by James Maxey
“Kitchens get used for lots of things.”
“You cannot excuse this.”
“I’m just saying we may not understand everything we’re seeing. This isn’t the world we know. We’re in no position to judge the inhabitants.”
“I believe I am in a position to judge,” said Slate. “I’m a tolerant, patient man. But I’ve no mercy for those who would harm a child.”
Sorrow ground her teeth together. She, too, thought of herself as a protector of children. Was she so hungry to learn from Avaris that she was ignoring plain evidence that Mama Knuckle had been right?
Slate marched from the kitchen, opening a door into a long hall.
“I may be turned around, but I think this leads toward the head,” Sorrow said.
Slate moved down the hall with his mace at the ready. The door at the end of the hall was far more ornate than any they’d yet encountered.
“It would be nice if Sage were here to tell us what’s behind the door,” Sorrow whispered.
“After what we’ve seen, I’m ready for anything,” Slate said. He leaned back and kicked the door open.
They’d found the throne room. A red carpet led to a throne of black bones. Perched upon it was a woman of breathtaking beauty. She wore a jeweled red gown that glistened like fresh blood on her ivory skin. Her hair was black as coal, held in place by a crown of teeth. She was fifty feet away, behind a crystalline orb nearly a yard wide. A black, bat-winged creature could be seen in the light moving within the crystal. It took Sorrow a few heartbeats to realize that the creature was herself.
The woman clapped her hands together in an exaggerated fashion as a large man in plate armor stepped from behind the throne.
“Bravo,” she said. “A magnificent performance from both of you. Kicking in the door of my throne room was satisfyingly dramatic. I imagine it must have been quite cathartic for you as well. You came looking for Avaris, Queen of Weavers. You’ve found her. Now that the dramatic parts are past, may I summarize the rest of the plot? You’ll growl a few threats. I’ll respond with witty banter. We’ll bargain. In the end, we’ll all get something we want, and I’ll spare the lives of your friends.”
“Our friends?” Sorrow asked.
“The three you left behind,” said Avaris. “The three who can’t see my palace. I’ve turned us around so we can kill them. They’ll die without ever knowing why.”
“No one needs to die,” said Sorrow. “I’ve come looking for answers, not to fight you.”
“I’m not sure your companion agrees,” said Avaris. “He’s positively trembling with rage.”
“We found a girl in the kitchen,” Slate said.
“Part of one, at least,” said Avaris.
“Did you kill her?” Sorrow asked.
“Heavens, no,” Avaris answered. “Her body was given to me in exchange for favors.”
“Favors?” asked Sorrow.
“Why would you traffic in the body of a child?” Slate asked.
“To eat it, of course,” said Avaris. “I’m six hundred years old. Without a steady diet of youth, I imagine I’d be quite the fright.”
Slate growled, brandishing his mace and charging. The large, armored man stepped forward, drawing his sword. The blade was pitch black, and as it left its scabbard the air was filled with the distant howls of souls in agony.
“Slate!” Sorrow cried. “It’s the Witchbreaker!”
Slate showed no caution, however, charging the man and swinging his mace with both hands. Sparks flew as Avaris’s defender caught the shaft of the mace against his blade. The iron in both weapons rang as they slid against one another, bringing the two men’s faces inches apart. Slate wasn’t wearing his helmet, while his opponent was wearing a helm that hid his face. Which was why everyone was surprised when Slate head-butted his opponent. The swordsman was knocked back by the blow. As the gap between them opened, Slate drew back his mace. But he didn’t aim his blow at the warrior. Instead, he threw his weapon at Avaris. She was caught off guard by the attack, dodging at the last moment. The mace missed, smashing into the back of the throne where her head had just been. But the heavy iron handle slammed into the side of her head just above her ear, knocking off her crown.
Avaris tumbled to the floor, landing on one knee. She rose shakily, beating a hasty retreat toward the velvet curtains on the rear wall, and Sorrow gave chase. She was furious at Slate for losing his temper and attacking, and furious at herself for knowing that the crimes Avaris had just confessed to didn’t change Sorrow’s desire to talk to the woman. If Avaris had become a parody of evil, it was only because her enemies had made her thus.
Avaris slipped behind one of the curtains. Sorrow heard iron bars rattle down. She glanced back and saw Slate and the warrior still grappling. Slate was keeping close, where a two-handed sword like the Witchbreaker was nearly useless. Slate had managed to slip his hands beneath the warrior’s helmet and was squeezing his foe’s throat with all his might.
Sorrow pushed aside the curtain and reached out to touch the iron bars that blocked the doorway. With a thought, they crumbled to rust. She pushed through, her wings scraping against the edges of the doorframe.
She found herself in a luxurious bedchamber. A canopy bed sat in the center of the room, with gilded bedposts and satin bedding. All around the room were mirrors in frames of gold. Beside the bed was another crystal sphere, as large as the one outside. She could see the two warriors in the throne room struggling. Could hear them, too, the clinks and clangs of their armor echoing faintly from the crystalline surface. The room was almost silent other than this.
Almost.
There was an open door at the back of the room. The obvious path was to go through it. But in the relative silence of the room, she heard a noise. Her ears fixed upon a large wardrobe on the far wall. She moved before it, holding her breath to hear better. She furrowed her brow. Someone was definitely inside. And they were sobbing?
She yanked the door open. Avaris fell at her feet, her hands clasped around her bleeding temple, as she whimpered, “Please! Don’t kill me! I’ll give you anything you want!”
Sorrow raised her eyebrows. The woman seemed genuinely terrified.
“You were a queen once,” Sorrow said. “Now you grovel at the feet of an unarmed woman?”
Avaris snorted. “You don’t need to be armed. You’ve blended your spirit with Rott. You’re destruction incarnate.”
“I just expected... someone a little...”
“Braver? I fear death so much I’ve hid from it for six centuries. I live in shadows because I fear the scorn of those who remain in light.”
Sorrow didn’t know what to say to this. As she silently stared at the woman, she heard laughter from the crystal at her back.
A man’s voice said, “I feel your hands grow weary. I see you’ve inherited none of my cleverness. How stupid must you be to try to strangle a dead man?”
Sorrow blocked this from her mind. If Slate bested his foe, he could burst through the door any moment and kill Avaris. If the swordsman bested Slate, he might prove a bit more courageous than the queen. In any case, she needed to speak quickly.
“I may be blended with Rott,” said Sorrow. “But I’m having difficulty controlling my power. I’m hoping you can help. If anyone knows how to command the powers of a primal dragon, it’s you.”
Avaris shook her head. She ran her fingers through her black hair, pulling locks away to reveal an ugly bubble of scar tissue on the pale flesh beneath. “This is all that remains of my one attempt to master the powers of Rott. In the end, I gladly plucked the nail from my skull.”
“You had the same powers?” Sorrow asked, unable to take her eyes off the scar. “And you threw them away?”
“I’d lost an even greater power,” said Avaris. “Since I was young, men have done my bidding, seduced by my beauty. I lost that power when I blended my soul with Rott. No matter how I tried to blend the dragon’s body with my own, I wound up repulsiv
e, covered with scales. My once perfect mouth was ruined by fangs.” She glanced up at Sorrow’s nude body. “You’ve kept your figure better than I did. If you found a man who didn’t mind the wings, you might still seduce him.”
“I’d rather be part dragon than seduce men,” said Sorrow.
“Truly? Because you may be ignoring your greatest natural gift. Women need no magic to enslave men. After I gave up on the false path of controlling the primal force of decay, I rediscovered the primal force of womanhood. I restored by body with bone-weaving and went on to seduce my greatest tormentor.”
Sorrow almost asked who that was. She turned her gaze toward the crystal ball as a loud clang rang out. Slate had recovered his mace. He’d just knocked the warrior’s helmet from his head.
The two men stared at each other in the aftermath. Save for the swordsman’s deathly pallor and gray hair, they were as alike as twins.
“Lord Stark Tower,” Sorrow whispered.
“The Witchbreaker,” said Avaris. “My mortal foe, now my undead champion. Once I seduced him, perverting what little good remained in him, it was a simple matter to enslave his body and ferry his soul to hell. I keep his corpse healthy with a daily supply of virgin blood.”
Sorrow started to ask if Avaris meant that Stark drank the blood, but decided she didn’t want to know.
Avaris looked puzzled as she stared at Sorrow, “If you don’t seduce men, how do you summon the procreative energies required for bone-weaving?”
“I don’t,” said Sorrow. “I’ve never learned the art. That’s why I’ve been hunting for you all these years.”
“Ah. Then we can make a bargain. I give you knowledge. You spare my life.”
“We spare all lives,” said Sorrow. “Call off your castle’s attack on my companions. Tell Tower to spare Slate.”
“You’ve asked just in time. The castle has found your friends, and stands above them now, unseen. It shall not strike unless I will it. As for Tower, he may be my slave, but his cruel streak exceeds my ability to control. He’ll play with your friend until he grows weary. Slate will die in terrible pain. It would be tragic, I suppose, if he were truly a living thing.”
“Slate isn’t alive?”
“For all physical purposes, the man you call Slate is indistinguishable from a living man. But he’s my creation, an exact duplicate of Stark Tower, woven from the original’s blood. I magically endowed him with all of the original’s prowess in battle, but warped other aspects of his mind so that he would be Tower’s dark mirror. Tower swaggered around the world claiming to be the champion of good. I created Slate to be the champion of evil. Only, I had made the mistake of believing Tower’s own myth. When my creation woke, he was not the scourge I had hoped for. Instead, in his mirror nature, he proved kind where Tower was cruel. He was selfless where Tower was vain. While Tower hated mankind, Slate was quick to form friends, even with those who should have been his worst foes. In the end, I was forced to give the useless dolt a potion that destroyed his memories. I intended to find a wicked spirit in the realms of the dead more suited to my needs, and offer him Slate’s impressive shell. Alas, these events unfolded in chaotic times. Though I soon made the true Witchbreaker my slave, his armies still overpowered my own, and I was forced to flee. Slate was left in stasis, neither alive nor dead, until such time that I could return for him. Of course, in my exile, I decided to change my tactics.”
“How?”
“The kingdoms of the world rejected my rule. I came to understand they were never worthy of my time. Let the masses suffer under their false churches. What they believe was a victory against me was the beginning of their long doom. I’m now immortal. What does it matter to me if it takes my enemies centuries to fall?”
There was more laughter from the globe. Sorrow looked back to see Slate clutching his side, bleeding. Much of his armor was shattered. Save for his missing helmet, Lord Tower looked none the worse for wear.
“You’re younger,” Tower said. “Faster. Perhaps even a bit stronger. A benefit of still having a heartbeat, I suppose. What a shame that a living body so quickly grows weary. I do not miss pain. I do not miss the burning in my chest when breath grows short.” He swung his sword overhead with both hands and chopped down. His blow didn’t seem aimed to kill, but to maim, targeted on Slate’s legs. At the last possible instant, Slate rolled aside, and the sword bit deep into the bone floor.
Sorrow looked back at Avaris. “How long will it take you to give me a nail of bone? I still wish to learn this art. It’s said that bone-weavers can alter their forms. Can I not restore my humanity with it?”
Avaris shook her head. “The dragon spirit is stronger than mere flesh. You may rearrange your body, but only if you sever all ties with Rott can you be fully human. As for the bone nail, have the weaver arts decayed so far that you don’t see the simple truth?”
“There aren’t many witches left.”
“But all should be bone-weavers.”
“But I’ve never found a bone nail. I’ve never even discovered a bone-weaver’s skull to study!”
“Fool! Peel away your scalp and what would you find?”
“My skull?”
“Made of?”
“Oh,” said Sorrow.
“You were born with the tools. You merely lack the teaching.”
“How long will I have to train?”
“A lifetime. I still discover new aspects to the magic. But there is a short cut.”
“What?”
“You’ve already shown a willingness to blend your soul with a dragon. Would you be open to blending your mind with mine?”
“How?”
Avaris ran her fingers along Sorrow cheek. “I will take your left eye. I will give you one of mine in exchange.”
Sorrow stared at the woman’s face. Avaris looked serious. Her eyes were a perfect match for Sorrow’s own emerald green.
Sensing Sorrow’s hesitation, Avaris said, “It’s only painful for a short time. After this, I will see all that you see. We can converse by thought though separated by miles and dimensions as easily as we speak now. I can guide you in the art of bone-weaving, and improve your mastery of other skills. I may even be able to guide you in dealing with the dragon spirit. I held the power for over a decade before rejecting it. I know a thing or two about control.”
“And sparing your life is the only price?”
Avaris laughed. “No. No, I think not. Of course, you’ve already dedicated yourself to the thing I would find most pleasing.”
“The destruction of the church?”
Avaris nodded. “My price cannot be something you would do on your own. So, I will make it simple. You will kill someone of my choosing.”
“Who?”
Avaris shrugged. “I don’t know yet. It may take me many years to decide.”
Sorrow frowned. She thought about the decapitated girl in the kitchen. There were people in this world she couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt. She turned away. “I cannot accept your bargain. If you were to demand I kill a child, I could not obey you.”
“Even if the child were Numinous Pilgrim?”
Sorrow pressed her lips together.
She was still thinking the offer over when Avaris said, “Fine. No children. Nor anyone you would consider innocent, though no such creatures exists. I promise when I name my target, you will agree that they have committed the most flagrant sins.”
Sorrow nodded. “Agreed.” She turned to shake the elder witch’s hand. Instead, she found Avaris standing behind her. The woman’s left eye was a barren socket. The woman grabbed Sorrow’s face, bringing her mouth toward Sorrow’s eye. The witch’s teeth warped and grew into long blades. Sorrow screamed as the fangs gouged into her flesh.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JUST MAN
“SORROW!” A VOICE cried out. It was Slate, from the other room, still alive despite the odds. She couldn’t look at the crystal ball, however. She couldn’t look at anything. There was nothi
ng but a veil of perfect blackness before her. Avaris’ fingernail dug around within her left eye socket, removing dangling bits of flesh. The pain made her reflexively clamp her right eye shut, effectively blinding herself.
There was a terrible pressure in her skull as Avaris jammed something hot and wet into her bleeding eye socket. Suddenly the veil of black was full of dancing white sparks. Avaris removed her hand and Sorrow jammed her palms over her face. She probed as gently as she could and felt that she once more had two eyeballs.
With sheer force of will, she pulled her hands away and opened her eyes.
Everything in the room was doubled. She blinked, but it did little to improve her overlapping vision. She craned her neck. Avaris was nowhere to be seen. She rose on trembling legs, steadying herself on the bed frame. She glanced into the crystal ball. Through her doubled vision, she could see Slate still on the floor before the Witchbreaker. Judging from the deep scars across the floor, he’d rolled out of the path of dozens of blows.
“You’re getting slower,” Tower taunted as he raised his sword once more. “I can keep this up for all eternity.”
Sorrow stumbled back toward the door she’d entered, placing her hand on the wall as she fought for balance. Her heartbeat pounded in her temples as she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting dizziness. The weight of the wings upon her back threatened to bring her to her knees. Just how much blood had she lost?
Taking a deep breath, she forced her eyes open once more. Her doubled vision snapped into focus as she stared at the bloodied handprint she’d left on the wall. Outside the room, she heard Lord Tower erupt into deep, booming laughter.
She stumbled into the doorway in time to see Slate once more roll aside as the Witchbreaker bit into the floor of the throne room. Slate’s efforts at avoiding the enchanted blade had left an almost perfect circle chopped into the pale white bone that both combatants stood upon.
Slate was bleeding from a gash in his forehead and a slice across his right shoulder. He was drenched in sweat, his limbs rubbery as he managed to rise into a crouch.
“Don’t you understand the futility of struggle?” Tower asked with a sneer. “Look upon my face. You’re nothing but my reflection, a redundancy, a pathetic doppelganger stubbornly clinging to the illusion of life.”
