Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  “No,” Knot said, “can’t say that I have.” The itch was there, taunting him. He might’ve been to Turandel before—or a part of him might’ve, anyway. “How’d they die?” he asked. And, as he looked into Elessa’s eyes, he knew before she even answered.

  “They were killed,” Elessa said.

  * * *

  “Are you all right?” the woman said.

  The woman, Lathe thought. Elessa Storonam. Daughter of Ingran and Faria Storonam.

  “Knot, are you all right?” Elessa repeated.

  Lathe stared at her, and then at the sun low on the western horizon, and had no notion of how he had got here. Or where “here” was.

  One thing was clear, though. He had killed Ingran and Faria Storonam with his own hands. And his being here with their only remaining daughter couldn’t end well.

  Lathe jabbed his hand out, connecting with the woman’s throat. She gasped harshly and clutched her neck. Lathe did not know why she was asking whether he was all right. Lathe did not know what was going on, except for one thing. He was not in control.

  Lathe hated not being in control.

  He turned, putting the ocean behind him. A large house lay before him. He must have been knocked unconscious when he… when he…

  He frowned as he walked quickly around the side of the building, to the north. When he what? Lathe could not remember the last thing he had done.

  He swore as he turned the corner and saw a large mass of people milling about. He ducked back around the side of the building. A few faces had glanced in his direction, he was sure. One person in particular had noticed him, a young girl in a cloak, but that didn’t matter. The crowd hadn’t seemed hostile in any way, although Lathe couldn’t very well make that assumption, not when he had no idea what in Oblivion was going on. There had looked to be at least a hundred of them. A hundred people could cause problems for him no matter their intent.

  Lathe turned and walked back along the ocean-facing side of the house. Elessa had collapsed against the wall, still clutching her throat and making small wheezing sounds. She reached out to him, but Lathe rushed past, and turned another corner so that he was shielded by the house. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one had followed, and then strode south towards a formal garden.

  The garden had once been well kept, but seemed neglected now. The shrubberies and arranged flowerbeds were covered with dead leaves and overgrown with weeds. To the east he could see what appeared to be a cemetery, but he couldn’t be sure as the grounds were quite large. His best bet would be to slip into the woods on the far side of the cemetery and circle around to the road in the hope there was civilization close by. He was somewhere on the western coast of Khale, probably in the north of it. The sunset, the beach, the chilly weather gave that much away. Beyond that, he was lost.

  “Where do you think you’re going, nomad?”

  Lathe stopped. “I don’t have any business here,” he said. “I just want to get home.”

  He turned around, slowly. A child had spoken to him. The same girl who had caught his eye in the crowd for those few seconds, heavy hood drawn up over her face.

  “Who are you?” Lathe asked.

  The girl laughed, and walked towards him. “Someone who cares about what happens to you. The more appropriate question is, who are you this time, nomad?”

  Lathe frowned. This child knew him. Or thought she knew him, anyway. But that didn’t matter. Perhaps he had been involved in some kind of deep cover mission here, which was why everyone was treating him like someone else.

  If that’s true, why can’t I remember getting my orders? He remembered his home in Triah, he remembered Sirana, he remembered the Nazaniin. But he did not remember this place. He did not remember this girl. And he did not remember whatever in Oblivion had happened to get him here.

  “I’m going to leave now,” Lathe said. “But I’m afraid I can’t have you running off and telling anyone.” He began walking towards the girl.

  Her eyes widened. “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

  “What I have to.”

  “Please,” she said. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  Lathe wouldn’t hurt her, not too much, anyway. He’d tie her up, gag her. Leave her somewhere easily found. No use harming a child, not without reason.

  “Please,” the girl said again, backing away from him. The setting sun cast its orange rays across the garden, across her hood, leaving gray shadows everywhere else.

  Lathe advanced towards her. If she screamed, he’d have to move quickly. He reached out, grabbing her wrist. He was about to place his other hand around the girl’s mouth, when she twisted free of his grip. Lathe frowned. Was she trained in combat? Or in escape, at least. She had to be a noble to have trained so young.

  Lathe lunged at her, but she dodged—faster than she had any right to. Lathe grasped nothing but air. He spun to face her just as she punched him in the face.

  Goddess did it hurt.

  Lathe blinked as his vision refocused. This girl was not what she seemed. Which meant this entire place might not be what it seemed.

  “That’s right,” the girl said with a grin, her pleading helplessness all but disappearing, “asking who I am was the wrong question.”

  Lathe couldn’t afford to waste time. He sprinted away from the creature, back towards the house. If he could lose her, he could skirt around the edge of the building and eastward, into the forest.

  The girl slammed into him from the side, but Lathe rolled with the tackle, allowing her momentum to spin him and take them into the wall of the house. Lathe wrapped his arms around her and slammed her up against the wall.

  The blow would have stunned any normal person, and perhaps done permanent damage to a child. As he always did when dealing with children, Lathe felt a faint undertone of regret.

  This child, however, was not even fazed. Lathe held her up against the wall, and just as he reached for her throat she kicked him hard in the chest, and sent him stumbling backwards. Before he could recover she was on him.

  “Asking what I am would’ve been far more appropriate.”

  Lathe deflected her first blow, but her second connected with his belly. He clenched his muscles but it still landed hard. He dodged her third strike, and her fist went past him, upsetting her balance. Knot gripped her wrist and twisted, at the same time rolling to get her off him.

  The trick worked, and Lathe rolled to a crouch, facing the girl. She shook her hand limply in the air. That was a good sign—at least she could feel pain.

  “You must be Lathe,” she said with a grin.

  Lathe didn’t respond. None of this made any sense: a girl with unnatural strength and speed; no memory of how he came to this place, or why. He felt like he was in a dream, but everything was too real around him.

  The girl rushed at him again, but changed her direction at the last moment and leapt onto the wall, using it as a springboard to launch herself at his face. Lathe spun out of the way and used her momentum to toss her out into the garden, just as the last rays of sunlight flickered into dusk.

  Lathe was about to run when something made him stop. An instinct he hadn’t used in years. Out in the garden, in the gray dusk where he had thrown the girl, he saw two glowing green lights.

  “Vampire,” Lathe growled.

  “Right you are.”

  Lathe swore. Now that the sun had set, he stood no chance. He had never encountered a child vampire before, but if her daytime strength was any indication, her nighttime phase would be deadly, even for him.

  She rushed at him, and Lathe braced himself. For the first time in many years—and again the odd emptiness of time in his head echoed, taunting him—he felt fear. This was a fight he couldn’t win.

  Just as the vampire was on him, Lathe connected with the Void. The process was easy, even after whatever had happened to get him to this point. He was in the black warmth of the Void, and he slipped two tendra off to the side, gripping a large rock wi
th each tendron. He reached his remaining tendra in front of him, around the vampire, and tried to grip her clothing to restrain her. As a telenic, Lathe’s tendra could only interact with inanimate objects. Rocks, weapons, and clothing were all game, but his tendra would pass harmlessly through the living—trees, animals, and of course people.

  But his tendra were terrifyingly weak. He could barely lift the rocks, while all his remaining tendra—nineteen of them—barely slowed the vampire as she bore down on him.

  She crashed into him, slamming his head against the wall. He should have known better. He should never have relied on psimancy to get him out of this, not when his memories seemed so… clouded. Empty. The vampire swept his feet out from under him, and Lathe collapsed to the ground, still reeling from the blow to his head.

  “I knew your powers hadn’t left you,” she said. “You just need to figure out how to use them.”

  Lathe blinked as she rolled him over, grinding his face into the dirt. He felt his hands being tied behind his back.

  What is she doing to me? He hadn’t suffered a blow to the head that powerful in a long time, he knew that much. What do vampires do to those they kill? The bitch was probably preparing her next meal.

  “Astrid! What are you doing?”

  Two women approached, running around the corner of the house.

  “Another episode,” the vampire said. “Get over here now, before he figures out a way to escape.”

  “Hold him still while I heal him.”

  Lathe felt another pair of hands on him. He craned his neck to see one of the women, her face in shadows, gripping his shoulders, and the other woman, a blond, laying her hands on his head. I know her, Lathe realized. He struggled, but the vampire was far too strong.

  “Don’t struggle, idiot,” the monster said. “We’re helping you.”

  The blond woman had begun speaking, although Lathe couldn’t understand any of the words. Her eyes were bright blue, even in the dusklight. He knew her face from an image transfer that one of the house acumens had given him. A potential contract. The party that had been considering them for the hit had never hired them before.

  The Cantic Denomination.

  This was a wanted woman. Not only wanted, but likely with a death price on her head. Lathe did not know how much time he’d lost, but surely enough for this contract to get through. Lathe was looking at a dead woman. It was only a matter of time.

  And then, as the woman continued speaking, Lathe felt a strange sensation, as if he were falling asleep uncontrollably, fading away into darkness…

  * * *

  Knot woke with his face in the dirt and something pressing on his back.

  “Feeling better, nomad?” Astrid’s voice came from above him – she must be standing on him to hold him down.

  “Another episode?” he asked, coughing.

  Astrid stepped off him, and he rolled over to see Cinzia and Jane looking down at him.

  “Another episode,” Jane confirmed. “How do you feel?”

  “Fine, now,” Knot said. He stood, slowly, brushing dust from his clothes. “What exactly did I…” Knot hesitated, frowning. Then, he bent and vomited.

  He heard Astrid swear, and Cinzia mutter something under her breath. Jane volunteered to get a clean rag, and walked quickly toward the house.

  “My head,” Knot said when he was finished, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “What happened to me?”

  “This was the one,” Astrid said quietly.

  Knot looked up at her. “Lathe?” he asked.

  Astrid nodded.

  Cinzia reached for Knot’s head. “What are you talking about?”

  “This is the episode we’d feared, since they first began a few weeks ago,” Astrid said. “Lathe is one of the primary sifts in Knot’s head. It’s Lathe’s body that Knot occupies now.”

  “And who is Lathe?” Cinzia asked, looking into Knot’s eyes. “Oh, Goddess,” she whispered.

  “Lathe is a Nazaniin assassin,” Knot said. Might as well get to the point.

  “Knot…” Cinzia whispered, staring at him.

  “My pupils are unequal sizes,” Knot said, nodding. He had a concussion, then. Between his grinding headache and spontaneous vomiting, he’d suspected as much.

  Cinzia turned angrily on Astrid. “What did you do to him?” she asked.

  “I stopped him from getting away,” she said.

  “By giving him a bloody concussion?”

  “Better that than him escaping to where we’ll never find him again,” Astrid said. “Or worse, hurting anyone else in the camp.”

  Knot’s mouth went dry. “I hurt someone,” he said. He racked his brain, trying to remember. “I was with Elessa,” he said. “Is she all right?”

  Astrid and Cinzia looked at one another without saying anything, and it was all Knot needed to hear.

  “She’ll recover,” Cinzia said quickly. “But you did hurt her. She’ll likely have trouble speaking for a while.”

  Knot shook his head. What was he thinking, staying here? This was Pranna all over again. He was harming those he cared about simply by being around them.

  “Knot…” Astrid said, but he ignored her.

  “Where is Elessa?” he asked. “Can I… can I see her?” He needed to apologize.

  “I don’t think that’s advisable,” Cinzia said quietly.

  Knot nodded, the pit in his gut seeming to go on forever. Of course she wouldn’t want to see him. He had nearly killed her.

  “You need to rest,” Cinzia said. She glared at Astrid once more. “You’ve been hurt badly. If you do not rest, it could get worse.”

  “Don’t blame her,” Knot grunted. “She did what she had to do.” Cinzia was right. He had been hurt. “Grecetamin leaf,” he said. “Should grow near here. I’ll need some.”

  “I know what that is,” Astrid said. “I’ll get it.” Before they could say anything she was running towards the forest.

  “She feels bad.”

  Knot and Cinzia turned to face Jane, who had returned with an armful of damp cloths. She handed one to Knot. “Clean yourself up,” she said. “You need some rest.”

  Knot turned to look after Astrid. She didn’t deserve to feel guilt for what she’d done, what was necessary to protect others, and to save him from himself. Knot was the only person at fault.

  “Does anyone else know what happened?” Knot asked. He did not know why, but he worried what the others might think of him. Jane’s growing army of followers surely wouldn’t call him the Healed One any longer if they knew what he’d done, although Knot wasn’t so sure that was a bad thing. There were others, though. Cinzia’s parents. Ader. He did not want them to fear him.

  But, at the same time, there was no reason Knot could think of why they shouldn’t.

  “Not at the moment,” Jane said. “And we intend to keep it that way. Although if Elessa decides to say something, we couldn’t stop her. Or, even if we could, I don’t believe we should.”

  “No,” Knot said. “We shouldn’t.”

  He wiped his face and dabbed at the vomit on his clothes.

  “There’s something else,” Jane said.

  Knot laughed without mirth. “Course there is.”

  “I don’t exactly understand what is happening inside you, Knot. I have managed to heal you so far, by Canta’s grace, but I’m not sure how many more times it will be effective. Your… you have been more difficult to find, each time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Cinzia asked, her tone rising. “We could have done something sooner.”

  “I was not sure,” Jane said. “But I am now.”

  Knot took a few deep breaths, then nodded. “I understand.” He stood, slowly.

  “Let me help you.”

  Knot wasn’t sure which of the women had said that; it was getting dark, and he was…

  Knot stumbled, and Cinzia and Jane both rushed to either side of him. “Come on,” one of them said. “Let’s get you inside
.”

  Knot wanted to resist, wanted to do it on his own. He already had an idea of what he had to do growing in his mind, but that would have to wait. He would need to heal first.

  “Yes,” Knot said, locking his emotions away. “Let’s get inside.”

  17

  ASTRID SAT BENEATH AN awning on the north side of the Harmoth house, her hood pushed back. It was another sunny day—a rarity in this area, Jane had told her—and the second in a row. Tinska’s climate should be agreeable with Astrid’s proclivities, but not lately.

  It was still chilly, being only the third month of the year. Most of the Odenites still wore cloaks and furs. The snow had all but melted, however, and greenery was showing itself.

  Some glanced at her as they passed. There was talk of what Cinzia and Jane were doing; somehow, word had reached them of a new religion. Some were even asking for positions in the new religion, for Canta’s sake. Greed never ceased to flow through human veins. Or tiellan veins, for that matter. If power was up for grabs, people wouldn’t hesitate.

  Astrid could see, in the distance, another crowd gathering by the pond. The Beldam was speaking again. The old woman drew more people each time she spoke. Astrid was about to get closer to hear what the Beldam was saying when someone spoke her name. Astrid turned to see Cinzia walking quickly towards her.

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  Astrid didn’t have to ask what Cinzia meant. She’d feared this would be Knot’s reaction, but had hoped he would at least have the sense to recover from a concussion before he skipped town.

  “When did you see him last?” Astrid asked.

  “Early this morning, sleeping in his room. Both Jane and I checked on him.”

  “Then he can’t have been gone long,” Astrid said. It was still a couple hours before noon. That was good. He couldn’t have gotten far.

  Astrid sighed. “I suppose you want me to go after him?”

  Cinzia looked surprised. “We supposed you would want to,” she said.

  Astrid rolled her eyes. That’s one thing Knot had over these women; he understood Astrid’s sense of humor. Astrid glanced back at the Beldam. She would have to wait.

  “I’ll find him,” Astrid said, hoping she was right.