by Sam Sykes
“You know her.”
“Everyone does. She’s a legend. She tore this city apart to get rid of your thugs.”
“And she would have a thousand more crop up in our wake. The Jackals’ heads were scared. Old men who feared nothing more than losing weight. I had bigger concerns. Once she was rid of us, once the rules were broken, this city would slide back into the shit and rot there.
“But nothing we tried worked. Our assassins couldn’t kill her. Our archers couldn’t shoot her. We couldn’t even get a drop of poison in her tea. It was over until the Kissing Game.”
Two words. Nothing more. Yet the way he said them was enough to make her cringe. “The what?”
“My idea,” he said. “The heads didn’t like it. I took initiative.” He held up five fingers. “Five Jackals. Five disguises. Start them low: slaves, consultants, tailors, whores. Raise them high: advisers, friends, confidants, lovers. Let them earn their trust, earn her trust. Wait one year and then, on the same night …”
His face was cold, empty stone. No joy. No malice. Just another scar he wore across his entire face.
“Ramaniel himself did the deed. Cut her throat as she slept. Saved the whole damn city.”
The pain in her chest twisted again. Something foul rose inside her gullet, something so dark and thick that she was thankful it kept her from sobbing.
“We lost a lot of Jackals before it worked out. But it worked. The Houndmistress, her supporting fashas, and Ramaniel … they all died on the same night. Denaos was born the next.” He waved a hand. “The riots were a problem, of course. But compared to the violence that would have occurred if we were gone?” He shook his head. “I won’t apologize. I won’t feel sorry. Not for one drop of blood.”
Asper had seen many monsters in her life. So many that, for a few blissful moments in the day, she could convince herself that she wasn’t afraid of them anymore. After all, they were all easy to understand, once one thought about it.
Those with crazed grins and dead eyes, they did it just for fun. Those with deep frowns and eyes full of terror, they did it to survive. But the expression on Rezca’s face, the way his eyes glinted as they looked upon her, the way he exuded a desperate need for her to understand …
She would never understand. And she was afraid.
“So let me ask you,” Rezca said. “Why do you want to know about Ramaniel?”
She recoiled. “What?”
“I was there for the things he did. I held down a screaming man while Ramaniel cut the nose from his face. Ramaniel held a screaming wife’s head up, forced her to watch as I beat her husband to death with a hammer. We’re wicked people. We’re sinful people. And you’re not.”
He stared at her.
“Why do you care about him?”
She met his stare, held it for a long time. This, too, was a question she had asked herself on many sleepless nights and in many painful moments. Even before she knew all of his past life, she had wondered about it.
And perhaps she had not known the answer until just then.
“Because,” she said, “he wanted to be better. He wanted me to help him.” She swallowed hard. “And I can’t fail him. I can’t fail anymore. Not one more person.”
Rezca looked at her, his face empty and numb. The desperation faded from his eyes and his look was the cold, quiet appraisal of a hunter. And when his hands went to his sides, she tensed up, half expecting him to pull a knife. Instead, he merely removed a cloth and began to wipe his spectacles clean. A soft smile, tinged with sadness, played across his face.
“Fuck,” he sighed. “Why couldn’t you have been as awful as she said you were?”
Asper blinked. “What?”
“I was hoping it was true. I was hoping you really were just the power-hungry bitch I was told you were. That way, you’d have seen the virtue in it. You’d have played by the rules. But you’re not terrible, are you?” He shook his head. “You’re so good. And so, so stupid.”
“Enough of this shit.” She stepped forward, fury leaking from her eyes. “Where is Denaos? Answer or die.”
“At the bottom of the harbor,” he said plainly. “Dead. For the same reason you’re also going to die.”
Before she could act, he raised a hand.
And they came.
The shadows stirred. From the alleys and the rooftops, they appeared, slinking out of the dark and climbing down into the streets. Maybe they had been there this whole time. Or maybe they were fiends, spontaneously birthed from darkness.
Jackal thugs approached, their hoods drawn tight over their faces, naked blades glistening brightly.
Khovura cultists slithered toward her, faces shrouded in black veils but for the crazed glint of their eyes locked upon her.
Thief and fanatic, murderer and cultist, sworn enemies approaching her, blades fixed on her, gazes locked on her, ready to kill.
“Rezca,” she snarled as she whirled about, trying to take them all in, “you fucking swine.”
“I’ve killed too many people for this city,” he replied. “So many I’ll gladly rot in a lightless pit for eternity, if that’s what it takes to keep it safe. I can’t let you ruin that. I can’t let you lead us back into chaos. Teneir said—”
“Teneir is lying!” She spared a single, desperate look for him. “She’s a fanatic! You’re smarter than this. You know she’s a liar. You know she won’t share power! She’ll betray you! She’ll—”
“Eventually,” Rezca said. “But murderers, liars, and traitors have been the only friends I’ve ever known.”
“Listen to me,” she shouted. She tried to back up toward a wall but found a Jackal there, a blade fixed on her back. “Listen to me. You kill me, this city falls to the tulwar. It can’t survive. I can save this city! I can save everyone!”
“I wouldn’t trust a savior who considers me worthy of salvation, priestess.” Rezca turned and began to walk away. “Take comfort that I’ll protect this city from the tulwar, as I’ve protected it from everything else. Take comfort that this will end better for everyone.”
They closed in around her. Asper’s world became shadows and steel, unable to see anything but the glint of their blades and the glare of their eyes as they advanced upon her. For a brief moment, before they closed, she saw Rezca pause and look over his shoulder at her.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am sorry.”
And like a bad dream, he was gone.
She thought to try to run after him, to tackle him to the ground and try her damnedest to choke the life out of him with one arm. Or, at the very least, to spit on him a few times before she was killed.
But that urge was overwhelmed by another, more pressing thought.
Fuck.
That word was all she had room in her head for. The rest of her skull was full of the impossibility of trying to figure a way out of this.
A dozen? Two dozen? It was hard to tell how many there were; they seemed to shift in and out of the reaching shadows. She could count them only by the glimmer of their blades.
And they were many.
Panic shot up through her, pounded from her heart to her legs, screamed at her to run. But the pain inside her, that tender ache in her chest, screamed louder, sent a surge of agony twisting inside her belly.
She was wounded from the inside. She had one good arm. She was surrounded by countless blades, all of them fixed on her. Her friends were gone.
I’m going to die.
And the whole of her body was consumed by that thought.
I’m going to die.
Save for one small part of her.
No.
And it reached out to her on a smoke-black voice.
I won’t let you.
He sounded softer this time, almost fearful. The arrogance and cruelty were gone, replaced by something painful and sweet. Amoch-Tethr spoke to her, in a voice he had never used before.
Let me save you.
She couldn’t answer him.
A flash of movement from her right. A shadow swept up behind her. An arm shot out and wrapped around her throat, tried to pull her back. A surge of fear shot through her, bid her to scream.
Fear was a powerful instinct. But it was one of many. And some spoke louder than screams.
Her foot rose up, came down. The hard heel of her boot smashed on the arch of the thug’s foot. A snapping sound filled her ears, followed by a sudden shriek. The arm around her neck loosened just enough for her good hand to reach up and snatch it. She swung her shoulder forward, put her body weight behind it, and hurled.
The man—a thin wisp of a fellow in a Jackal hood—came over her shoulder with a cry. She shoved him forward, sent him crashing into a pair of Khovura who rushed her. They fell back in a tangling, snarling mass.
Run.
Instinct. Training. Loud and clear.
Can’t.
They were everywhere. Closing in on her. Except for her back.
Wall. Get to a wall.
It was hard to think. Hard to hear that thought. Especially over the voice that screeched inside her on a sharp, painful whine.
Don’t be an imbecile, woman! Amoch-Tethr snarled. There are too many! Let me help you! Let me save you! LET ME OUT!
She ignored him, focused on the feeling of cold stone on her back, on the shadows surrounding her. They advanced more carefully this time, not keen to repeat their companion’s mistake. She could feel their eyes on her, searching for a weakness.
Her hand went to her belt and found a small dagger she kept hidden in it. She whirled it around, a poor answer for the long knives they carried. But it kept them back. It gave her a moment to think.
Listen to me, you foolish girl.
Her heart was thundering in her ears.
We both need to survive. We have so much to do.
Her body was screaming with pain.
Let me help you, for gods’ sake!
And Amoch-Tethr was howling.
PLEASE!
Movement on her left. Someone rushed toward her. A blade flashed out. She twisted: right moment, wrong way. The blade caught her in a graze, tore through her sling, and cut through her sleeve, drawing a gout of red. Her left arm, hardly mended from when Gariath had shattered it, fell to her side, numb.
The broken bone inside her twisted.
Her scream tore through the night. Not loud enough.
Not nearly loud enough.
I feel it! Amoch-Tethr wailed. He smashed against his prison, sent lances of pain surging up through her arm. I can feel everything! EVERYTHING! It’s torture! It’s murder! We’ll both die here if you don’t let me help you! Asper, listen to me!
She shut him out.
LISTEN!
Or tried to.
The blade flashed at her again. Her own dagger shot up, but it was too small. It was knocked from her hand, went clattering away. The knife lashed at her again. Her good hand shot out and caught a wrist. The blade quivered a hairbreadth from her face. She snarled, twisted it away, yanked hard on the wrist.
The Khovura let out a grunt as he was hauled, full force, into her knee. She drove it up into his groin, lifting him off the ground. He fell to the stones, gasping for breath as she pulled the long knife from his hand and whirled around as another shadow fell upon her.
A thick sound of carved flesh. A spurt of warm life cooling on the stone. She caught a Jackal in the face with her mad slash, cut her through the hood, through the mouth, through the tongue. The Jackal fell back, hacking up blood, and staggered to her feet, clutching her face.
Three down, she told herself. She held the blade out, hilt slippery with blood. Three down. Not so many. Not so tough. Stay calm. She breathed in. You can do this. She breathed out. You can—
Cold thought.
Cold breath.
Cold metal.
She felt the knife plunge into her back. Just beside her spine, just beneath her left shoulder blade. Her breath left her. Sharp. Sudden. Almost like someone had just slapped her real hard on the back.
She tried to reach for it. She felt a wedge of steel moving against the folds of sinew. She tried to draw in a breath. She felt liquid fill the back of her throat. She tried to walk. She felt herself fall.
And when she collapsed to her knees, she didn’t feel anything.
I’m going to die.
“Fuck.” A Jackal’s voice, distant. “How’d she manage to do that much damage? If it gets out it took us this long to kill a cripple, we’re fucking done.”
I’m going to die.
“The false prophet’s death will resound throughout heaven.” A Khovura’s hiss, soft and fading. “We must make certain.”
“Oh, fuck me, she’s still alive? Gods, lady, make it easy on yourself, huh?”
“Deshaa anaca Kapira. We must be certain. We must finish it.”
Fingers in her hair, pulling her head back. Darkness rimmed her sight.
I’m going to die.
“Why? Let her bleed out. Who gives a shit?”
“Blasphemy is answered with blood. False faith is answered with death.”
A knife at her throat. Cold, maybe. Sharp, maybe. She couldn’t tell.
I’m going to die.
“Oooh, so dramatic. Fine. Whatever. Just don’t get any on me.”
“Kapira, Kapira, Kapira …”
Asper’s mouth hung open, breathless, voiceless. She reached up. Someone grabbed her arm and pinned it behind her. Her broken arm fumbled numbly for the blade. Darkness consumed her vision, left her in a lightless pit.
She had seen too much of the world. Too much to believe the priests. She had seen too many bodies, too much blood to believe that gods were kind and heard every prayer. Perhaps she had always known, in the darkest parts of her heart, that no one was listening when she tried to speak to heaven.
Maybe it was just habit, or yet another instinct, that made her whisper one more into the darkness.
“Help me …”
Maybe it was just cruel fate that, this time, someone was listening.
Gladly.
Amoch-Tethr’s voice came with a bright, giddy cackle. The darkness fled her eyes in a flash of ugly red light. Angry warmth erupted inside her broken arm. Pain shot through numb fingers as they suddenly curled, of their own volition, around a man’s wrist.
A hiss.
A scream.
A knife, falling.
Someone released her other arm, fell away from her, screaming. Someone released her hair, tried to pull away. Someone was pounding at her left hand with a fist, trying to get her to let go. But it wouldn’t.
It wasn’t hers. Not anymore.
The flesh of her hand glowed with a crimson light that slithered down her wrist into her arm. It split the cloth of her robe. It painted her skin translucent. Within its hellish red glow, she could see the shattered bone of her arm, black and fragile. But she couldn’t feel any pain from it. Not as skeletal fingers wrapped tighter around the Khovura’s wrist.
Not as black smoke seeped out between the knuckles.
It happened quickly. Skin withered, turned gray, turned to ash. Bones bent, snapped, shrank. Blood boiled, turned to steam. Screams were eaten, turned to choking gasps. Eyes turned skyward and found no kind god to hear the last, desperate words he shouted to heaven before the black smoke came pouring from his mouth.
He was dying. Slowly, painfully, he was dying. She could feel what was left of him turning to ash beneath her fingers. She could hear him screaming. She could feel his agony echo through her bones.
She remembered the screaming. She remembered the pain. But she didn’t remember the power.
It coursed through her. As surely as he died, she lived. She found new breath in his screams. She found the chill chased away by a bright, painful heat. She could see her black bones knitting together before her eyes, repairing themselves.
And she could hear him.
Ah. Delicious. Amoch-Tethr purred
. How long has it been since I was allowed more than a fleeting taste?
Her fingers tightened of their own volition. He let out one last scream as the last of his bones snapped and the last of his skin was swallowed. It lasted a long time. Long after he died. Long after he was nothing more than a handful of dust slipping between her fingers.
She found her feet. She stared down at her arm. It pulsed, alive and hungry. Within it, she could feel Amoch-Tethr writhing in ecstasy.
Did I not tell you, girl? Did I not say I would save you?
“Holy shit!”
She looked up. Jackals and Khovura were backing away, dropping blades, the murder in their eyes replaced by terror.
“What the fuck did she just do? What the fuck was that?”
“Deshaa maa anucca! Demon! She is a demon!”
“Kill her! FUCKIN’ KILL HER!”
A Jackal, rushing toward her. Fear tore itself from his throat in a scream. He raised his blade high.
And Amoch-Tethr caught him by the throat and clamped down hard.
Quicker this time. An orgy of sound: a feast of cracking bones and snapping skin and smoke hissing out of what was once a body and was now a sack of meat. For three more breaths, full of screams, he was still a man. After that, he was a mess of broken bones, of unnatural angles, of shriveling skin drawing up over his gums and eyes and peeling off glistening muscle.
And then, he, too, was nothing but dust.
The feeling was incredible. Her breath came back to her, dry and deep. The pain throbbing in her chest faded, replaced by something bright and angry. She felt a spasm of muscle in her back as something was forced out. Steel clattered behind her as the knife fell on the street.
Her skin felt raw, tingling with newborn feeling. Her breath was heavy and ragged and so very alive. Her eyes felt too open. Her body felt too warm.
“Talanas,” she whispered, breathless.
Amoch-Tethr chuckled. Let’s leave him out of this, shall we?
A flash of movement.
It was her. Without knowing it, without feeling it, she was moving. Her arm was alive, stronger than she was, pulling her forward, pulling her toward them.
She could make them out only by their screams: their threats and their curses and their desperate cries to gods forsaken long ago. They tried to run. She tried to pull back. They tried to beg for mercy. She tried to beg forgiveness.
