Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  2

  Keep of Castle Amok, Izet, Roden

  “MY LORD, IT IS time.” Urstadt’s voice was soft but clear from the hallway.

  “Just give me a moment,” Daval said, excitement flowing through him. Surely Urstadt would be even more excited than he; this was her plan coming to fruition, after all.

  Daval dressed. The large dark-green robe with the oversized hood commanded a different type of respect than his decorated clothing, clothing that befitted his position in a high, noble house. As Lord Amok, Daval had great power and respect. But as the new Tokal-Ceno, Daval had something more.

  “My Lord,” Urstadt greeted him as he exited his chamber.

  Daval nodded to her, smiling. As always, Urstadt wore her half-armor: steel cuirass and faulds, each plated with a thin layer of rose gold, and matching gauntlets and greaves. She wore a suit of micromail—a recent invention of the imperial smithies, both lighter and stronger than traditional chain—beneath the plate. In one arm she carried her helmet, a barbute of the same rose-gilded steel, etched to make the face of the helm look like a skull, accented by black gems near the eyes. The contrast was odd; Urstadt looked somewhat feminine in her armor, but the skull contrasted sharply against the rose gold. Of course, when Urstadt had been promoted to Daval’s guard captain, he had granted her whichever armor she desired. In fact, since the suit had been finished, Daval couldn’t think of a moment he had seen his guard captain out of armor. She slept in the bloody set for all he knew.

  At Urstadt’s waist was a short sword, scabbard and hilt also of rose gold, but her preferred weapon she carried in one hand. Her glaive—a poled weapon with a curved blade on one end—was an inelegant, ugly thing, taller than she was with a dented, dark steel blade and scarred, blackbark handle. Some laughed at and derided Urstadt’s rose-gold armor; but her glaive, and her skill with it, was not something to jest about.

  “Tell me everything,” Daval said, as they walked down the hall. “How goes our little example?”

  “Well enough,” Urstadt said. “House Farady took the bait.”

  Daval nodded. He knew they would. The potential power they might accrue by undermining Daval’s fish trade would have been irresistible. House Amok, of course, was one of the high houses for many reasons, but first and foremost for commerce. Fish and other fruits of the sea had been their specialty for hundreds of years, but as time passed the Amok lords had sought other sources of income, from the marble quarries near the western coast to the logging beastmen on the Cracked Horn, the northeast peninsula of Roden. But, by striking the Amok fishing industry, a tiny house like Farady could shake the very foundation of House Amok.

  But a shaken foundation was not a broken one, which was why he and Urstadt had orchestrated the whole thing.

  Urstadt led Daval to the cells below the keep. Unlike those in the imperial palace, Castle Amok’s dungeons were very modest: a few cells below ground, near the wine cellars. Not particularly high-security.

  They didn’t need to be. They were generally only for holding other nobles, soon to be released on negotiated terms. A certain level of comfort was expected. Daval was not surprised to see Darst Farady lounging on a cot with a smirk on his face in one of the cells. Two other men sat in the cells on either side of Darst, but he was obviously the leader.

  “The great Lord Amok himself.” Darst grinned as he saw Daval approach. “I’m honored by your accommodations.”

  Daval bowed to Darst, watching the young man through the iron bars. Darst did not move from his lounging position on the cot, one leg up, the other dangling over the edge, one arm curled behind his head in a makeshift pillow.

  “I trust you’re being treated fairly?” Daval asked. Despite Darst being only a stripling and of a house significantly less powerful than Amok, Daval wouldn’t skimp on formalities. He must not give any impression of skirting the law.

  The young man—perhaps no older than Daval’s daughter—shrugged. “Fairly enough, I suppose. When will I get out of here?”

  Daval took a deep breath. “I can’t be sure, my Lord. You were caught attempting to set fire to my property.”

  Darst laughed. “You surely can’t blame me. Given the rumors about your warehouse, you had to expect trouble of some kind.”

  Daval sighed. “We did, of course. Which is why you were caught.”

  “I don’t think you have any witnesses who actually saw us attempt this alleged arson,” Darst said. “So, considering the fact that no damage was done, I’d think being held a day or two in your cells would be sufficient punishment, wouldn’t you?”

  In times of peace, this was often the way light disputes were settled between houses. The offending party was held in the injured house’s dungeons for an agreed-upon amount of time, and then released without further prosecution. If the offense was severe, a formal trial might be held, but such instances were rare. House representatives settled most disputes through informal negotiations.

  This was not peacetime, however. Daval could not be so lenient. And, of course, their plan dictated he act otherwise.

  “No damage was done?” Daval asked. “You expect me to believe that?”

  Darst snorted. “Of course I do. Go check your warehouse yourself, old man. It’s still standing.”

  Urstadt slammed her glaive against the cell bars with a resounding clang. Daval flinched at the sound, and Darst nearly leapt out of the cot.

  “You will refer to Lord Amok with the proper respect,” Urstadt said, her voice as hard as the iron she’d just struck.

  “Canta rising,” Darst muttered, sitting up on the cot. “No need to get so touchy about it.”

  “You should take my captain’s advice, my Lord,” Daval said quietly. “She is an intelligent woman.”

  “Just tell us our sentence. Two days? Three? I’ll stay four if you insist, if that’ll end this discussion sooner rather than later.” Darst shifted on the cot, and Daval resisted the urge to smile. The boy was uncomfortable now. Good.

  Daval sighed. “I’m afraid things aren’t that simple, my Lord. The fire you started spread, and was unquenchable by the time help arrived. We had to watch it burn.”

  Darst’s brow furrowed as he looked up at Daval. “That can’t be possible. Your men caught us before we even started the fire.”

  Daval shrugged, raising his hands. “You say that, but how can I believe you? You’ve already admitted intent to commit arson.”

  “I… it wasn’t us,” Darst said. “We were only meant to scare you, anyway. Never were going to start a real fire. We were to lurk around your property a bit, get caught. That was all.”

  Daval pursed his lips, stepping closer to the bars. He peered in at Darst. “Do not lie to me, my Lord. Lies don’t become men of power. Truth is our greatest ally.”

  “I… I’m not lying. We did not start any fire, Lord Amok. I swear it.”

  Daval felt the fear within this young man as if it were his own. It was beautiful.

  “Despite your avowals otherwise, we do have witnesses,” Urstadt said. “Three people can assert they saw you, each of you, starting the fire that decimated the Amok warehouse.”

  “But…”

  “You’re lying.”

  Daval frowned. That last assertion had not come from Darst, but from one of his companions. Daval was of half a mind to ignore the idiot, but this one’s defiance irked him. Daval felt the fear radiating from Darst like the sun’s rays on a summer day; this other one, the one who had just spoken, emitted no such fear.

  Daval walked a few paces to the left to confront his accuser. “You say I’m lying?” Daval asked.

  “It is a great offense to accuse a High Lord of dishonesty,” Urstadt stated. “The penalties are severe.”

  “I don’t give a shit about penalties,” the young man said. This one was different than Darst, and was closer to thirty than twenty. His face, pale and unshaved, was not the face of a Rodenese nobleman.

  “Perhaps you should,” Daval replied. “It
seems they may be more severe for you than they would be for your friends.” If Daval’s suspicions were correct, then this man was not a noble, and was not protected by noble tradition. High Lords had executed men for less impertinence.

  “Keep quiet,” Darst hissed from the other cell. “Let me do the talking.”

  The pale, scruffy-looking man glared at Daval, but said nothing more.

  “We did not burn down your warehouse,” Darst said, his voice strained. “But… but say we did. What sort of sentencing agreement would we negotiate, then?”

  Daval nodded slowly. He wanted the boy to think he was actually considering his response. “I couldn’t say for certain,” Daval said. “An offense this weighty has not been levied against my house in many years. Perhaps… perhaps six months’ incarceration.”

  The way Darst’s eyes widened in panic brought a shiver of excitement through Daval’s body.

  “Six months?” The pale commoner spoke again. “You can’t keep us here for six bloody months!”

  “Shut up, Svol,” Darst said. “He can, and he will.”

  “Of course, six months is what we would negotiate if arson were the only charge against you three,” Daval said. It was time to close in for the kill. “Unfortunately, there is more.”

  Darst looked at Daval in disbelief. Incredible how the boy had transformed since Daval had first entered the room. His languid rebellion had turned into tense panic. It was lovely to observe.

  “What else is there?” Darst asked, his face now almost as pale as Svol’s.

  Daval nodded to Urstadt. Urstadt stepped forward, so her face was practically touching the cell bars. “Darst Farady, you and your companions are charged with malicious arson in the form of burning down one of House Amok’s most productive warehouses.”

  “We already know that one,” the third prisoner said. “What’s the other?”

  Interesting, Daval thought. He peered into the cell of the man who had just spoken.

  “And,” Urstadt continued, “you and your companions are charged with the murder of five people, workers under the protection of House Amok, who perished in the fire.”

  To the left, Svol gasped. Darst stepped back, his face almost as white as the washed walls of the cell. Ignoring them, Daval met eyes with the third man, and wondered. There was fear here, yes. And defiance, too. But there was something else.

  “The penalty for your crimes is death,” Urstadt said. “You will be executed the morning after next, at dawn. Notice of your crimes and your sentences will be sent to your respective families.”

  Svol’s gasps intensified; Daval heard a broken sob echo from Darst’s cell. This third man, however, only looked at Daval.

  “Have you something to say, my Lord?” Daval asked.

  “I do,” the man said. He stepped forward, so he and Daval were face to face, apart from the bars between them.

  “I can testify against them,” the man said in a whisper, and nodded his head towards his cellmates. “I saw them light the fire. They knew there were people in the warehouse, and still they lit it. I saw it all.”

  Daval raised an eyebrow. He glanced at Urstadt, who gave a tiny shake of her head. This man was not one of hers, then. This was unexpected.

  “And what of you?” Daval asked, turning back to the man. “You were with them, and yet you did nothing to stop such crimes? Why should we not prosecute you, as well?”

  “I accompanied them, yes,” the man said, lowering his head. “To my everlasting shame. But I wish to make amends for my wrongs. If you spare my life, I will testify against them, and I will owe you a great debt. I will do whatever you ask of me.”

  Daval narrowed his eyes. Cowards came in all shapes and sizes, he supposed. This man, this third man, was the one lying. Urstadt had spread the rumors of the abandoned warehouse, and had sent someone to start the fire. She had planted the bodies of murdered Amok workers. If one thing was certain, Darst and his companions did not start the fire. Nor were they responsible for the deaths.

  And yet this man was willing to lie, and say they were, to save himself. He was also offering Daval a lifetime of favors.

  “Whatever I ask of you?”

  “Anything.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Urian, my Lord.”

  Daval looked at Urian for a moment. Then he nodded. “I will consider your offer.”

  The man nodded, and stepped back to sit calmly on his cot.

  “Come, Urstadt,” Daval said. “We must inform their families.”

  “You will not get away with this!”

  Daval turned. Darst had found his balls after all.

  “My family will not allow it! They will come for us.”

  “Yes.” Daval smiled as he walked out the door with Urstadt. “I’m counting on it.”

  3

  Outskirts of Tinska, on the western coast of Khale

  “WAKEY, WAKEY, NOMAD.”

  Knot sighed. “I’m not sleeping. I’m literally walking right beside you.”

  “You’re being boring. Plus, we’re almost there. Look.”

  Knot felt like he’d been walking, eyes fixed on the ground, for ages. Snow had fallen from the skies, and he’d walked. Sun beat down on his shoulders, and he’d walked. The damned vampire next to him had tried to joke with, pester, and annoy him in every way imaginable, and still he’d walked. He, Astrid, Cinzia, and Jane had been walking for months, now.

  “I can see the town as well as you.” Tinska was not a large place. Knot had heard of the town before, but had no memory of being there. He’d thought that a town unfamiliar to him would be a welcome change, but his anxiety only grew as he approached.

  “Don’t act so happy about it,” Astrid said. The hood of her large gray cloak was drawn up around her face, despite the sun. Or because of the sun. Knot’d seen what direct contact with the sun did to the vampire. Wasn’t pleasant.

  “I’m happy about it,” Knot muttered. “Just smilin’ on the inside.”

  Astrid snorted, but said nothing more. Knot yearned to banter with her they way they had before Roden, but things had changed. Knot had changed, that much was true.

  Astrid’s cloak hid her small, waifish frame. Knot’d once had difficulty figuring where the monster ended and the girl began. But in the time they’d spent together, he’d decided they were both in there. The girl and the monster coexisted, somehow. Knot was okay with that. Astrid wasn’t the only one who shared space with a monster.

  “Where is your family staying, again?” Astrid asked.

  “They’ll be at our uncle’s estate,” Cinzia said. “Outside the town.”

  “Is your uncle as rich as your parents?”

  Knot glared at Astrid. Her passive-aggressiveness when it came to the Cantic priestess was starting to wear on him.

  The two sisters, Cinzia and Jane, shared a glance, but said nothing.

  Astrid chuckled. “Richer?” she asked, incredulously. “Will I get my own wing of the mansion, then? Or just my own floor?”

  Astrid cried out as a pebble struck her hood. Knot turned in surprise to see Jane tossing another small pebble repeatedly into the air with one hand. She was smiling. “Our family is wealthy,” Jane said. “Get over it.”

  Knot chuckled. And, as Astrid turned away in a huff, he caught a smile beneath her hood as well. While Astrid repeatedly clashed with Cinzia, she seemed to have no problem getting along with Jane.

  Cinzia’s face wasn’t easy to read. She was frustratingly adept at hiding her emotions. She’d tied her auburn hair behind her head, making her wide hazel eyes and high cheekbones more prominent. But beneath the austere exterior, Knot could hazard a guess as to what Cinzia might be feeling. They’d both lost people in Roden. It’d taken weeks before Cinzia and Jane had revealed what had happened to Kovac, Cinzia’s Goddessguard. Knot would’ve thought such a tale was crazy, if he hadn’t seen far worse with his own eyes. Either way, Kovac was dead. And Knot could tell it weighed on Cinzia, just as anot
her death weighed on him.

  “I hope they are well,” Jane whispered, looking down at the town below. The younger of the two sisters, Jane looked very much like Cinzia, although with blond hair and blue eyes where Cinzia’s were auburn and hazel.

  “The Denomination will not have sent another Crucible,” Cinzia said. “Not yet. They will regroup, try to figure out how to approach us next. They will calculate their next move very carefully.”

  “With any luck, they still haven’t figured out where we are,” Jane said.

  Cinzia shook her head. “They know exactly where we are. Or, at least, where our family went after Navone. They are tracking us.”

  Knot nodded. What Cinzia said lined up with his own fragmented memories of the Cantic Denomination. The Denomination was calculating, meticulous, and hoarded information from every corner of the Sfaera.

  “You said the Denomination won’t have sent another Crucible yet,” Knot said. “But they will eventually?”

  Cinzia shrugged. “I can’t say. They will not let an insult of this magnitude go unanswered. But they may try… different approaches, before they resort to sending another Crucible.”

  “What other approaches are there?” Jane asked.

  Knot felt Cinzia’s gaze on him. They all knew who he’d been, before he lost his memories. They all knew who he’d worked for, what he’d done.

  “Oh,” Jane said quietly.

  Knot pursed his lips. Part of the reason he’d come with these two was to protect them. Or so he told himself. But, as he’d spent more time with Cinzia and Jane, as they told him what had happened to Kovac, and of what they’d translated from the Nine Scriptures, Knot felt like he might have found something like a purpose again. He’d seen darkness in the imperial palace. He’d seen the face of fear, and seen what daemons wanted to bring into the world. Sacrifices had been made to protect the Sfaera. Knot couldn’t let those sacrifices be in vain.

  Sticking with Jane and Cinzia seemed to be the best way to honor Winter’s memory. They at least had a direction. Knot didn’t.