by Alec Hutson
She closed her eyes and mastered her breathing, summoning up her etiolated memories of this place. The Skein had marched her down a main passage, then taken a narrow corridor that curved away to the right. Cho Lin placed her hand on the frozen, pitted stone beside her, retracing her stumbling steps from that terrible night. The corridor had forked and they had stayed right, then traversed a passage low enough that the Skein were forced to crouch, though she could walk upright. Cho Lin raised her arm, and a little thrill went through her as her fingers brushed the ceiling.
The seamless black ahead of her was suddenly marred by a sliver of light creeping out from beneath a door. Her mouth dry, Cho Lin pushed on the frost-rimed wood, sending out another fervent prayer that the Skein had not bothered locking it after removing the prisoners. She exhaled in relief as the door swung open, its ancient hinges squealing.
Cho Lin had expected a great wash of emotions when she again gazed upon where she had been imprisoned. Now, though, staring at the filthy rushes and black iron bars, she only felt a curious detachment, like it had been someone else who suffered for all those weeks. It was actually a relief to stand in this chamber, as the light spilling through the prison’s narrow window had banished the imagined horrors of the dark corridors outside.
Cho Lin shook herself, trying to focus on the task at hand. She walked over to where she thought the shapechanger had broken the Sword of Cho and then knelt, sifting through the dirty straw and bone scraps. Nothing here. Chewing on her lip, she stood again, peering into the depths of the prison. The demon in the body of her father had sundered the blade with such force that the shards had gone spinning away, and then casually tossed the hilt to the side. She had heard it clatter against the wall even though she’d covered her face, overwhelmed by the horror of it all.
Cho Lin gasped when she saw a chunk of blackness she’d overlooked at first; it blended almost perfectly with the shadows. She crept closer, nervously expecting it to be some rusted manacles or discarded tool, and it wasn’t until her fingers closed around the black dragonbone hilt that she allowed herself to believe she had found her father’s sword.
Cho Lin searched the prison for what seemed like an age, and the pale light had begun to darken by the time she was certain she had gathered all the pieces of the blade. None of the shards were as long as that which had been placed upon the outstretched arms of the statue. Carefully, she laid the shattered sword out on the stone, cursing herself for leaving the final piece back in the ruins. She hadn’t wanted to be encumbered, and she’d known she would return to her hidden sanctuary, but it would have been better if she could be certain she had collected all the sword’s fragments.
Could it be reforged? Despite the veil of mystery and power the warlocks of Shan draped themselves with, it was common knowledge in the empire that the order was a shadow of what it had once been. And was the sword’s magic gone forever, or would the soul she’d experienced return to the blade if it was made anew?
Sighing, Cho Lin swaddled the pieces of the sword in a length of cloth, then tucked that under her arm. If the warlocks could not help, perhaps she’d have to return to the kingdom of the Crimson Queen and beg her assistance. Jan had said she was a sorceress unlike any other that been born in the turning of an age.
She paused, considering this. Shan was a thousand leagues away, while Dymoria bordered the Frostlands. Despite his imprisonment, Jan had claimed Cein d’Kara’s intentions were just. Would the queen hear her out if she came before her bearing the broken blade, or simply clap her in irons when she realized that Cho Lin was the one who had spirited away her prisoner?
Steeling herself, Cho Lin plunged once more into the blackness of the Bhalavan. It seemed to take longer to find her way back to the great hall, and she had a fleeting moment of panic when she thought she must have taken a wrong turn. Not long after that, though, she noticed a very welcome glow creeping around a bend in the passage ahead, and heard the faint sound of gruff laughter.
The Skein had roused themselves. Cho Lin pulled her cowl down low and emerged from the corridor hunched over and shuffling, as she’d seen the thralls doing when they wanted to avoid drawing attention to themselves. She didn’t even glance over at the tables, afraid she might be recognized. The midday repast must recently have been served; the sounds of clinking metal and raucous conversation carried to her as she hurried across the hall, and the smell of cooked meat made her mouth water. She couldn’t wait to get back to her sanctuary and tear apart the chicken secreted inside her furs; she’d allowed herself only a few nibbles while she searched for the sword.
Cho Lin half expected a cry of alarm to go up, but it did not come, and her racing heart finally started to slow as she reached the great bronze doors. She couldn’t hold back a giddy little grin at how brazen she had been. She’d done it! She had stolen into the Bhalavan and come away with the sword of her ancestors. There was hope still that the Raveling could be averted—
With a surprised grunt, she collided with someone entering the hall and was knocked onto her backside, nearly letting go of the bundle, which would have resulted in the sword’s fragments spilling across the threshold.
The Skein she’d walked into had staggered back but managed to stay upright, and now he loomed over her, framed in the brightness of the day. He had dropped something, a tattered piece of fabric, and with a muttered curse he bent to pick it up. Their gazes met. His face was ancient, riven by age lines and faded scars. She did not recognize him, but his eyes widened and his mouth gaped open in astonishment. Cho Lin glanced at what he clutched in his hand, and her heart fell when she saw a collection of cured leather swatches roughly stitched together – bits of many different faces of many different colors sewn into a mask.
The priest of the Skin Thief.
She kicked out, driving her boot into his stomach just as he started to shriek something. Whatever warning he would have cried was replaced by a whoosh of air as she knocked the breath from his lungs. He fell to his knees clutching his belly, staring at her in hatred as he gaspingly tried to form words. Cho Lin lunged to her feet and dashed past him, bursting through the doors and nearly barreling into the party of Skein warriors who had been trailing behind the priest.
She skidded to a halt as they stared at her in slack-jawed surprise. The Skein were armored in gray leather pebbled like a lizard’s skin, and their faces were tattooed to resemble snarling beasts. Bones were threaded in their greasy hair, and one wore a necklace of shrunken, monstrous heads. These were the Flayed, the elite warriors of the White Worm, garbed in the hides of wraiths and sworn to the Skin Thief.
Cho Lin put her head down and ran for the white stone ruins closest to the Bhalavan. Behind her, she heard cries of alarm and the grating bellows of the priest she’d struck down. She ducked around a shattered wall, leaping over the tumbled remains of a pillar sunk in snow. Would they dare follow her into Nes Vaneth? She paused, glancing back, and a spear flashed past her and clattered off a great faceted chunk of black ice. She was certain that if she’d kept running it would have sunk into her side.
The Flayed were close behind her, clambering over the tumbled stone. The one that had thrown the spear barked a harsh curse and drew a red-bladed, sickle-shaped sword, then pointed the curving edge towards where she had stopped. The others responded with a ululation that chilled her blood, charging towards her.
For a brief moment, Cho Lin considered throwing down the bundle with the fragments of her father’s blade and drawing her own butterfly swords. But behind the Flayed and the white stone ruins loomed the gray vastness of the Bhalavan. The priest would certainly rally the Skein inside, and even though they were terrified of what lurked within Nes Vaneth, the sound of clashing steel this close would carry to them, and even their superstitions would not be enough to keep them from braving the edge of the dead city.
With a snarl of frustration, Cho Lin turned and fled. She reached for the Nothing,
that pure well of strength at the core of her Self, and the world around her seemed to grind to a halt. The fat snowflakes that had been drifting around her a moment ago now hung suspended, and when she glanced behind her she saw that the Flayed rushing towards her now appeared to be wading through an unseen morass.
She ran. In moments she outdistanced them, but she did not slacken her pace until she arrived at the listing doorway that led to the sanctum where she had convalesced, and the statue with its basin of healing tears. Cho Lin paused, panting, her breath steaming in the cold, and looked back the way she had come. She’d churned the snow with her passage, leaving a trail that was impossible to miss. Cho Lin couldn’t see any sign of the Flayed, but they would have no trouble following her. Should she try and hide her tracks? No, the Skein were used to hunting over snow – Cho Lin doubted she could fool them.
Then a fight it was. Hopefully, only the Flayed would pursue her here. If all the warriors in the Bhalavan suddenly swarmed out of the ruins then it would likely be time for her to join her ancestors beyond the veil. Glancing to her left, Cho Lin saw that down a small alley the close-packed ruins opened into a larger space. That would do.
Leaving the entrance to her sanctuary behind her, Cho Lin hurried through the narrow passage and found herself in what must have once been a market or a place for gatherings. Several other roads emptied into this circular space, as if she stood in the hub of a wheel, and a pair of great clawed feet of white stone suggested that at one time the statue of a rearing dragon had lorded over this part of the ruins. The rest of the statue might be here as well, as snow-covered mounds were strewn about. Most of the buildings bounding this space were nothing but tumbled stone, but a few still loomed above her, their second stories somewhat intact.
The faint sounds of pursuit drifted to Cho Lin, guttural Skein cries that were out of place in the utter calm and silence of the fallen city. She glanced behind her, back through the alley, but they had not yet come into view. For a moment Cho Lin considered leading the Flayed deeper into the ruins, but she doubted she would find a better spot for an ambush anywhere else. Mastering her nerves, Cho Lin quickly dug a hollow in one of the drifts and then placed the bundle with the Sword of Cho within. After covering it with snow and smoothing it over she went to the statue’s feet and leaped up onto one of its great clawed toes. Perched rather precariously, Cho Lin embraced the Nothing within her, flooding her limbs with the strength of the Enlightened. She spent a moment repeating the mantra of Red Fang to herself – the self my nothing the self my nothing – striving for that perfect concentration that allowed for the greatest of feats.
Then she leaped. Her muscles bunched, exploded, and she soared like a tiger, whiteness flashing beneath her. She landed on one of the snow-covered mounds, and it took all her balance to keep from sliding off. Then she jumped again, onto another of the hummocks scattered about the space, this one close to a building. Once it must have been a magnificent villa, but its roof had fallen, though somehow this had not caused the second story to collapse. With a final great effort, she threw herself up and among the shattered snow and masonry overlooking the ruins, her heart fluttering as her boots just cleared the edge. She went to one knee, her hands sunk in the snow, her legs thrumming from the tremendous effort. She’d made larger jumps while training upon the jagged karst cliffs of Red Fang, but not very many.
When Cho Lin raised her head, she found herself staring into the eyes of a child.
She nearly screamed, and had to stop herself by pressing her knuckles to her mouth. The girl was barely old enough to stand, blond curls tumbling around a face so still and white she looked like a porcelain doll. But her eyes were too perfect to be fashioned of glass: vivid blue and flecked with green, widened by terror. Her small hand was outstretched, splayed against the dark ice that imprisoned her. Cho Lin bowed her head, overcome by the horror of it all. An innocent child, the flame of her life snuffed out, and for what? How could anything justify what the old sorcerers had done?
A faint crunching came from below. Cho Lin turned from the dead child and crept to the edge of the ruin, careful to keep herself hidden. The four Flayed warriors were just now emerging warily into the open, and given how their eyes were darting about they must also have realized this space would make an excellent place for an ambush. Behind them came the bent-backed priest of the Skin Thief, his ragged black robes stirring in the breeze. He was holding a curved flensing knife like those used to cut away the fur of hunted animals and remove their organs. The sight of it made her stomach twist.
The Flayed warrior in the lead followed her tracks up to the statue’s shattered base. He made a circuit of the plinth, searching for where she had gone. He barked something in Skein and his fellows fanned out, their heads down as they looked for her footprints. Cho Lin considered slipping out the back of the building she crouched upon and fleeing, but she suspected that eventually the hunters would pick up her trail again.
She wanted to finish this . . . and she had a score to settle with the priest.
One of the Flayed wandered close to the building in which she waited. He peered into the ruins of the first floor, tensed and ready to hurl the spear he brandished. Another Skein barked something from the other side of the plaza and he turned to shout a reply. Without hesitating, Cho Lin drew one of her blades and leaped. The Skein must have heard the scuff of her boots, as he whirled around just as the point of her butterfly sword pierced his chest. The force of her weight behind it sent the blade bursting out his back. She let go of the hilt, absorbing the fall on her shoulder and rolling to her feet in the snow in one smooth motion.
The Flayed was still alive, splayed out with his hands wrapped around the length of steel emerging from his furs. He looked at her wildly, blood pouring from his mouth as he gasped for breath that would not come. She gripped the ivory hilt and yanked her sword free. It came loose with a sucking sound, and she heard the warrior’s death rattle as she unsheathed her other sword and turned towards the rest of the Flayed.
The first to reach her was a giant with a bristly blond beard, his tattooed face contorted with rage. He wielded a great double-bladed ax like it was a hatchet, swinging it in a flashing arc. Cho Lin stepped back nimbly and the ax sliced only air, then she lashed out with the sword in her left hand. The wraith-leather armor parted and her blade sank into the flesh beneath, but the huge Skein seemed not to notice. Somehow he arrested his swing despite the strength behind it and reversed the blow, chopping at her neck. Her grasp on the Nothing gave her an extra moment to react, and she threw herself forward as the ax whistled over her head. She lost her grip on the sword she’d stabbed the Flayed with, but she managed to hold on to the other, and as she rolled to her feet she thrust the blade into his belly. She scrambled away before he could catch her with another swing.
Cho Lin shouldn’t have worried, though. The ax slipped from the warrior’s hand a moment later when he toppled face-first into the snow. The last two Flayed were approaching her more warily, each brandishing a sickle-shaped sword with steel the color of dried blood. A spider had been inked on the face of one of the men, six eyes clustered on his forehead amid a tangle of legs, while the other made her think of a lizard, a forked tongue dangling down his beardless chin. The Flayed split up to come at her from different angles, and she turned to keep both of them in her field of vision. Most warriors would dread fighting two at once, no matter their skill, but the monks of Red Fang almost always practiced sparring against multiple opponents. She could tell that although these two Skein were both skilled swordsmen, they had not been trained to fight in unison. If they had, they would have rushed her at once and forced her to defend two attacks simultaneously. Instead, they were trying to close on her slowly as she shuffled backwards.
A mistake.
Cho Lin suddenly exploded towards the Flayed with the spider crouched on his face, her left-hand butterfly sword a blur. He warded away the strike and hopped b
ackwards to give himself more space, but rather than pressing her advantage Cho Lin smoothly pivoted to meet the onrushing sword of the other Flayed, as he had lunged at her when she’d gone for his clansman. Her right-hand sword caught the red-steel of his sickle blade and turned it aside, and then she brought her other blade around and plunged it into his neck. The Skein went down clutching the wound, blood spurting between his fingers, and she threw herself at the other Flayed. He tried to stop her whirling blades but she pushed past his attempts and sliced his sword-hand off at the wrist, then buried a length of steel in his side. She must have pierced his heart, as he was dead before he fell to the snow.
The fight had lasted only moments. Across the plaza the black-robed priest stared at her, unmoving, and though Cho Lin couldn’t see his face she imagined it was be twisted in shock. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on the blood thrumming in her veins. Every aspect of the world sharpened as she hung suspended in the Nothing within the Self: the faint breeze rasped loudly as it swirled over the snow, the pale blue sky was dazzlingly bright, and the smell of blood and voided bowels were heavy in the bitingly cold air.
She took a step in the direction of the priest. As if a spell had been broken, he turned and ran, his arms and legs flailing in the awkward gait of an old man who had not had to move quickly in many years.
Before he had gone a dozen steps, he skidded to a stop, the blade of her butterfly sword resting on his shoulder. Slowly, he turned to face her, and this time she could see the whites of his eyes beneath his mask.
“Shan demon,” he hissed, the hand that held the flensing knife shaking.
“You call me demon?” Cho Lin said incredulously. “What about the thing you tried to feed me to?”
