, and stained with the bodily fluids of the thousands who had released their sins before him. You got used to the stink eventually. The clamoring of carts and hooves rose up from the streets below, carrying through the second-floor windows.
Crystal, at least that’s what she told him her name was, moaned with theatrical pleasure. Her performance was good, he had to admit. He took another pull on his tobacco and distantly listened to the wet slapping of his hips against her behind. For a moment, he felt incorporeal, disconnected from his body as if he were the observer of this scene, all sensation lost. Their fluids dripped down between them adding new stains to the carpet. He came back into his body. His knees were red with irritation, maybe starting to bleed again.
She wildly bucked against him, arching into his rhythm. He watched the furrow running down the center of her back, like a valley cast in shadow. His weapons lay on an ancient table set in the corner of the room. Above it, a hole in the wall the size of his head showed a rotting support beam. He wondered what had caused it.
Crystal screamed. “Oh, oh! You feel so good! Does that feel good, honey? Do you like it?”
He saw his grim tools were all still perfectly aligned. There was a hatchet, a hammer, a short sword, and three daggers. He slowly exhaled, letting smoke escape his lips. He needed to spend more time working the pole arm, he thought.
“Fuck me. Fuck me harder!” she said, grinning back at him.
He forced a smile at her.
“Oh yeah. Oh, that’s good. Fuck. Fuck me!”
He set his tobacco stick against a dish, watched a bit of ash crumble as it broke away. He seized her other ass cheek with his free hand. Her skin was soft, smooth, and pressed between his splayed fingers. Even in the low light, his cock was a bright, angry red. He watched himself sliding in and out, in and out, slick with her fluid.
He tilted his head back, letting himself go, focusing on the swelling rise deep within his groin. He stared up at the ceiling. Cobwebs clung onto black dust and shuddered from the group on the floor above. Then it hit him, a mix of pain and roaring pleasure. He thrust himself all the way in, grunting with the intense wave of release. Crystal moaned in kind, adding to his pleasure, squeezing down around his shaft. “Put it all in me,” she laughed. “That’s it, give it to me.”
He flopped down with a gasp and pressed his chest against her back, the strength leaving his muscles. His hairless chest rose and fell, and sweat beaded on the place where eyebrows should have been. He felt himself deflating and slipping out of her.
He rolled onto his back with a grunt, his cock sticking to his leg. Could he ever be more than a killer? A trainer of killers? The thought wouldn’t leave him, even as he feasted his eyes on the curve between her hips and waist. What was the use of sharpening a blade only to keep it interminably sheathed?
She walked over to the window, hips wiggling and ass undulating with each step. She threw the curtains open, making him wince. “Look at that, a beautiful day. I hate to rush you…” she said, turning to face him, a shadow in the blinding brilliance. “But I have another customer now.” Wisps of smoke curled in the air, drifting for the window.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed and slipped on his smallclothes. “I-I enjoyed our time together. What do I owe you?” he asked awkwardly. Could he ever be more than just a good paying customer?
She pulled a black dress over her head and wriggled her skinny arms into the shoulders. “Just shy of three hours, twenty marks will do. You’ve got a lot of stamina, more than any other man, I reckon.” She flashed him a winning smile, and he thought he saw something else there, something different from the lust and respect he normally saw in her eyes. Something almost fearful, but why? She knew what he was.
His belongings were propped against the wall near his weapons. He started with his armor, made of hardened overlapping strips of leather secured by blackened rivets. Across the chest was the sigil of the Swiftshades, three daggers within a circle. He slipped on a heavy shirt, pants, torso plate, then started securing its straps. He dragged on greaves and bracers, both dotted with gleaming pearlescent Milvorian spikes, each an inch long. He worked the white fingers of one hand opened and closed, covered in thick scars, and pushing out the tightness. He was getting old, his thirty-three-year-old body no longer recovering from training like it once had.