by Nathan Long
A thick fog had come up, boiling off the river like steam from a sewer, so Ulrika had little trouble avoiding the rushing men. Their eyes were all focussed on the glow of the ship fire that lit the drifting mist like the sun seen through frosted glass. She had only slightly more trouble culling a witch hunter from the throng, then taking from him all his gear. The coat she had stolen before had been an excellent idea, but only covered so much. She had picked a witch hunter to strip not just out of vengeance for her time in the tower, but because, as she had seen the last time she had worn them, the long coat and the broad hat were a passport that opened any gate.
And she was proved right as the gates of Nuln appeared before her. Though armed men continued to stream out of them, the guards were barring the way of anyone who tried to enter the city.
‘Nobody comes in till they call off this emergency,’ Ulrika heard a guard say to a coachman as she approached. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
‘What’s the emergency?’ asked the coachman. ‘When will it be over?’
‘Never you mind,’ said the guard. ‘It’s an emergency. That’s all you have to know.’
Ulrika strode past them as if she was on a mission, hat low, eyes straight ahead, and her walk stiff with angry impatience. The guard raised his hand to stop her, then saluted instead. She didn’t return it. A real witch hunter certainly wouldn’t.
There was clamour as well in the Lahmians’ tunnels beneath the city. Messengers came and went from the under-entrance of the Chalice of Caronne, bearing rumours of the fate of Karl Franz and news of the panic in the city. Observing from the shadows of a side tunnel, Ulrika noted however, that for all the activity, no messengers were travelling between the brothel and Hermione’s mansion. That suggested that Hermione was at the brothel, in the thick of things. Was Famke with her? Ulrika doubted it. She was most likely at home, still recovering from her burns.
Ulrika hurried north. With all in chaos and Hermione busy, there would be no better opportunity to talk with Famke, and if she wasn’t at home, she would find some way of seeing her, no matter if she had to kill Hermione and all her blood-swains to do it.
Lahmian swordswomen stood guard at the mansion’s tunnel entrance. Ulrika briefly considered attacking them and fighting her way in, but why should she? There would be no difficulty getting in. She was a wanted fugitive. They would drag her in by force if she didn’t go quietly. Better to save all her strength for fighting her way out – and perhaps she would have Famke to help her. She strode openly to the door.
The women came on guard when she was still fifty yards away, their sharp ears catching her bootheels on the tunnel floor. Ulrika’s ears were sharp too, and heard them whisper to each other.
‘A witch hunter? Here?’ asked the shorter of the two – a dark-skinned Tilean.
‘A witch hunter with no heartbeat,’ said the second, an icy blonde nearly as tall as Ulrika. She raised her voice. ‘Come no further, vampire! Name yourself and your business.’
Ulrika swept off her broad hat and inclined her head as she continued towards them. ‘Ulrika Magdova Straghov, calling upon Lady Hermione on private business.’
The women stiffened at her name, and gripped their weapons more tightly.
‘The traitor,’ said the blonde one.
‘The Sylvanian,’ spat the dark one.
‘We are ordered to kill you on sight, betrayer,’ said the blonde.
‘Then I will die with the secrets of Sylvania’s masterplan unspoken, for I will speak them only to Lady Hermione.’
The Lahmians paused, considering.
Ulrika spread her arms. ‘Kill me if you must, but Hermione will not thank you for it. I’m sure she would wish to do the deed herself.’
The blonde pointed with her blade. ‘Drop your sword and dagger and kick them away, then place your hands behind you.’
Ulrika followed her instructions and the Tilean came forwards with heavy iron manacles. She locked them around Ulrika’s wrists, then hauled her to her feet as the blonde one kept her sword at her throat.
They took her through a door that led to a dusty, brick-lined tunnel. A tiny guard room opened off it. Two swains slept within on narrow cots.
‘Wake up,’ barked the blonde. ‘Guard the door until we return.’
She and the Tilean dragged Ulrika on as the men blinked awake. At the end of the tunnel was a spiral staircase, and at the top, a door that led into the cellars of Hermione’s mansion – a dark, arch-ceilinged storage space filled with trunks, casks, furniture and dry goods. As soon as they entered it, Ulrika started shouting at the top of her voice.
‘Famke! It’s Ulrika! I’m here! Come to me!’
The Tilean cuffed her on the ear so hard that she fell into a heap of flour sacks, then the blonde dragged her back to her feet and shook her.
‘Sister Famke is not to be disturbed, betrayer. Now be silent or I shall gag you.’
‘Famke! It’s Ulrika! I’m here! Come to–’
The blonde punched her in the stomach, then stuffed her kerchief into her mouth as she gasped. The Tilean tied another rag across her lips to hold the first in place, and they shoved her on, out of the store room and into a corridor with a narrow stair at one end, and sturdy doors on each wall. These, Ulrika guessed, had originally been the strong rooms where the fine tableware and the most expensive wines had been kept, but they had been converted into makeshift cells, with heavy crossbars bolted across them for added strength.
The Tilean unlocked one and lifted away the bar, and the blonde shoved Ulrika in then slammed the door. As the bar thudded home and the key turned in the lock, her face appeared in the tiny barred window.
‘We shall inform Lady Hermione that you have come to call when she returns,’ she said with mock courtesy. ‘Take your leisure until then.’
Ulrika looked around as the Lahmian’s footsteps echoed away. The cell was a bare, windowless closet, barely big enough to lie down in, without cot or chair. There was nothing she could use to escape – nothing to use as a weapon. If Famke hadn’t heard her, she might never leave this place. Hermione would come, question her, then kill her, and that would be the end of it.
Well, she could at least be ready for when they came for her. First, she let out her fangs and chewed through her gag, then spat out the handkerchief. Next, she dropped down on her back, then inched her manacled wrists under her posterior, down her legs and under her feet until they were in front of her. The chain that held the manacles together was thick and strong, made for holding beings of monstrous strength, and normally, she doubted she would have been able to break it, but with Otilia’s distilled blood still surging though her veins, she thought she might manage it.
She began to rotate her left wrist so that the short chain twisted upon itself until the links were locked tight against each other. She kept turning. The links creaked, and the edges of the manacles bit cruelly into her wrist bones, but compared to the pain of the silver manacles that had burned her earlier, it was nothing, and she ignored it. For several long minutes she kept up the pressure, shaking with the strain of it and gritting her teeth, but then, with a snap, one of the links gave way, and the chain flew apart.
Ulrika gasped with relief and massaged her wrists for a moment, then dug her claws under the manacles. Before she could tear one free, however, she heard footsteps in the corridor, and sensed two heart-fires coming closer. Why were living men coming to see her? Who were they? They were dead men, that’s who they were. She would overpower them once they opened the door and escape to find Famke. She stepped on the broken link to hide it, then put her arms behind her back as if still bound.
A key turned in the lock, the bar was lifted, and the door swung open. Ulrika crouched, ready to spring, but the men remained on guard outside the cell, and a figure in a black shroud drifted in instead, a figure with no heart-fire and no face.
Ul
rika edged back, wary. ‘Who are you? What do you want? I will only speak to Lady Hermione.’
The figure stopped in the middle of the cell and regarded her. Ulrika could see now that under the shroud, every inch of its body was wound with black linen. Even its clawed fingers were wrapped, and its face was hidden beneath a long black veil.
‘Don’t you know me, sister?’ it asked. ‘Don’t you remember your dearest companion?’
The voice was like burnt paper, so broken and dry that Ulrika could barely hear it. Even so, she recognised it – the softness, the received pronunciation masking the slum accent.
‘Famke! Thank the gods! You heard me!’ Ulrika stepped forwards, arms outstretched to embrace her, but Famke shrank back.
‘No!’ she rasped. ‘You must not touch me!’
Ulrika stopped, aghast at what she had been about to do. She swallowed. ‘Your wounds… your wounds haven’t healed?’
Famke seemed to shiver under her shroud. ‘Why have you returned? What have you to tell Lady Hermione?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ulrika. ‘That was only a ruse. I came to see you, to tell you that I have made good on my vow. I have killed everyone who was responsible for your burning – all the whores, all the witch hunters, Captain Schenk, his commander, and more importantly, the architects behind it all, the puppet masters who pulled the strings of all the rest – Mistress Otilia and her new master, Count Grigor von Messinghof. I know it is small comfort, but all are dead. You are avenged.’
Famke looked at her in silence for a long moment, her black veil betraying no emotion. ‘All are not dead,’ she whispered at last. ‘And I am not avenged.’
Ulrika frowned, confused. ‘What do you mean? Who have I missed?’
Famke raised a bandaged hand and pointed directly at her. ‘Yourself.’
Ulrika stepped back, dread creeping up her spine. ‘What do you mean? I didn’t burn you. You know I didn’t. I tried to save you.’
‘You brought me to the fire,’ said Famke in her terrible hissing voice. ‘Were it not for you, taking me from our sisters and into the world of men, I would not have been burned. You seduced me. You murdered me with lies.’
Ulrika’s guts knotted like icy chains. Panic prickled her skin. ‘But – but you came of your own accord. You didn’t want to go back.’
‘Only because you filled me with false dreams,’ snarled Famke. ‘You made it seem a grand adventure. You made it seem that freedom was worth any price!’ Her wrapped claws curled around the end of her veil. ‘It was not worth this!’
With a sharp jerk, she tore it away, and Ulrika recoiled. Famke’s wounds had not healed. Indeed, it seemed they had grown worse. But for a few grey wisps, her hair was gone, and her head was a blackened skull, cracked bone showing between patches of charred flesh. Her eyes were lidless orbs, cloudy white, and her lips had been burned away, exposing her heat-yellowed fangs in a permanent grin. The skin of her neck was torn black strips, revealing the glistening red muscles beneath, raw and exposed.
‘Would you like to see the rest?’ asked Famke.
Ulrika flinched. ‘No! No, sister. I…’ She opened her mouth to make some condolence, but nothing came out. What could she say? What could be enough?
‘I don’t understand,’ she said at last. ‘Has Lady Hermione not given you blood? Why have you not recovered?’
Famke shrugged, and skin flaked from her neck and fluttered to the floor. ‘All the mistresses have tried their magics and their blood. I am told that some sisters are less afflicted by the sun, some are more. I am one of the latter.’ She raised the veil and began to drape it over her head again. ‘The pain remains the same as the morning I burned. I cannot sit or lie or lean against anything. The agony is too great. So I stand. The mistresses say it will be like this for eternity.’
Ulrika covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a sob. ‘Oh, Famke. How can you bear it?’
Famke turned her veiled face towards her. ‘Because I am assured that my afterlife will be worse.’
Ulrika sobbed again. Famke just looked at her, unreadable for a long moment, then turned towards the door.
‘I meant to kill you for what you had done,’ she said. ‘But vengeance will not heal my skin. I will leave you to Mistress Hermione’s pleasure. Luck to you, sister.’
Ulrika stepped after her, reaching for her. ‘Famke! Famke, wait! I won’t leave it like this. I–’
Famke looked back at the door. ‘Do not call me by that name,’ she whispered. ‘Famke is dead. My name is Wither.’
Ulrika stared after her, unmoving, as Famke drifted out the door and disappeared out of sight down the stone corridor. She stood numb as the swains pushed the door closed and it boomed against the frame, but as she heard the scrape of the bar being lowered into place she snapped out of it and sprang forwards and kicked it as hard as she could.
The door flew open and the swains fell back, crashing to the floor in surprise as the bar clanged away. Ulrika strode from the cell and tore the sword from the nearest one, then stepped towards Famke, who had turned back at the noise.
‘Come with me,’ said Ulrika, holding out her hand. ‘Come and I will find a way to heal you. I will make it up to you. I–’
A clatter of footsteps from the store room interrupted her and she spun as the door opened. Hermione stepped into the corridor with the two Lahmians and a pack of swains at her heels.
‘So, it is true,’ she said as she met Ulrika’s eyes. ‘The traitor has returned. Kill her!’
chapter thirty-five
THE BRIDGE AND THE ROAD
The blonde and the Tilean sprang at Ulrika as the swains surged in behind. Ulrika beat aside the Lahmians’ attacks and bulled past them into the men. Swords came at her from all angles. She darted left, grabbing the wrist of a dandy with a rapier, then hurled him behind her into the blades of his companions.
Beyond them, Hermione was moving her hands and mouthing the words of a spell. Ulrika cursed. That was a worse danger than the fighters. Her wards could lock Ulrika within the house. She had to stop her.
The Lahmians came in again, more cautiously this time. Ulrika didn’t wait for them. She drove towards Hermione, parrying a thrust from the Tilean, but could not bring her blade back in time to block a cut from the blonde. Her sword gashed Ulrika’s left forearm to the bone, but she staggered past and skip-lunged at Hermione. Hermione dodged aside, so fast that Ulrika didn’t see her move, and her sword struck the wall instead.
Hermione’s claws raked Ulrika’s breast and her off hand pinned her sword arm in an iron grip. Ulrika snarled and backhanded her with her free arm. The iron manacle cracked Hermione in the temple and she slumped to the floor like an empty dress.
‘Mistress!’ cried Famke, hurrying forwards.
As the swains ran to Hermione’s aid, Ulrika parried another lunge from the Tilean then riposted and ran her through. The blonde thrust as Ulrika tried to free her blade. Ulrika swung the Tilean into her, then kicked her full in the face. The two swordswomen fell back and there was only Famke between Ulrika and the door.
Ulrika strode ahead. The blonde was already staggering up, and the Tilean would only be seconds behind her.
‘Stand aside,’ she said. ‘I only want to leave.’
Famke held her ground for a moment, then shifted aside, shaking. ‘Never return,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
Ulrika stepped through the open door. She looked back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t promise that.’
The blonde and the Tilean were starting for the door. Ulrika gave the blank black veil of Famke’s face one last look, then turned and ran for the stairs to the underground tunnel.
Even after she had eluded the Lahmians and reached the streets of Nuln, Ulrika could not stop running. Too many things chased her that she could not escape. The horror of Famke’s unending agony, the shock of her hatre
d, the pain of losing her friendship, the sinking certainty that she had been right, and that Famke’s living hell was all her fault – all hounded her through the fog-bound streets like a pack of hell hounds.
She could blame von Messinghof for everything if she wished, but would he have done what he had done had she stayed with the Lahmians and taken her punishment? No. She would have spent the duration of the hidden war under guard, or until Countess Gabriella’s skilled diplomacy set her free, and afterwards she would have spent the rest of eternity with Famke as her friend. The count would have had no opportunity to lure Ulrika away, and therefore no reason to burn Famke.
Again, it had been her wilfulness, her inability to accept the right of her superiors to rule her, that had caused all her heartbreak and ruin. Her rebellion had brought her nothing but pain – but it was too late now to return and say that she had learned her lesson and was ready to obey.
Though Ulrika’s defeat of von Messinghof and her rescue of Karl Franz would do much to win her back into the sisterhood’s good graces, and though she suddenly wanted nothing more than to fly to Gabriella’s arms and beg for forgiveness, she couldn’t. How could she return to the Lahmians when Famke was among them? How could she bear the cold scrutiny of her faceless veil whenever their paths crossed? It was a cruel joke. The tragedy that had made her finally ready to come home was the same thing that made it impossible for her to do so.
But if she did not return to Lahmia, where did she go? What did she do? Sylvania was closed to her now, and she wouldn’t go back even if they asked. Should she return to Praag, and resume her role as defender of the city? For a second the idea thrilled her. Before Stefan and Boyarina Evgena had ruined it, she had enjoyed that more than any other thing she had done since her rebirth. Then the thrill turned to bitter bile. After all she had done under von Messinghof’s command, calling herself a protector of mankind was an irony too black to contemplate. She had slaughtered an entire town – men, women and children. She had kidnapped, killed, and fed from scores of innocents. She had become the monster people thought she was, the monster she had sworn never to become!
