The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  But that was impossible. He had just been in the bathhouse. He had just been with Liaja. He had heard her, felt her, smelled her.

  The broodvine. The hallucinations.

  Had it all been a dream? Or… was this the dream? No. He could hear the crackle of fires smoldering, feel the chill and the electricity, smell the char.

  At least fifty. All dead. And at the center of the destruction, staring eyeless and impassive, was Admiral Tibbles. The Charnel Hound did not so much as move. It had watched, it knew just as he knew that he had killed these men.

  Despite having no memory of it.

  “Mad.” The man was talking. Dreadaeleon had almost forgotten about him. “You’re a madman!”

  Given the circumstances, Dreadaeleon found himself hard-pressed to deny that.

  “There are treaties! Laws! You can’t just… just…”

  Oh. He was talking about something else.

  “My brothers.” The Karnerian’s voice was choked, thick with sobbing. “They were my brothers. And you… you did…”

  Words failed him, so he tore a dagger free from his belt. Unfortunately, the dagger, too, would fail him.

  Jolts of electricity leapt from Dreadaeleon’s fingertips and into the man’s scalp. The Karnerian twitched, as though whatever candle burned within his head had suddenly been snuffed out, and simply slumped over, coils of steam rising from his body and carrying the smell of burnt hair.

  He glanced to Admiral Tibbles. The Charnel Hound’s command scroll had been made by an art unknown to Dreadaeleon, but it doubtless permitted slaughter like this, as per the terms of his release.

  But that didn’t make the dead man in Dreadaeleon’s hands any less offensive.

  Gruesome, Dreadaeleon noted, glancing around. Not half as gruesome as what you’ve done here, though. He winced at the scattered corpses. You did do this, didn’t you, old man?

  Perhaps he had. But why couldn’t he remember it?

  It had to be the broodvine.

  But how? The hallucinations, he had been controlling them—or so he thought. He had been days without the seed. He couldn’t have smoked so much that it had affected him so deeply, could he?

  And yet he couldn’t recall how he had gotten here. Or even why he would be here. Much less how he had killed fifty men.

  It would seem to make sense. The Venarium had released him for precisely this purpose, hadn’t they?

  But he couldn’t trust them. Because he knew they didn’t trust him.

  Of course, he thought. Why would they trust you and your judgment when they could simply control you through some magic? Who knows how many wizards they have at their disposal to do just that? He gritted his teeth. Dominating another person is not an easy task, but it can be done… can’t it? It must be. How else could they—

  He forced his thoughts quiet. He forced his breath to slow. He closed his eyes, let his arms hang limp at his sides. When his head stopped pounding and his mind ceased to throb, he let his senses extend and began to search.

  Magic had to come from somewhere. Its presence left changes upon the world. Introducing more fire raised temperatures, altering the pressures of the air induced headaches, and so forth. Dreadaeleon merely had to reach out and see what he could sense.

  There.

  Sixty degrees to the west. One hundred and twenty-three feet ahead, twenty-six feet up. And close. So very close. Fluctuations of hot and cold washed over him in violent tides. Power was being spent without a single care for who knew.

  A sound caught his attention. He glanced to the center of the square. Admiral Tibbles was on its feet, its eyeless gaze turned to the edge of the square.

  One hundred and twenty-three feet away and twenty-six feet up.

  The hairs of the back of his neck stood on end. He felt a tingle at his fingertips. He leapt to the side.

  An arc of lightning lashed from the sky, striking the cobblestones where he had stood and leaving behind a black smear.

  He looked up and saw his assailant. Upon the roof of a nearby building stood a thin body wrapped in a black cloak, a hood pulled over its features. It looked like something out of the stories that barknecks told each other about wizards.

  A posturing amateur, he thought. He pulled back his sleeve, leveled two fingers up at the roof. Let’s show him how it’s done, old man. He called the lightning to his fingertips, felt the energy seep through his stare. Let’s show him—

  He never finished that thought.

  As it happened, it was hard to think when a hundred pounds of embalmed organs smashed into one.

  “Get off me!” Dreadaeleon snarled, beating at the flesh of Admiral Tibbles. “Get the fuck off me!”

  The Charnel Hound seemed in no mood to indulge his plea, bearing down upon him with all its weight. That was obnoxious, but really it was the pedantry that annoyed Dreadaeleon.

  “You’re fine with me killing fifty men but not shooting one wizard?”

  Admiral Tibbles had no means of retorting and Dreadaeleon’s wriggling over onto his stomach seemed a poor counter. He felt Tibbles seize the tails of his coat, as if attempting to drag him elsewhere. With a little effort, he shrugged free of the garment. With a little magic expended, he pushed the air behind him, launching himself off the stones and away from the Hound.

  And with fury and power burning in his eyes, he whirled on the creature.

  Admiral Tibbles was already rushing toward him, loping along the stones and leaping over bodies.

  No sense in wasting anything on a direct attack. His eyes desperately searched the square for anything of use. All around him, all he could see were shattered armaments and mangled bodies.

  He called the power to his hand, reached out with a grasp that extended beyond mere flesh. The air rippled around one of the Karnerian carcasses as an invisible grip seized the body. He flung his arm forward and the magic followed, hurling the limp body across the square at the Charnel Hound.

  The creature nimbly darted beneath it, picking up speed. Dreadaeleon reached out again, seized and hurled a fallen shield. It struck the beast, staggering it for but a moment before it continued its rush. Dreadaeleon gritted his teeth.

  Think, old man, think.

  He looked around the field, spotted a shattered spear. He reached out, seized it, pulled it toward him. Admiral Tibbles burst into a frenzied charge. Dreadaeleon waited until the Charnel Hound had drawn close enough, waited until it leapt to tackle him to the ground, and…

  Now.

  He made a gesture, brought the spear up before him, leveled the head upward and the butt toward the earth. Admiral Tibbles struck the weapon chest-first, sliding soundlessly down its shaft and bearing the weapon to the ground. Dreadaeleon acted quickly, seizing another spear with magical grip and jamming it through the creature’s flank.

  Impaled crosswise, Admiral Tibbles flopped haplessly upon the ground, struggling to gain footing against its clumsy position. Dreadaeleon allowed himself a brief, black chuckle.

  His mind soon turned to other problems and his eyes followed, looking to the rooftops to search for the hooded wizard and finding only shingles and empty air.

  Think you can run from me, you little shit?

  He didn’t even need to close his eyes to sense the wizard. He was expelling magic at a rapid pace, probably in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and Dreadaeleon as possible.

  He’d be easy to track and weak when Dreadaeleon finally caught up to him.

  He set off. Despite the unfamiliarity of this district of the city, the reek of expended magic all but dragged him through the winding alleys and streets, unerringly toward his quarry.

  And through each pulse of pressure, each fluctuation of temperature, his fury grew. Caution fled him. In its wake power grew: thunder at his hands and fire on his tongue.

  Just when his body felt fit to explode, he found his target. Trapped between two tall buildings, the hooded wizard hopped up and down, groping feebly for the top of a wall sepa
rating this district from the next. Dreadaeleon smiled cruelly, striding into the alley after him.

  “Can’t lift yourself, can you?” he spoke loudly, his voice reverberating with power waiting to be unleashed.

  The hooded wizard whirled at the sound, pressed himself against the wall. He thrust his fingers out threateningly. But Dreadaeleon could see the tremble in his arms, the buckling of his knees. This boy was drained.

  “Too much energy spent fleeing,” he said, continuing forward. “And how much did you spend controlling me in the first place? Couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Stay back, murderer,” the wizard proclaimed.

  The quaver in his voice was followed by a word of power. It was uttered feebly and accompanied by shaky posture, and the lightning bolt that flew from his fingers went wide, flying well over Dreadaeleon’s head without his even ducking.

  “Murderer?” Dreadaeleon asked. “Is that what this is?” He let out a thoughtful hum. “Are you here on a mission of vengeance?”

  “You… you betrayed the Venarium,” the wizard said. “Fuck protocol. You killed our own and somehow you’re still free.”

  “You’re pissing words instead of soil, but it reeks all the same,” Dreadaeleon interrupted. “Spare me your packaged rhetoric and tell me who sent you. Annis? Palanis?”

  The wizard shook for a moment before responding by opening his mouth and breathing out a cone of white mist. An icicle the size of a dagger coalesced, flew at Dreadaeleon with a wave of the wizard’s hand.

  Dreadaeleon merely extended his own limbs, spreading his hands out. The air rippled and the icicle struck a wall of force, shattering into shards that melted as he passed.

  “I hadn’t expected better, but I had expected something more clever. Assassination is so… straightforward.” He chuckled. “I’d be less insulted had they sent someone slightly less inept.”

  Dreadaeleon held his palm out. Fire blossomed upon his skin, stoking itself to a great, crackling flame. The hooded wizard’s hands were up, not in magical gesture but in plaintive pleading. He was speaking something that went unheard over the roar of flames.

  “I had hoped to send a message with your failure,” Dreadaeleon said. “Perhaps I’ll spell it out with whatever ashes remain.”

  He felt the heat of the flames crackling against his skin. He felt the smoke choking his nostrils. He heard the roar of flames.

  And a ringing in his ears grew louder.

  He thrust his hand out and promptly felt warm flesh encircling it.

  “Thank you, shkainai. Thank you.”

  The flames were gone. A pair of dark hands covered his own. A man knelt before him, head bowed in gratitude.

  “No,” Dreadaeleon whispered.

  The man muttered praises over and over. The air was warm, with candles burning from chandeliers hanging overhead. Carpet was beneath his bare feet. Walls of polished stone adorned with paintings and expensive art rose up around him. A long silken robe covered his body.

  “No,” he whispered again.

  This was his robe. This was his carpet. This was his home. This man was thanking him. He knew this. He felt it.

  And he fought to deny it.

  “Not now,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Not now, I was doing something. I was… I was…”

  “There, you’ve seen him and thanked him. Be on your way now, sir. We’ve matters to attend to.”

  He looked behind him to the end of the grand room he stood in. In the mouth of a hallway rimmed with curtains, Liaja stood, the silk of her robe mingling with the curtains to make her appear something ethereal. Yet the command in her stare was clear, and the man, after one more bow, headed toward the doors leading out of the room. Two servants stood on hand to open them and see him out.

  His servants.

  “This one threatened to cut his head on the stones unless he was permitted to see you,” Liaja said, chuckling as she came up behind him. Her hands slid around him, drew him close. “I wonder if you’ll ever get tired of them coming to spill gratitude at your feet.”

  Her hands were warm upon his chest. Her lips were soft upon his neck. And he could feel her every breath through the swell of her breasts as she held him closer. It felt familiar, this closeness, as though he had shared it with her a hundred nights before in a place not her bathhouse. The hands around his, the gratitude of the old man: These, too, felt familiar. As if he had known them since…

  Since he had saved Cier’Djaal.

  Of course. How long had it been? Days? Weeks, at least. Yet he remembered casting the rivers of flame and scars of lightning that had swallowed the Karnerians and cleaved in twain the Sainites. He could remember the scent of ice in his nostrils from when he had painted the dens of the Khovura and the Jackals in frost, curing Cier’Djaal’s undercity of its criminal plague.

  The chill of gold as the fashas heaped it at his feet, the slither of silk across his body after the merchants offered him theirs, the women who had clamored for his bed and the men who had looked upon him with envy.

  He remembered them all.

  No, that didn’t happen… His head hurt. Did it?

  “You are coming to finish supper, aren’t you?” Liaja asked, sliding away from him and slinking back down the hall. “I fear the chefs will be insulted if you miss another meal.”

  “Hardly my concern,” he replied without realizing it. “There’s yet more to do in the city: stragglers to mop up, thieves to rout, and so forth.”

  She hummed. “Not all ills can be cured by force, northern boy, no matter how powerful the magic.”

  “No, they…” He furrowed his brow. “They can’t.”

  But they were. They had been. Magic—his magic—had driven the scum from the city and propped him up on a pedestal. It had called the city to his feet and the city had fallen there, eagerly, chanting his name.

  He was the hero.

  You are, his mind told him. You’re the hero, old man. You saved the city. Not Lenk or Denaos or…

  “Asper.”

  “Hm?” Liaja turned to look at him.

  “Asper, the priestess,” he said. “What happened to…”

  “Please,” Liaja groaned, cringing. “Let’s not bring that up again before we’re about to eat.”

  But he knew. From the cold lump that slid down his throat to settle in his stomach, he knew.

  He remembered it, everything. Asper—the fear in her eyes, her blood on his hands, the screams torn from her throat as he laughed and asked her who was so weak and helpless and—

  “NO!”

  He screamed. He turned. He ran.

  From his home and from her.

  The scenes of wealth became a blur around him as Liaja called after him. But all he could see was the life draining from Asper’s body. All he could hear was her screaming, begging, weeping.

  Perhaps that was a dream. Perhaps this was a dream. Perhaps they were both real. But he would not accept it. Not so easily. He could still hear her screaming.

  When a ringing in his ears grew louder.

  He struck the doors of his home and tumbled through, headfirst.

  His head hurt. The ground beneath him was cold. He was content to live with these two facts alone, his eyes shut and body curled into a little ball. He did not dare open them for fear that he would awake to something worse.

  But a slow chill crept into him. Screams faded from his mind, leaving behind only heavy silence that settled down upon him like a stone.

  He came to remember the feel of his dirty clothes, his ragged boots, the tangle of his hair. He shivered. His coat was gone. He had left it with Admiral Tibbles, he remembered, when he escaped.

  This, then, was reality. Or, at least, something close enough that he could open his eyes.

  A house. A wealthy man’s house. Carpets marched the length of a polished wood floor. Tapestries of spider’s silk adorned every wall and each of them bore the sigil of a thin hand holding a single coin between two fingers. He had seen this
sigil before, on the wealthy men who came to Liaja’s bathhouse. He recalled the name of the fasha who owned those men.

  Mejina.

  Dreadaeleon crawled to his hands and knees. Something crunched under him. He looked down and saw glass embedded in the carpet. The shattered window looming over him left little doubt as to where it had come from.

  It must have made a hellish racket as he came in. And yet the only noise he heard was the sound of birds chirping in a garden outside. No feet coming up the stairs, no servants raising alarms. The hall was the picture of serenity.

  He got to his feet, staggered down the hallway. His head felt too heavy, his neck too thin, as though the former might simply snap off the latter and roll down the hall. And yet the aches in his skull were a clear, coherent pain. The pain, at least, was real.

  He forced himself to think of simple things: of one foot in front of the other, of the door at the end of the hall, of turning the knob and opening it and entering the small study within.

  So much was dedicated to keeping himself from thought that when he saw the dead body lying cold and drained upon the floor, he couldn’t muster more than a blank stare for it.

  A wealthy man, if the cut of his clothes and the oil in his hair were any indication.

  “Fasha Mejina,” he muttered. “You’re looking well.”

  The dead fasha did look almost peaceful, the blow that had choked the life from him having come so cleanly and quickly that he’d had no time to do more than open his eyes in surprise, as though he had just received a bill rather than been killed.

  Not killed, Dreadaeleon corrected himself. Murdered. He had been strangled.

  And Dreadaeleon had probably done it.

  Dreams or no, broodvine hallucinations or reality, all these fleeting images and experiences had one thing in common: violence. In each and every one of them, he was hurting or scaring or killing someone or many someones. If even half of what he had seen was true, if even a third of these waking nightmares had been real, he had killed many.

  So many.