Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  What in all Oblivion is going on?

  “Sir,” one of the men said, approaching Lathe with hands up, “my name is Eward. We are the guard force you’ve been training. You told us you might forget where you were, why you were here. We are fighting a battle, sir. We need your help.”

  Lathe turned at the sound of galloping horses in time to see four riders bearing down on them. “Spread out,” he said. “I’ll take center with Eward, the rest of you split to either side.”

  The men and women did as ordered, spreading out to greet the advancing riders.

  Lathe instinctively reached to where he kept his daggers, and slipped one out of a sheath, hefting it. Good enough for throwing. He flung the weapon at the nearest rider, but the man turned at the last second, and the dagger buried itself in his shoulder rather than his neck. Lathe swore, but the riders were already on them. He slashed at the legs of an oncoming horse with his sword and the animal went down screaming, the rider falling with it as Lathe’s supposed comrade—Eward—descended on him.

  Another memory came as he wove forward, dodging the thrust of a pitchfork—a pitchfork for Canta’s sake, what kind of battle was this?—and took down another horseman. He remembered meeting a cotir, one of whom he even recognized. Cymbre. They had spent time at the Citadel together. And yet… and yet, again, Lathe knew the memory was not his own.

  Lathe turned to see that the soldiers had taken down the other horsemen, although one of his men lay on the ground, bleeding. He knew he had two options. He could stay, see this battle through to the end. He did not know what they were fighting for, but they could clearly use his expertise. Apparently he was their leader, for Canta’s sake.

  His other option was to leave. He did not know these people. His last memory—his last true memory—of being here was not pleasant. He did not relish the idea of encountering that vampire again.

  “I’m sorry,” Lathe grunted.

  Eward turned to say something to him, but Lathe was already running towards the forest.

  * * *

  Astrid sprinted out of the house, her cloak flapping about her in the wind. She tightened the drawstring around her neck and face, cursing the sun as she did so. Why did it have to be sunny on this day, of all days? In a part of the Sfaera where the sun rarely deigned to show its face? She’d made sure Jane and the disciples had made it back to the house safely, as she’d been ordered to do, but no one ever said she needed to stay with them. She needed to fight.

  Odenites flocked to the house, but there was no way they would all fit in. Men on horseback were already beginning to overtake the edge of the crowd. Astrid couldn’t see what they were doing, but the screams, and the increasing panic with which the Odenites ran towards the house, gave her a pretty clear idea. At the base of the hill more of the attackers fought Knot and the guard force. It was too far away, and the action too convoluted, to see anything specific.

  If Astrid could make it to the guards, she would. If she couldn’t, she could at least take out some of the men pursuing the followers.

  Ahead of her, she saw Arven, leading the group towards the house.

  “Arven!” she called out, and the young woman turned to look at her. Arven grinned.

  “Astrid! We are running from the men attacking us.”

  “Yes,” Astrid said, “I can see that. Where’s Knot?”

  Arven shrugged. “I haven’t seen him. I can look around for you?”

  Astrid shook her head frantically. “No! No, you’ve done a wonderful job, Arven. You’re very brave. Please, keep them moving. As far away from these men as possible.”

  Astrid sprinted off, fighting through the crowd until she reached the stragglers at the back. All around her people were bleeding, wounded, dying. Astrid suddenly felt a craving so powerful that she almost forgot what was going on around her. The steely tang of blood filled her nostrils; she craved its bittersweet taste more than anything.

  Astrid stood still for a moment, fighting the craving. She couldn’t give in to it, not now. Not here. She had the ridiculous compulsion to get down on her hands and knees and lick some of the blood off the grass. Instead, she looked up, kept her focus ahead.

  Right in front of her, a group of men were attacking two Odenites, both older men. As Astrid watched, one of the Kamites—what else could they be?—drew a dagger and stuck it through one of the men’s ribs.

  Even in broad daylight, Astrid was as strong as the strongest man, as fast as a trained warrior twice her size. She did not have her claws, but that was why she’d brought the short sword at her side. Astrid drew it as she approached the group. The man who had stabbed the Odenite laughed, saying something about how the old man was an elf-lover, and stabbed him again. Astrid broke into a run and leapt into the air, swinging her sword. The laughing Kamite collapsed, his head separated from his body.

  The other men turned to look at her, anger red on their faces. But, when they saw who had killed their comrade, some of that redness faded, giving way to wide eyes and gaping jaws.

  “Who in Oblivion are you?” one of the men asked.

  “Why don’t you ask when you get there,” Astrid said under her breath, and lunged at the man, stabbing him in the groin. The man’s eyes bulged and he buckled over, hands between his legs, blood spurting between his fingers.

  Astrid swung her sword, severing someone’s leg, and dodged around someone else’s attempt to grab her, flipping through the air and kicking one of the men behind her in the face. She stabbed up into someone’s abdomen, parried an attack and then slashed at another man’s groin. Then, all was quiet. The only people standing were the other Odenite and one last Kamite, staring at Astrid in horror.

  “You’re a daemon,” he whispered.

  “To you, yes,” Astrid said, licking her lips. She tasted blood and leapt upon him, unable to stop herself. Even though she’d just fed, the smell was too strong, on the ground and on her sword. She ripped his neck open with her teeth, and drank greedily.

  When she looked up, the old man had fled. Good. She had no explanation for him.

  The blood invigorated her, made her more powerful. She quickly turned back to the battle at the base of the hill between the horsemen and Knot’s guards. She needed to free them, and then, she hoped, they could push back the rest of the attackers that now preyed on the Odenites.

  Astrid ran towards them, twirling her sword in her hand, ready for more blood.

  * * *

  CINZIA STARED OUT THE window in horror. “They’re getting slaughtered,” she whispered. Jane, Ocrestia, and Elessa stood beside her. The rest of the Oden family stood at the back of the room in hushed silence.

  Many of the Odenites had made it to the house; some had found their way inside, others had run past it into the woods. But others, the not so fast, and the not so fortunate, were left behind, and now fell by the dozen to the hideous men on horseback. Cinzia could not understand what would push these men to do such a thing. They were monsters.

  She turned to her sister. “We have to do something. We can’t let those people die for us.”

  “They are not dying for us,” Jane said quietly.

  Cinzia slapped Jane hard. “They are dying for you then!” Cinzia screamed at her sister. “We can’t allow it!”

  “They are not dying for me,” Jane said, and Cinzia noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks—one cheek now bright red from Cinzia’s blow. “They are dying for Canta, Cinzia. They are dying for their Goddess.”

  “You think that matters, who they’re dying for?” Cinzia gestured outside, at the people who had gathered in Jane’s name, the people who looked to Jane as their protector.

  “I do,” Jane whispered.

  Cinzia could not contain the rage that welled within her. “We have to do something!”

  Jane stepped forward, and suddenly Cinzia found herself wrapped in her sister’s arms. She struggled at first, then melted into her sister’s embrace, sobbing. She felt the anger leaving her, replaced by a
n overwhelming sense of despair.

  “There is something we can do,” Jane whispered, still holding Cinzia.

  Cinzia pulled back. “The only people we have that can fight are out there doing it. We have no more weapons, no more fighters. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “We’re not going to fight them,” Jane said.

  Cinzia watched as Jane walked towards the door. “Disciples, come with me,” she said.

  Their mother grabbed Jane’s arm as she stood at the door. “Jane,” Pascia whispered, her eyes misty.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” Jane said, smiling. “All is according to the will of the Goddess.”

  * * *

  ASTRID DUCKED AS SOMEONE swung an ugly-looking club at her. She pivoted in a crouch, clipping her attacker’s shin and heel with her blade. The man shouted and fell, and Astrid buried her sword in his chest.

  She wiped blood from her face and licked her lips, tasted the sickening sweetness of it, but had no time to dwell on it. She had drunk her fill from the man she had killed earlier; she had many more to kill today before she could allow herself to drink again.

  “Gather to me!” Astrid shouted. She pulled her hood farther over her face. Fighting with a hood was difficult; it severely diminished her vision, and the constant threat of her face being exposed to the sun required her to adjust it constantly.

  A dozen guards gathered around her, fighting in formation. She saw fear etched deeply on their faces, but they fought on nonetheless. She could see other guards trying to reach her, but there were still many Kamites to fight through. Astrid had asked where Knot was, but the men had shaken their heads solemnly. None of them had seen him since the first charge.

  Astrid led the guards around her to another group of three in the distance, hacking at men left and right of her, snaking between people and under horses’ legs to get the upper hand. The men behind her followed, taking down the Kamites that Astrid had injured.

  The three guards had noticed Astrid’s fight towards them and were now trying to close the distance, but there were a good dozen Kamites between them. The three wouldn’t last much longer. She broke into a sprint. Those three were some of the last guards standing, and they were also her only hope of finding out what had happened to Knot—assuming he was not dead.

  The Kamites saw her coming, but that didn’t matter. Astrid parried an attack and kicked the man, sending him sprawling. She leapt into the air, sliding between the swing of a club and the stab of a pitchfork, and landed on all fours, blade in hand. Then she spun and kicked again, parried another blow from the club, and with a scream stabbed her sword up into the man’s heart. She dropped to the grass, wet with blood, and rolled, only to leap up and stab another.

  Her people followed her, taking down man after man, and finally they reached the remaining three guards. Astrid was relieved to see Eward among them.

  “Have you seen Knot?” Astrid asked immediately.

  The guards looked at each other.

  Astrid reached up, grabbing Eward, and pulled him down to her eye-level. “Where is he?” she hissed.

  “He… he ran away,” Eward whispered, eyes wide.

  “What the… what do you mean he ran away?”

  “I think he had an episode.”

  Astrid released Eward, looking around frantically. Shit, she thought.

  “He… he began acting like someone else, but for a moment I thought he might still fight with us. But he left us, ran into the woods.”

  “Who?” Astrid demanded. “Did he say who he was?” If he had reverted to Lathe once more, she might never find him. He might as well be dead.

  “No,” Eward said. “But… but he could fight. As well as Knot ever could.”

  That had to be Lathe. Astrid kicked a Kamite corpse, too angry for words. After taking a deep breath, she knew there was nothing to be done about Knot right now. “We’ll find him later,” she said, not believing her own words. “The Odenites need our help. There are still fifty or so Kamites left, killing your friends, your families. There are less than twenty of us. But we’ve got to help them anyway, do you understand?”

  Each of them nodded.

  “Good. I’m glad all of you are idiots. Now, here’s what we’re going to do…”

  * * *

  Lathe knew something was wrong by the time he made it to the trees. He was sweating, but it was not the sweat of battle. The perspiration was cold on his skin, he was shivering—and the memories wouldn’t stop surfacing.

  Just as before, he knew these memories were not his own. Or, at least, most of them were not. He remembered standing in a drawing room, looking out at dozens of people. He remembered facing nightmarish monsters underneath the Imperial Dome of Roden. He remembered the face of a tiellan woman framed in raven-black hair, eyes dark as midnight.

  Lathe stumbled through the forest, catching himself on a tree branch to keep from collapsing.

  What is happening to me?

  Lathe had other memories, too: his own. He remembered the red and black and white marble of the Heart of the Void in the Nazaniin headquarters. He remembered missions he’d been assigned with the Nazaniin, in Triah and Mavenil and Turandel and Izet. He remembered waking up to see Sirana’s face, smiling at him.

  Lathe stumbled and fell to the earth, unable to catch himself this time. Were those his memories? Or were they simply the memories of someone else, and he… and he…

  Who was he?

  He looked up to see the sun streaming through the foliage above, and then collapsed.

  * * *

  Cinzia saw Arven running towards them as they emerged from the house. She looked on the verge of tears.

  “You told me to lead the others here. So I did. I led them here, but not everyone. There were people who did not run fast enough. I tried to go back for more but they’re dead… And the Beldam… the old woman… she left.”

  “Arven, if that woman chose to leave, it’s not a bad thing.”

  “She left, but she took many followers with her.”

  “What?”

  “She left, but she took—”

  Jane put a hand on Arven’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Arven. You did all that you could do. We will deal with the Beldam another time. My disciples and I have business to attend to.”

  “The Kamites are still out there. You can’t go.”

  “We are not going to the Kamites,” Jane said.

  Arven nodded, but it only confused Cinzia all the more. She had been hoping that Jane was somehow going to use Canta’s power to defeat the horsemen. But if they were not going to confront their enemies, what were they doing?

  Jane walked forward and the disciples followed. The four of them were the only people moving north instead of running south. Ahead of them, Cinzia saw guards fighting off a group of Kamites, trying to protect a group of fleeing Odenites. A small figure led the guards, and Cinzia knew immediately it was Astrid. She sent up a small prayer of thanks for the girl. But she did not see Knot. Anywhere. Where was he?

  But, as Cinzia looked around, she realized that very few Kamites remained. There was a group engaged with Astrid and the guards, and another on horseback seemed to be moving towards Astrid as well, but without discipline. An even larger band of Kamites was already fleeing back up the hill.

  Goddess, could the Odenites actually win this fight?

  Cinzia berated herself immediately for thinking such a thought. Nothing she saw before her could be called a victory. Bodies lay everywhere.

  “How could we have let this happen?” Cinzia asked, horrified.

  Jane did not respond, but instead walked purposefully towards the nearest body on the ground. It was an old woman, a terrible wound gaping on her forehead. Blood soaked her face and once-gray hair.

  Jane knelt down by the body, and put her ear next to the woman’s mouth.

  Listening for breath? Cinzia wondered. Is that why they were out here? To gather the wounded?

  Jane stood and shook her h
ead. “She is gone,” she said, her voice heavy. “We must find another.”

  “Another?” Cinzia asked, but Jane was already walking off, Elessa and Ocrestia following, leaving Cinzia with the body of the old woman. She looked down at the body, sadness gripping her heart. She knelt, and closed the woman’s eyes.

  “Canta take you home,” Cinzia whispered. Then she followed quickly after Jane and the others, who had already stopped at someone else—a young man, barely fifteen summers, surrounded by a group of Odenites. The boy was clutching his abdomen, and from the amount of blood that ran between his fingers, Cinzia could tell the wound was deadly. The blood bubbling from his mouth was evidence enough that he would not last.

  “Prophetess,” a woman gasped, as Jane approached. “Why has this happened? Why has Canta taken my son? What did we do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Jane whispered, and the Odenites kneeling around the boy made room for Jane as she knelt beside him. “Canta works in strange ways,” she said, placing her hands on the boy’s hands, covering the horrible wound. “Ways that are difficult to understand. But as she takes from us with one hand…”

  A dull glow, almost invisible in the midday sun, began to form around Jane and the boy.

  Cinzia gasped, taking a step back. She had seen this once before when Elessa had healed Jane after the first assassination attempt. Elessa had mumbled words in a language Cinzia had not been able to understand. This time, however, Jane said nothing as the soft glow enveloped her and the boy.

  The boy coughed, blood still around his mouth and on his hands, but Cinzia knew, immediately, that he was better. The boy lifted his hands, revealing his bloodstained shirt and the scarred but healed skin beneath.

  “Oh, Goddess,” the mother exclaimed, hugging her son with a sob.

  Cinzia stared, wide-eyed. Perhaps she should be used to such things by now; between Elessa’s healing of Jane, and her own enhanced speed and strength when an assassin tried to kill her a second time—and, of course, the fact that they were friends with a vampire, a race of beings she had thought long gone, and of course there was Knot, and psimancy…