by Mark Eller
Well, three now, or maybe two. Larson and Gilkrend had dispatched a smaller demon back to Zorce as it devoured someone in the harbor. A ship would be short a deckhand tomorrow morning. Larson might be short Gilkrend and maybe more. Was he the last knight remaining? Where had they all gone? Why this game of hide and seek? He was used to hellkind being much more direct. Was he dealing with a different breed of hellborn? Of late, they had been smarter, more powerful, and meaner.
Larson took a deep, quiet breath. He was so weary, so sick of the games. At twenty-seven, he already felt like he had lived a lifetime. Anithia had noticed silver caught among his blond hair when she last trimmed it.
Come on Larson, he chided himself,at least be thankful the dawn is almost here,and we now outnumber them.
Maybe outnumbered them if the others still lived, not that numbers would make a big difference with only one extra knight, but it helped nonetheless. Originally, there had been five knights hunting the creatures, but Gilkrend had been injured so badly they’d taken him back to the temple. Larson prayed he lived. Anothosia’s sworn knights were dwindling in number. Recruits with the right abilities, the right gifts, were hard to find. Hell had taken its toll on the Knights of the Order of the Sword and the Staff these last years.
“Larson,” Sulya hissed from several feet away.
Again Larson felt his heart try to leap out of his chest while his mind settled with relief. Gods damn the woman! Now was not the time for her games, but it was good to make contact with at least one of his knights.
Larson took a deep breath to help control his urge to throttle Sulya as she crept over to him. He didn’t like being caught unaware. How in the name of Anothosia had she seen him? He had been crouched down in a pitch black doorway and concealed within his magic.
Bones aching, he stood up. Feeling brittle and old, he took a quiet step out of the shadows. His hand felt raw beneath his glove from holding his sword in a death grip all night. Looking to the sky, he noticed the two moons were waning. The darkest part of the night, the one right before the dawn, was upon them. What little breeze there had been a short time earlier was gone. He felt like an over-baked loaf of bread inside his armor.
“Game time is over, Larson,” Sulya whispered. “It’s time for blood work. Two hellborn are inside the tavern. I saw them carrying something. I think a body.” Sulya kept her distance, stopping several feet from Larson, just out of range of his sword.
“I haven’t seen anyone enter since I’ve been here.” A knot formed in Larson chest.Gods no. Not another knight dead.
Sulya gave him a quick nod. “Yeah, it’s weird. I’ve been waiting here for a while and only just now noticed you. I looked for the other knights but couldn’t find anyone. I thought they were chasing one of the demons until now. If we don’t go inside we might lose more of our number.”
Indecision tore at Larson. If it were the devil in there, he and Sulya would be unable to handle it. But if the captive was still alive— could he face himself in the mirror knowing he had acted the coward and allowed one of his own to die?
No, he could not.
Decision made, Larson took the lead and crept among the shadows of the dilapidated buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Even so, Larson felt eyes upon him. His skin prickled.
The tavern’s door had been repaired, but it hung open. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Was he that tired?
With a curse, he placed his foot upon the tavern’s threshold. He stopped, held his breath, and listened. Aside from his own erratic heartbeat, Larson heard nothing. He eased inside, looking carefully around the dingy interior. The reek of puke, blood, and stale alcohol made him want to add his own bile to the mixture. The weak floorboards groaned beneath his weight. He might as well have barged in banging a pan with a metal spoon. If the devil were here, it knew someone was creeping about.
In pitch black, Larson slid his feet carefully along the floor, feeling his way to a wall where he thought there should be a scone hanging.
A scuttling noise came from the kitchen. Larson stopped, waited a moment, but heard nothing more. Reaching through the dark, Larson touched the wall, and thankfully, found the wall scone. With a bit of willpower, he thought the wick into lighting. It flickered slowly, and then began to burn brighter, giving Larson a better view of the chaos around him. Chairs and tables had been haphazardly stood back up. Other than that, Carrid had not bothered cleaning. The walls and floor were spattered with dried blood. Broken wooden mugs, smashed casks of ale, and bottles of cheap wine littered the floor as well.
“I bet they took the prisoner down into the cellar,” Sulya whispered from behind him. “Into the hole.”
Larson’s heart seized again and that worried him. Yes, her whisper had taken him by surprise, but he was a knight with nerves of steel. Why did she bring up his alarms? He had never before felt so violent and edgy toward any woman.
“Don’t stand so close,” he whispered.Don’t stand in the same room, he thought heatedly. Why did it have to be Sulya with him? Where were the other knights?
Larson feared the answer would be down the hole.
Sulya slipped by him without a word and entered the kitchen. Larson hesitated before following her. Once inside, they paused to listen.
Nothing.
“Look.” Sulya pointed to the cellar door. Faint light illuminated its entrance, indicating someone was down there. “Oh gods, Larson. I don’t think I can bear to see another one of us dead.”
Neither could he, but someone had to look. Slipping in front of Sulya, Larson cautiously made his way to the other door. The kitchen had been spared the demolition. Pots and pans still hung neatly in their places. A grime covered oven and an open fireplace stood in the same corner as the cellar entrance. Opening the door, Larson placed his foot on the top step leading to the hellhole. Black puddles shone on the worn wooden steps.
“Not good,” he told Sulya. “There’s blood.”
“Damn right there is,” she chuckled.
Something heavy slammed into Larson’s back, sending him tumbling and ricocheting down the decrepit stairwell. His head slammed into a step, knocking his helm off. Another blow sent his sword flying. Pain shot through his body as he bounced and then, with a sharp crack, he landed at the bottom. His world went black.
* * * *
The first sensation he felt upon waking was a searing pain along his cheek. His eyes flew open, and he groaned as the burning switched sides to track its way along his other cheek.
“Oh my, I think I woke him up.” A scratchy, whiny voice said from above and behind his head.
Larson tried to look toward the voice, but he couldn’t move. Nothing obeyed his commands. For a moment, he thought he had been tied though he couldn’t feel any ropes or chains. He felt nothing holding him, and yet he could not move. Cold, hard fear settled in his chest like a block of ice.
Something tugged at his leg, jerked him around. He tried to lift his head to see what yanked on him, but again, his body stayed immobile.
“Cut it off if you’re hungry,” the whiny voice said.
Cut it off? Cut what off?
A low hiss sounded down by his feet.
Suddenly free to move, Larson choked back a scream and rolled to the side as a piece of the darkness lunged at him. He swore as his bruised body was struck, grabbed, and thrown. Spinning in the air, Larson crashed into the wall. He gave a strangled gasp as ribs snapped.
More laughter echoed through the room. Raising his head high, Larson called to his goddess. “Anothosia, I pray to you, help me find my sword!”
The room burst into brilliant light. Hellkind screamed and scattered. Appearing as a ball of golden light in the middle of the room, his goddess’s gift, Larson’s sword, shattered the darkness, blinding the creatures of the hellgods. Suddenly able to move, Larson dove for it, grabbed, and rolled to a crouching position with the blade held ready. His body screamed agony as his broken ribs stole his breath. Black spots marring his vision, he
stood and readied himself for battle. Again, a blast of muddy light slammed him into the wall. Larson screamed. Searing pain traveled up his right arm.
Darkness overtook him.
* * * *
Larson awoke to agonizing pain. From a faint light in the corner, he saw he again lay at the bottom of the steps. “Oh, no,” he whispered, turning his head to the side. His arm. Gone. Only a charred stub remained.
Stifling a cry, Larson vowed he wouldn’t scream like a woman. By the goddess, he was a knight of the Order of the Sword and the Staff. He would not dishonor Anothosia in such a base and cowardly way.
Something crunched.
Larson tensed.
“Mm— delicious,” a husky voice murmured. “Never knew a knight could be so tasty. I wonder if your soul will be as good.”
Squinting toward the voice, Larson had to focus his blurred vision. A squat, man-shaped thing, naked and covered in blood, hunkered by the wall, casually chewing as it pulled at the sinewy remains of Larson’s arm. Bile rose in Larson’s throat when he saw shreds of his charred flesh caught between the hellborn’s long teeth.
“Truthfully, I would’ve preferred your flesh raw instead of cooked, but we can’t have everything, can we?”
Stomach lurching, Larson vomited.
“My, my— how the mighty have fallen,” a woman’s soft voice chuckled.
Jerking his head around, made the room spin. Sulya leaned against the stone wall near the hellhole, smirking. Her long, black tresses had been pulled back into a top knot. Her visible skin had changed to a strange puce. Instead of Anothosia’s shining armor, she wore black, spiked armor with a cat of nine tales insignia inlaid in its breastplate. Zorce’s mark.
“So tell me, Larson, do you like my new pet? Bent, come say hello to your dinner.”
Growling, the devil lumbered forward. “Your pet, Sulya? I ain’t your pet. If you ever address me so again I’ll drag you down to Hell and show you the true meaning of pain.”
Sulya’s smirk widened into a feral grin. Her color darkened into a putrid orange that seeped and oozed like slime over her exposed skin. It pulsed with a life of its own, almost as if it could crawl off her body and become a separate creature.
Larson tried to move, tried to inch away from her, but his remaining limbs had become leaden. He had no feeling from his knees down.
“Bent, you will be anything I wish you to be,” Sulya told the hellborn. “If I tell you to bugger yourself, you will do so.” She pushed away from the wall. “Now step off and stay the hell out of my way until Itell you to move!”
Snarling, Bent leaped across Larson to land in front of Sulya.
Sulya struck as soon as he landed. Orange light exploded from her hand, crashed into the devil, sent it cartwheeling back across the room. When it hit the wall with a solid thunk, Bent screeched and fell into a wiggling mass. Composure lost, it reverted back to its true shape of scales, horns and claws.
“Bitch,” Bent growled. “You’ll pay for that!”
Eyes gleaming, Sulya laughed. “Really? I belong to Zorce. To offend me is too offend him. Shall I tell him you challenged his general?”
Snarling, Bent picked himself up from the floor, but said nothing more.
“I didn’t think so.” Sulya looked smug, victorious.
Zorce’s general? Larson’s throat seized. Calto was in greater danger with this woman than he had suspected. His brother had to be warned, but how?
Larson struggled to make his body move, but the numbness spread rapidly. Thoughts of his unfulfilled mission swam in his head, drowning him in regret. He would never hold his wife or daughter again. He wouldn’t be around to protect the two beings capable of saving the world. Would Zorce’s minions go after them next? Did Sulya know the secret? He didn’t think so, but was unsure. What if Calto had revealed it to her? What if there were demons at his home right now defiling his wife and child?
“Now, where was I?”
Sulya came closer and stood beside him, smiling while her gaze roamed up and down his broken body. “What a waste.” Tsking, she rolled Larson to his side.
Sweet goddess, what was she going to do to him now?
Releasing her hold, Sulya allowed his body to roll onto its back. “Where is it?”
Larson coughed. The bitter taste of metal filled his mouth. “Where is what?” he managed.
“The sword. That damned blessed sword of your bitch goddess.” She didn’t give him time to answer. Instead she grabbed the lantern and furiously searched first the ground, and then between and on top of the liquor crates.
After long minutes of searching, she came back and glared at him. “Where. Is. It.” She punctuated each word with a vicious kick to his ribs. Larson heard them breaking but felt nothing.
“Fuck you,” Larson muttered. “D’you think I snuck around and hid it while you stood over me?” Weary and exhausted, he sighed. He wanted to get up and run her through with his belt knife, wanted to make her pay for her betrayal, but the numbness tugging at his brain made him too lethargic to move.
Eyes narrowing, Sulya’s gaze slid slowly to the devil. Following her gaze, Larson saw the beast had almost finished eating Larson’s arm. “You!” She turned to face Bent fully, her orange skin glowing brighter.
Dropping the arm’s remnants, the devil backed against the wall.
“I can't touch the blade. It’s goddess blessed.” Bent tried to restore its human features. They wavered into focus like a mirage, only to fade again. “Though I did see something glow and then disappear when the lamp was lit.”
Sulya stepped forward in a blur. Bent’s face seemed to explode in a spray of bloody fire as her fist struck its jaw. Howling, the beast reached for her, but when its hands made contact they too burned. Its scream sounded like that of a thousand damned souls. Arms flailing, he flung himself away from her.
Cursing, Sulya rounded on Larson. He cringed but to no avail. She kicked his body and face, sending him rolling across the floor with the force of her blows. Larson tried to cry out, tried to beg her to stop, but his head was cracked and bleeding, and his mouth was full of broken teeth. Finally, energy spent, she stood above him, chest heaving and eyes closed.
His vision wavering, Larson felt no pain. He heard a distant wind gently blowing through trees and smelled lilacs as a blanket of peace settled over him. Before him, Sulya’s face faded away, and her voice grew distant. For a moment, his vision cleared, allowing him to see her eyes open. Looking much calmer, she laughed. “Damn. Didn't mean to fuck you up that badly. Zorce’s poison is potent. Made me go berserk.”
Vision once again fading, Larson became a thing of air as the room grew bright. Sulya’s faint form disappeared. In her place stood a woman of gold and white, her smile welcoming, appearing more beautiful than even his glorious Ani. One hand reached out, beckoned, and Larson followed.
* * * *
In his family’s main home, located in Grace, Calto sat in his chair beside his bed. During the first half of the night, he had worked furiously to calm Queen Elise and squelch rumors that he, the High Priest of Anothosia, had become corrupt. Somehow, a rumor had spread that he caused the queen’s male children to die shortly after birth, though how he could be at fault when he had never been in attendance was not explained.
The other half of the evening had been just as bad. Somewhere in Grace a hellhole had opened and be damned if he could find it. After sending knights and guards to all the likely locations, he had run out of places to look. Worse, Larson had not yet checked in through their shared link created by Anothosia’s magic. Because of petulance, most likely. Larson had not been happy when Calto forced Sulya on him as a condition of Calto’s promise to be kinder to Simta. Still, it was slightly possible his brother had run into more trouble than expected.
Weary, eyes drooping, and his mind drifting, Calto called for Goron, his servant. As bad as this day had already been, the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep in his armor.
“Master,”
Goron said upon entering the room.”
“Remove my armor,” Calto ordered. “Then fetch me a warm brandy and let me know if Larson sends word through his link with another knight. I’ll have his head for keeping me up with worry.”
Hours later three empty glasses sat by his right hand. Calto’s mind wrapped itself in cottony folds of near sleep while the morning sun was a gradual lightening on the horizon. His eyes slipped closed. When he opened them again his bedroom was filled with soft light. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes with one hand.
Had Goron left him to sleep when he knew Calto waited for Larson? Growling low, Calto stood up. The fool should have wakened him.
Calto
Calto froze. His mind came fully alert as he cast nervous glances around the room. The light, he saw, did not come from his window. Instead it came from the other side of his bedroom.
Grabbing his staff, Calto walked quiet and cautious across the room, wondering who dared to enter his private chambers unannounced. Drawing close to his dressing table, he halted in surprise. The light shone from something on the table. Frowning, he leaned closer for a better look and cursed.
Larson’s sword!
A slow shock overtook him. There before him, glowing in a soft, pure white, thrumming in time with his staff, lay the sword given to his brother by the goddess herself.
How in the two hells had it gotten there? He moved a step closer to the table, scanning the room around him before reaching out to pick up the sword. When his hand grasped the warm hilt the light died, and the voice came to him again.
