by R. S. Ford
Her mind reached out, probing forth into the mortal realm, scouring the lands for a suitable host. She needed a mortal of strength, of pedigree, but also vulnerable enough to be manipulated. Young, malleable, yet with the strength of a warlord in the blood…
There.
A girl. Innocent but strong.
She was an unwitting host. It might still take Innellan weeks to take control, but take control she would.
Opening her eyes, Innellan saw the girl, asleep.
With a smile crossing her lips she stepped forward and let the Heartstone consume her.
Beyond the portal, Livia Harrow waited, unknowing…
53
The Ramadi Wastes, 104 years after the Fall
Hera waited in the tower. It was an old chamber, long unused, one of many within the fortress city of Mantioch that had been left to ruin after the Fall. From its window, she could see out over the city, over the slate rooftops, mostly broken and dilapidated.
They said, before the Fall, Mantioch was the most vibrant city within the Ramadi. A beacon of glory and prosperity. A bright lantern in the gloom of the wastes; richer than Kragenskûl, more industrious than Gortanis, more beautiful than Isinor.
Now it was a relic, like all the cities. Like all the cults.
Hera shook that last thought from her head. Such heresy could not be allowed to infect her thoughts. She was Justiciar, Honour Guard to the Set, and as such held in a place of esteem. She had to be an example to others. Such doubt would not be tolerated. Questioning the glory of Katamaru’s Faithful would only lead to her demise.
And yet here she was. Waiting for him again.
To think sacrilegious thoughts was one thing. To engage in such iniquity was quite another. But Hera had long since stopped scourging herself for her lust. After all, what was the point? The Blood Lords were gone, and they would never return. Their magic spent. Now all that remained were their priests, adhering to ancient rites and poring over meaningless scripture. Where did such observance get them when the Fall came? What had their exalted tomes done for them when Tauri the Mighty died in a torrent of his own blood, blown away on the breeze like so much ash?
The door opened behind her with a creak. As he shut the door behind him she could smell his musk, and she closed her eyes, savouring it for a moment.
Mandrake said nothing, and Hera continued staring out of the window – a game they played every time. Sometimes he would give in first, coming to her, wrapping himself around her and kissing her neck. Other times she would weaken, turning and running to his arms, kissing him fully, her hands scrabbling at the buckle of his belt.
This time their desire was simultaneous. She turned just as he was making his way across the chamber, his bare broad chest gleaming, his hair oiled back, beard twisted and braided into three forks. They met in the centre of the chamber and Hera grasped him around the neck. Mandrake reached down, grasping her buttocks in his huge hands and lifting her, grinding their loins together as he kissed her hard. She could hear his breath, the deep moan in his throat. It stirred her within.
His beard was soft against her face. Mandrake had already unbuckled the belt at his waist, allowing his kilt and sword belt to fall to the floor. Hera took him in her hand, feeling him quickly swell, her own excitement growing as he moaned at her touch.
He dragged the leather hauberk off her torso and her own kilt fell to the ground. Grasping her buttocks, he raised her up, his mouth devouring her breast. Hera’s breath came short and sharp as she tried to quell a moan of her own. They were lost up here, far from the rest of the fortress, but her voice might well carry from the open window. Cries of ecstasy would stand out starkly in this dour city.
With her legs wrapped around him she could feel the flesh of his powerful thighs against hers, the end of his manhood teasing her quim. Eagerly she eased him inside her and they both bit their lips, staring into each other’s eyes as they felt their long-subdued lust finally given free reign.
Mandrake pushed himself slowly inside her, his brow furrowing, his mouth open in a silent moan of rapture. Hera gasped a shallow breath with every stroke, faster and faster until she was riding him as he plunged deeper and deeper.
All too quickly Mandrake closed his eyes, biting down on Hera’s shoulder as he came inside her. She pressed her cheek to his as he breathed deeply, a sheen of sweat having gathered on his rough flesh.
When he had recovered, he laid her down on the cool floor of the chamber, kissing her breasts, her stomach, down to between her legs until she had to bite her own palm to quell a cry of joy.
Afterwards, as the evening began to cool, they lay in each other’s arms. And as she did every day, Hera fought with her guilt. She knew it was forbidden for temple guardians to consort, but it felt right. They were risking everything – capture would mean execution – but as much as she wanted to tell Mandrake that this should be their final tryst she could not bring herself to say the words.
Hera knew he must have felt the same, but he too could not say it. That was Mandrake’s way – words were not his strength.
‘We should leave,’ Mandrake breathed as the sky darkened.
‘Just a little while longer,’ she said. It sounded pathetic on her lips, but she could not resist just a few more moments in his arms.
His grip on her tightened and he kissed her forehead.
Then the door burst open.
Six temple guards stormed the room. Mandrake looked to where his sword belt lay but Hera put a hand of warning on his arm before he could try to reach for it. They were caught – there was nothing either of them could do now.
Each of the guards held a drawn weapon. Each of them Hera knew by name. She had grown up with them, trained and fought with them. But none would show her an ounce of mercy if she resisted.
Hierophant Grimald entered the chamber after his men. He wore a scant loincloth, bronze bands covering his arms, neck and thighs. Around his shaven head was a circlet of gold and in its centre an emerald jewel through which it was said he could commune with Katamaru himself. Hera had never believed that was true. Not that it mattered now.
‘You were given every opportunity,’ said Grimald. ‘Granted every privilege. And still you spurn us.’
The temple guards were already clapping irons to Mandrake’s wrists. Hera felt a sudden swell of panic as they approached.
‘It was me,’ she said to Grimald. ‘I seduced him. It was all me.’
The hierophant shook his head. ‘You are both complicit in this. Temptation is no justification.’
They clapped the irons around her wrists. Perhaps she should have resisted. A feeling of helplessness overcame her with the manacles on and she suddenly regretted not fighting back.
But what good would it have done? To die here rather than on the pyre? Besides, deep down she had always known it would come to this. Her fate had been ordained, creeping nearer every time she had come to this place to meet her lover.
Hera glanced to Mandrake one last time as they were dragged from the room. Neither had a chance to speak.
* * *
She hung from the ceiling, her toes barely touching the cold, damp tiles. A grate was set in the floor just beside her feet, draining whatever fluids were shed within the torture chamber. Hera’s back had long since stopped stinging from the ministrations of the lash. She was just numb now. At first, she had tried to brave the pain as she had always been taught, trying her best to quell her screams. Eventually, caught up in the delirium of agony, she had cried to the heavens.
In the periphery of her blurred vision she could see a figure. Squinting through the haze she saw Grimald watching. He made no sound, but his eyes gave away everything. He stared at her naked body, hungry, eyes alive with need. How he wanted her; that much was obvious. Perhaps her pain had been that much harsher because of the hierophant’s jealousy. If it had been him in that high tower with her, and not Mandrake, it was doubtful she would be suffering so.
‘I know what you
’re thinking,’ Grimald said. ‘You’re thinking that this is a huge waste. That you were a faithful servant. That your prowess in battle was all but peerless.’
That wasn’t what Hera was thinking at all, and she would have told him had her lips not been swollen and gummed with blood.
‘But you will not be wasted,’ Grimald continued. ‘You will be revered. More than you deserve, I know, but you and your lover will bring about a new era. Our eidolons restored.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Hera asked, speaking through numb jaws.
‘Our seekers have heard the call,’ Grimald replied, moving to stand before her. With one finger, he wiped a trail of blood from her mouth. ‘The path to the gods is opened anew. We have an opportunity to bring them back. To welcome them, so that they might walk among us once more. For that we will be rewarded.’ He raised the finger to his mouth and licked Hera’s blood from it. ‘Your sacrifice will be remembered for all time.’
As though the taste of her were not enough, Grimald leaned in. Hera could not move away from him as he breathed her in deeply, then licked her from chin to temple.
All she remembered as he left was how his breath stank of raw meat.
* * *
They were both shackled to the floor of the sacrificial chamber. Its low ceiling was oppressive, as though it might fall and crush them at any moment.
Hera glanced across at Mandrake, his face a bloody ruin. Metal plates had been screwed into his face and skull – a crude homage to Tauri the Mighty. She wanted to speak, to tell him how she felt, that if this was the punishment they had to endure for what they had shared then she would have endured it a thousand times.
Hierophant Grimald stepped forward. He was naked but for the bronze rings on his arms and thighs. The jewel in his golden circlet seemed to glow brightly as though it was ablaze with anticipation of the sacrifice.
In the background the seekers chanted their perpetual prayers in a language few understood. Grimald smiled as though this were a feast day, as though Hera and Mandrake should have been appreciative of the tribute they were to receive.
In his hands, Grimald held a huge jewel. Inside it Hera could see something roiling with life. The Stone of Katamaru, an artefact that for a hundred years had lain dormant, was now alive with energy.
Hera could feel it filling her with something inhuman. She tried to quell it, but despite her efforts it was consuming her body and soul.
Mandrake made a sound, crying out from behind the iron screwed to his face. It was something more than human, an animal bellow that filled Hera with dread, despite the fear she harboured for her own life.
‘Yes,’ said Grimald. ‘Come forth! Return to—’
Mandrake’s chains shattered. He rose, somehow larger, more muscular than he ever had been, his head scraping the ceiling. Before Grimald could say any more Mandrake grasped his face and hoisted him high. Hera could hear the hierophant make a high-pitched squeal as his skull cracked in Mandrake’s bestial grip. The Stone of Katamaru fell to the floor of the chamber, rolling towards Hera, but she barely noticed.
Mandrake smashed Grimald’s head into the ceiling, dashing his brains out and shattering the brickwork. He roared. It was deafening, filling the chamber like a flood, silencing the seekers, who staggered back, their emaciated features showing only fear.
Hera could still feel her insides being torn apart, every sinew burning with apotheosis. Mandrake took a step towards her, but now it was her turn to roar.
Her body burst into flames. The metal that bound her melted in an instant. Heat consumed the room as she rose, screaming. Wings of fire sprouted from her back as the sacrificial chamber was consumed in an all-encompassing conflagration.
The sky was on fire as she staggered to the huge window at the north end of the chamber and took flight…
* * *
She fell burning from a crimson sky…
54
THE blade rang in her hand as the battle assailed her senses. There was a roaring in her ears like the crashing of waves, the stench of blood and sweat pungent in her nose. She scanned the battlefield, this charnel house, for more enemies to slay, but they hung back. Breath came swift and hot to her lungs as armoured men backed away. But it was to be expected. How could they face her? How could they match the battle fury of a god?
Siff saw the fear in them. Or was her name Silver? She was an Archon walking the soil of the mortal plain after so many centuries, but Silver was still there, still fighting within her. They were one – all Siff’s benevolence and hope, alongside all Silver’s fury and hate.
That night in the valley seemed an age ago. How she’d slaughtered the bandits, enacting a bloody revenge for the death of her boys. Of course Siff knew they weren’t hers. She knew she shouldn’t have cared, but Garvin and his sons had been close to Silver – she had loved them with all her heart – and something inside Siff loved them too. Ripping the last bandit asunder and drinking of his blood had not just been necessary to bring her forth… it had been her pleasure to take. Silver had still been in control then, her rage and grief manifesting in violence. That act of bloodletting allowed the Archon residing within her to rise and take control.
And now Livia Harrow was about to do the same. The blood of a single mortal and the Archon within her would be unleashed.
Siff looked up at the ziggurat. A monument to the Archons, erected by misguided mortals as a place of worship. She could see activity at its summit. Men fighting as Livia watched. A boy on the throne.
Ranks of warriors stood in her way but Siff knew she had to be swift. Any compassion she might have felt for them was gone. She could let nothing stop her – if Livia was to succumb to the Archon inside, all would be lost.
Her blade cut a furrow through the fighting men on both sides; they fell away from her path as she hacked her way through. All the while she was focused on the summit of the ziggurat.
As Siff burst through the melee, something screamed in her ears. A primordial cry as though the very fabric of this world were being torn apart. The screams of a million souls. The death of an entire population. The end of a continent.
She was too late.
Innellan had won.
Livia Harrow had succumbed to the Archon inside her. Innellan had taken hold of her host. How she had tricked the girl into killing and consuming the blood of her victim, Siff might never know, but Livia Harrow was lost. All Siff could do now was stop her immortal sister from wreaking any more harm on this world.
The stairs ran up the side of the ziggurat. No one stood in Siff’s way as she mounted them.
When she reached the top of the pyramid, Innellan was waiting, eyes black and hair pure white. Her mouth was rimmed red with the blood of a boy, dead on his throne. To one side knelt a dark-haired warrior cradling a corpse in his arms.
Innellan smiled, teeth stained red. ‘Sister,’ she said in greeting.
‘You do not belong here,’ Siff replied, feeling the raw power emanating from Innellan’s newly adopted form. ‘None of us belong here.’
Innellan laughed, throwing her head back, hair falling in white tresses about her shoulders. ‘Do not belong here? This land was meant for us. These… apes were born to serve. Accept it, Siff. This world is ours.’
‘Never,’ said Siff. ‘I will never accept that.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Innellan’s black eyes bored into Siff. ‘We can rule this place together. You and I. Queens atop our dark thrones. Nations at our feet.’
Siff shook her head. ‘You know I would never allow that. I fought too long to end the misery we wrought upon this land. I will not let you spread your poison upon it again.’
Innellan suddenly looked sullen. ‘Then, fair sister, you will die.’
The air roiled about Innellan’s head, as Siff leapt.
They had fought many times over the millennia in different guises. On occasion, they had slaughtered enemies side by side. More often they had opposed one another on the battlefield
. Siff had forgotten how often each of them was the victor, but that was a distant memory. All that mattered was that Innellan was stopped.
Siff’s sword cut through the air, aimed at Innellan’s heart, but before it could strike her sister held out her arm, a discarded spear flying to her outstretched palm. Their weapons rang against one another, and Siff could see a smile of ecstasy cross her sister’s face.
Siff’s sword sang again, a high-pitched hymn of unrestrained violence.
It was not enough. She could not match Innellan, and her sister’s spear parried every blow.
‘You inhabit a fighter,’ said Innellan, as their weapons locked once more. ‘That much is easy to see. But Livia Harrow carries true power within her.’
Innellan thrust her spear forward, pushing Siff back. She could feel the strength there. The power Innellan spoke of.
Innellan parried Siff’s final blow, the spear countering, thrusting, impaling.
Siff gasped, the blade dropping from her hand to grasp the shaft of the spear that ran through her chest.
‘We will enjoy conquering this land, this girl and I,’ Innellan said. ‘I can feel her inside, raging against it. This child has a good heart… but it will not stay that way.’
Siff saw the black of Innellan’s eyes flicker for a moment. They were suddenly brown, innocent, pleading for release. Then Livia Harrow was gone.
The spear burned inside Siff. She could feel the pain radiating from it, filling her essence. Her head tipped back and she screamed as fire consumed her from within…
* * *
A plume of flame ignited on top of the huge pyramid. Josten staggered back from the fight, his shield a heavy lump of battered metal, his sword like lead in his hand. In an instant the battle was over, every fighter now glaring up at that pyramid.
The fire soared into the dark of night like a shooting star, impossibly high until it disappeared into the black.
When it was gone, silence fell over the citadel.
Something was coming – they could all feel it. Something terrible and dark.
As the two armies watched, a figure descended from the summit of the pyramid. White hair floated about her head as though she were submerged in water, and her black eyes scanned the battlefield. Dried blood surrounded her smiling mouth, and it took Josten some time before he realised it was Livia Harrow.
