“By Surelikai’s hand.” K'Chool said, having crept up as quiet as death.
“And you!” Khar said angrily, standing up in the cabin to face her. Although, he was angrier at being surprised more than anything else. “What the skell is your deal? Fenn, one of the high Våpen, a twenty-seven, is your father? When were you going to drop that bomb?” Grandma Po Po’s brightness had disappeared.
“I was hoping never to.” She said back sheepishly, full of sadness and managing to take all the heat out of Khar.
“Well?” He said, trying to get her to open up about her past but failing with the lack of conviction in his voice.
“Not now, Khar.” Using his name in the way she did, made him realise he’d have to try another time, and all the heat was gone from him.
“Know how to use one of these?” K'Chool held up a parachute towards Xiang who nodded with kindness in his eyes. “We are coming up on the monastery.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE - A FAVOUR
Christophe wasn’t surprised by her request when it finally came. A part of him knew that The Mistress and The Rage would win out eventually, their silent plotting coming to fruition with the final development of the Archfiend and those purple atrocities. Their influence over the person he loved was too strong and they’d been a constant, steady presence in her psyche for too long. That filthy, corrupt book had some kind of sway over her as well, although he hadn’t figured out quite what it was, other than it being an evil influence. Seeing what the voices and the leathery nightmare made her do he couldn’t help but feel she was lost. After she’d finished eating the woman with golden hair, licking the last remnants of blood from the chair and the floor like a feral creature, he knew the part of her he loved, had been silenced. Maybe not gone, but a passenger for now. The last few days had been a blur for him. Emotions on a pendulum, relentlessly swinging from one extreme to another. Events drip, drip dripped through his mind as dreams and fragments of thought. He was a passenger too, caught in the maelstrom of her return and her scheming.
Both of them were living separate lives by now. He was going about his business, maintaining relationships and deals that kept him on the fringes of society. Kept him in his lifestyle. She was on a mission to end the worlds and create her own in its place. Collecting, growing and changing what she could in an effort to control that eventuality she dreamed of. They’d only really come together each night or really saw each other when they had sex. He wanted to call it making love but that meant, to make, not to break. Even though they were physically connecting, he knew it was pretence and her true self was distancing herself from him. She’d given him glimpses of what life could be like, only to disappear into herself and wander with her Detka, out of reach. Those cursed things were mobile now, creeping around and appearing in places silently, still vibrating and pulsating on a different frequency, but more here than there as time drew on. He’d felt her slipping from him in each interaction they had, helpless to the choice she’d made to leave him behind for now, so what she asked of him made sense in the end and all he could do was obey.
Rosalind didn’t want things to end the way that they did. At least, a part of her, the part of her that could still feel, didn’t want it to end that way. She wanted Christophe to be at her side when she took the worlds back but for now, he’d have to wait. Her desire to be with him would have to wait. Being freed from that bland, fleshy prison had brought out the worst parts of her. The vicious, conniving, deceitful side of her that planned to use Christophe. The voices had quieted over time, hope springing up in their places before she was reminded they still had control. They still influenced and made her do things. She despised how she was when she fed. She hated what it must look like, holding onto thoughts of her youth where she didn’t have the hunger. She knew the book encouraged the eating habit as well as the others in her mind and she knew when they all appeared in her life. When her Dyad betrayed her.
“Are you excited for tomorrow?” A rich and elegant voice said to her from the other side of the bed.
“Of course. I’ve been training for years to be a Dyad. Cleric Aitch even praised me for my wordless casting, saying that I should’ve been one years ago.”
“A wonderful gift you have for the magiks.” The older man said. Her Dyad. Her new love. She blushed at his compliment even though they’d been intimate with each other for a long time. She was comfortable with him, knowing it wasn’t uncommon for Dyads to be in deeper relationships than the ones forged on the battlefield or in the training square. He still had this ability to take her aback though. Is it because he was an ancient? Being the right hand of Obed also held some sway over her emotions when he spoke and isn’t this what she’d wanted? She’d pushed herself so hard, just to be noticed and maybe this was the reward. The Surelikhan, the Sojeladhan and Sojela of every rank would know her name and love her. She even wanted the Fledglings to notice her. Sad, she knew. Her esteem in tatters after her foolish youth.
When others were sleeping she was studying. When others were training she was training and when they weren’t, she was. Only breaking to eat food and keep clean she worked tirelessly to be the best. She wanted the whole monastery to notice her. She wanted The Nameless to notice her. She wanted them and The Protectorate to fear her, respect her, want her. Painful training with Cleric Mo strengthened her body. Painful lectures from Master Aitch on the histories strengthened her mind. Painful nights in the infirmary and the library in equal measure carved her into the perfect Sojela, destined to become a Dyad for the histories. The only unpainful memories were ones of Cleric Augustine and her gentle tutelage. She hadn’t taken a student for decades but wanted to work with her of all people. She’d respected her and loved her dearly, missing her own mother dreadfully. Finally, when she was eligible to become a Dyad she felt the weight from her shoulders lessen. She felt the chip that had dug away at her get smaller. Her hard work had finally paid off. Then, to find out who her Dyad would be, she couldn’t grasp the gravity of the situation and how much of an honour it would be to be paired with him.
Sitting across from him in bed, she thought about what he must’ve seen in his time. It was rumoured he’d briefly studied with all four of the parents of magik. Artoor Moniin had shown him the intricacies of the Eternal Glow. Nimah Arathbar detailed the fragile art of the Bleeding Heart. Kiane Streyfell had personally sparred with him, revealing the secrets of the Whispered Night. He’d even been granted an audience with Sophia Reklan before she became a total recluse. He’d spent lives loving, losing, rebuilding. They talked often of his past, her wanting to know him inside out and him, glad to have a willing ear for his tired old stories. For long hours she picked through his memories, challenging him, consoling him, cutting him when she had the chance. His wit and charm were also something of legend too. Very rarely was he caught off guard, but when it happened she made sure he remembered with the deep cuts she could carve. Words made steel in the night.
The conversations and explorations of other were a blessing and she’d fallen deeply in love with the man, so to find out he was a traitor, crushed her. She’d fallen under his spell and she’d fallen under the Dyad’s spell. The promise of sharing a life with someone like him, living forever in the histories and taking back their world from The Reapers was an incredible, and blinding, temptation. Since that moment she’d thought long and hard about what changes a person and what changed her. What had made her into The Betrayer. The thousand curses and The Last Word. She wanted it to be a grand spectacle, but like most great moments that change people, it was just an accident. Rosalind had just finished a session in the library, pouring over a forbidden book the monastery had tried to keep hidden. She was cursed with a curious mind and wanted to know all magiks, even the one Sophia had created against the will of Surelikai. Caressing the symbol on the spine, she’d hid it in the secret place she’d made and started walking to her room for a few hours’ sleep. Words from the book echoed in her head after the book was safely hidden. The voice
was telling her to go and see him and she suddenly felt mischievous, her feet steering her towards his room.
Just as she reached to knock, she heard those rich and elegant tones arguing with someone. The other voice was flicking from liquid gold to sounds made from another plane. Words mixing with hurtful clicks, scrapes and shuddering noises. The frequency of it made her feel sick, her knees wavering. I must stop that voice she thought, barging into his room. She was surprised to see her love standing alone, facing a stain on the wall that quickly disappeared. What happened next was a blur and her mind has hidden the full memory what happened next from her. What she can recall is the argument, although no words come to mind as to what was said, and some frail attempts at explanations from him. Mostly, she just remembered what she could feel; disgust, at his betrayal and working for one of The Nameless, loathing, at his curses and telling her he was only using her to get his Dyad powers back and revulsion, at being told she would never be able to replace his last Dyad, a woman he truly loved. The sounds and images blurred whilst she was in that room, events unfolding faster than she knew possible and before she knew it, she was standing over his dead body, a distant voice in her head telling her everything would be alright and that she needed to get back to the library. The book would know what to do. It comforted her, spoke to her in ways she desired. Unsure why she was thinking it, but she’d go to Sahld’veba. She would crush The Protectorate. She would end The Balance. She was hungry, and she wanted to be adored. She wanted to rule. The library was calling, and she had fire in her head. Fire in her heart. Fire in her hands.
How long have I been in that memory? Christophe wasn’t there so maybe she’d already asked him to help. Had she? The other voices started getting louder again, confusing her, distorting her. Warping time. Did he say that he’d do it? He must have. He understands how important this is. She looked across at the Archfiend and her Detka. Loyal, staring and silent. They’d be her protectors but travelling to her destination would take time and energy. She needed to feed again. A Naïve illness wouldn’t work this time, the slow and steady energy from the flu not powerful enough for the task at hand. Where she was going, a large void dispelled any magikal effects and it would take a few days to get there. Without feeding she’d die before she even arrived.
“I need one last feast.” She said to the air. She’d already said that to Christophe earlier as she remembered the face he pulled. It was a sad and lovely moment all at once. The crueller parts of her found him pathetic but the kinder parts warmed to him when they realised he’d do anything for her. “Once I have finished eating, I’ll need you to pretend to be me for a few days. I need you to look like me. I need you to kill like me. I need you to be hunted like me. I have briefed my old friends in the high places and they’ll help. You must distract the worlds whilst I do what’s next.” Christophe nodded in silence and then walked away. No long goodbye or soft embrace. Just the cold of a heartbroken man.
* * *
“This is Stephanie Fox, NBC News, reporting live from the scene of the attack.” Whispering and dressed in a pantsuit, Stephanie was being filmed on a handheld camera that shook, her face coming in and out of focus.
“What’s going on Stephanie?” The studio anchor was looking worried.
“Can you get a shot of her, Mike?” She was whispering to her cameraman who awkwardly moved to look out of the small hole in their hiding place. Pulling the camera up to the viewpoint, a woman was walking slowly along the street. Car alarms were blaring, fires were roaring, buildings were crashing down all around them, the camera lens uncontrollably shifting from falling objects and trying to focus on the woman calmly pacing around.
“Well, Mitch. What we’re seeing can only be described as magic.” She continued to whisper something out of camera shot, most of her professionalism absent through fear. “The woman you can see on your screen appeared out of nowhere in the middle of a rally and went berserk.”
“How do you mean, berserk?” Mitch replied, feigning a calm demeanour.
“Look around Mitch, can’t you see?” The camera focus shifted again, and all professionalism had completely disappeared from Stephanie now. Her clothes were in tatters, there were small scrapes across her face and hand, she was dirty, and she was scared. “She just showed up. Appeared out of thin air and then caused all this damage.” The camera swung side to side to try and get a wide shot of the city now burning.
“Just her?” Mitch was sounding a little condescending.
“Yes, Mitch. Just her. She also has these creatures with her, but they’re just walking around, protecting her from any resistance.” The camera shifted focus suddenly to try and capture the woman’s face from the street. The journalist in them both wanted her face to be broadcast publicly. They wanted her to have no place to hide, like they had no place to hide. When the camera finally found the attackers face, she was looking directly at them.
“Shit.” The cameraman said.
“Warn everyone. If you see this woman, stay away from her.” The woman in the street starting walking towards the camera. Very slowly. “She’s doing more than just damaging property.” The camera was starting to pick up more details on the woman, her arms were covered in blood. So was her face and neck, most of her top half soaked in it. “She’s eating people.” Two very brave men came running into camera shot then, holding weapons and swinging hard at the slowly advancing woman. She grasped both of them by the neck, one in each hand and lifted them from the ground. In an instant, their bodies folded in unimaginable directions, contorting, snapping, squelching and compressing towards the palms of the woman's hands until they were completely gone. She was smiling.
“Oh, God.” The camera stayed where it was, shifting focus again to try and find the bloodied woman who’d disappeared in the blink of an eye.
“Your God cannot help you.” A woman’s voice growled out of camera shot, shortly followed by another woman screaming. It was cut short by snapping, squelching noises as the camera swung around to see a shoe heel fall to the ground from an outstretched palm. The other palm reached forward, past the camera and towards a neck. The cameraman was trying to escape, the viewers of the news subjected to his screams and the crunching of his death. The last thing the camera saw was teeth and darkness.
* * *
A man sat alone in a grey room, counting the seconds until he could go home, buried in greyness. The table was grey, the screens were grey, the floor was grey, the files were grey. Even the door and its handle were grey. A boring life and an even more boring mind. He looked at his grey drink in its grey mug, barely noticeable against the very grey background of his overalls. He jumped when the purple lights violently screeched at him. He dragged his eyes away from his grey-green hands and they greyness they held. He saw the screen that triggered the alarm, hot liquid seeping into his grey underwear, the mug having not moved at all whilst in his hands. The grey slab of wood flung open behind him and his friend stood there, trying to take in the scene. They exchanged a look and he walked over to one of the grey walls, placing both hands on the cold surface. Whispering and closing his eyes, lines appeared in the wall and a small door slid down from an invisible space. In it, sat a dark red box. Without removing the box from its compartment, the orc grabbed the Porträlen to make the call.
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to keep this one from the Naïves.” Wet underwear just stared back, words a foreign thing to him now.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - PAYING THE PRICE
I can feel pain everywhere. Gnashing pulses of hurt all over my body. I try to move but can’t. I try to breathe but can’t. The pulsing was relentless, surprising me with fresh anguish in parts of my body that I didn’t know were there. I thought it would never end. There was no light at the end of the tunnel I was in. It’s just a pit, that keeps forging downwards into more darkness. The only other thing I feel is despair. No one’s coming to help, and I’m going to suffer for an eternity. All of a sudden, I hear a whipping of material accompa
nied by the feeling of being sat in a shallow pool. I open my eyes and realise that I’d been dreaming of the pit. Covered in sweat I had thrown the bed covering away from me and was sat in my own wet sheets. Tchook had his non-hands wrapped around my shoulders, two pale arms at my side a stark contrast to his light absorbing black surface.
“Same as the other rooms?” Tchook grumbled a neither happy, nor sad sound back at me. A matter-of-fact, ‘afraid so, sprang to mind. “Then let’s get to it.”
Our routine began again; training, healing, meditating, training, healing, sleeping. We ate. We non-talked. We repeated. We knew the drill and after a few attempts at the room we only noticed a couple of differences compared to the others. One, Tchook wasn’t allowed in the room with me at all and two, the consequences of not completing the room were getting worse. Thankfully I’m healing faster. Thankfully Tchook’s here to help speed things along and keep me sane. Thankfully, I’m improving on all the things I’d learned, but we were still getting no closer to getting out of the room. Every time it reached the point where I was overwhelmed and pinned to the ground I’d look at Djoonga to see if there’d been any change in his light and every time I was disappointed. I died, countless times with his light not shining upon me.
There was one time in the first few weeks where I was staring at him and thought I did see a change, but it may’ve been a trick of the mind. Thinking back on it, I was lying there, my vision being jerked around by the deads tearing and wrenching at my body, pain cascading through me like sheets of storm rain. I let the pain flow through me and contemplated the debt I’d soon pay. I’d thought about how I’d die soon and how I probably deserved it, and in that moment, I thought I saw the door glow slightly. I would die soon and maybe I deserve it. The glow got brighter. I accepted my fate, realising that pain was a part of life. The glow got brighter. Suffering was important, and mistakes were needed to grow. The glow of the door pulsed, the pain seemed to lessen and then my vision was jerked towards the ceiling to see a dreadful, hungry mouth full of saliva, blood and want, bearing down on me. The jaw was impossibly distended to fit over my head, need and lust to fill a stomach that could never be filled driving it down on to me, pushing me into the endless sleep. Bone wrenching, nerve breaking and brain twisting pain followed. Then sweat and heat as I healed. Tired eyes taking in the fresh damage to my body. My muscles had become iron since the rooms. My skin had become as hard as diamond. My resolve had become as unyielding as a mountain, and yet, the room kept beating me. But I’d seen Djoonga glow, I was sure of it. The key to beating that room was in that moment. All I had to do was figure out what it was.
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