Temple of Cocidius: A Monster Girl Harem Adventure Serial Part 5

by Maxx Whittaker

  The soft colored enamel on her mask goes from pastel to jewel-tone. “Already?”

  “Hah. Business, not pleasure.”

  “Oh.” She smiles and doesn’t try to hide disappointment that mirrors my own.

  We skirt behind columns and curtains fluttering in the night breeze, to a wall of terrace doors thrown open to the night. A false night; the terrace view shows the lake wrapping Akershus in a half-circle, silver-blue with moonlight that paints deeper shadows between torchlight along the promontory. This is the facade of Akershus, an image the uninvited gather across the river to admire or resent. I wonder if the witch has finished with Avery and his companions, if they’re among the figures milling beyond the iron fence.

  Kumiko tucks into a rose-tangled arbor, thorns zipping the silk of her skirts. I huddle with her, one ear turned for the slightest rustle or step. “Astrachronograph?”

  She gasps. “You saw one?”

  “The only one that matters.” I run through the clock’s entire movement. “Any ideas?”

  “Maybe. I’m still caught on the part about the hare.”

  “Feels prophetic, doesn’t it?” If she thinks the hare is unsettling, she should hear the part about MacVortigan’s vision of the dragons.

  “Nine realms, nine bell chimes,” says Kumiko.

  “Each one bore a rune.”

  “Can you remember the order in their set positions, before the cycle began?”

  “Since it sounds like it matters, I sure hope so.” I snap a green twig from the climbing rose and trace the runes in rows of three on the arbor’s whitewash.

  Kumiko counts them out, murmuring. “These...and this one here, then here while the fourth…” Her slender, gloved finger draws lines with a speed I can barely follow. Kumiko pumps her fist. “For any chance of getting rid of Pentave, the movement must be stopped after the rotation between these two chimes,” she touches two symbols. “The moment that Helheim and Heimdallr align.”

  I squint overhead at a moon fractured by thick green leaves. “We don’t have long before the end of the hour. The best thing–”

  Noise from the ballroom has been steadily rising; suddenly it crescendos in a collective wail of baritone swears and women’s screams.

  We don’t have to say a word. Kumiko covers the garden faster than I do; she’s in the thick of a cowering crowd by the time I skid to a stop inside the terrace doors.

  Servants hunch at the head and foot of the table they were bearing, cloth half fallen away. Whatever refreshment or amusement it was meant to reveal, the drape has betrayed its purpose.

  The corpse is not a reveler. He’s dressed in the fine black clothes of a clerk, or proprietor of a fine trade establishment. Crisp folds of a starched linen neckcloth run white to crimson. His head is gone; it’s been torn or gnawed away. Arms crossed over its chest feel mocking, not respectfully ritualistic. Maybe it’s the missing hands that ruin the effect. There’s something macabre about the masked guests, the corpse...as though he’s been partially devoured by them.

  At this thought, Kumiko leans close and grips my sleeve.

  The crowd parts around Tindra’s approach. She doesn’t hesitate or seem to wonder who the man is. She crouches on taut thighs and pats a hand over his coat, searching.

  When she stands, she speaks to the crowd but her eyes hold mine. “The royal printer is dead; his invitation seal missing. I will pay handsomely, in more than gold, to have it back.”

  “Well, we know who’s getting in now,” Kumiko whispers.

  “Mm. And who isn’t.” The Svartr just played the first ace in their hand.

  Pentave is so confident in his coup that he wants Tindra to know he killed her printer. He arranged this spectacle.

  “What a gruesome pity.” Pentave slips from the crowd on a whisper of his glittering cloak as though I summoned him. His scant mask has receded to nothing more than a sheer black ribbon over his eyes. He doesn’t care who knows his identity; he fears no one here.

  A fatal mistake.

  He circles the corpse. “I will sacrifice my manners and say what each of us is thinking: Our host has put us in grave danger.”

  Tindra’s lean jaw flinches.

  “A host has as much obligation to refreshment and entertainment as to the safety of his or her guests. This horrific act was committed unheard, unseen, and now lies unremedied,” Pentave kicks the table leg for emphasis, jarring the body. “The welfare of one printer lost in the hands of the being responsible for guaranteeing the security of Heimdallr and the Bifrost?” He tsks, head hung down. “Anyone could invite themselves in, now. Anyone.”

  Tindra is wrathful but silent. What can she say to refute the man who engineered this?

  Pentave exhales a heartbroken noise. “Friends, keep one eye on your fellow guests throughout the night. And while you do this, remember who made such vigilance necessary.”

  Servants recover the drape and snap it over the corpse, shuttling the table away like the end of a dinner course. A violin sings a sinister solo note, and the orchestra sings to life again. Sweat sharp with fear fills my nose. Guests turn and flow away, slipping back into the machine of intrigue with shoulders hunched. Pentave has planted the seeds of dissension, if not rebellion. He has a plot of his own, and I have a gut feeling it hinges on the astrachronograph. Whatever he’s fomenting, I have to keep him busy.

  Tindra joins us, looking truly worried for the first time. “With that seal, we’re breached.”

  “Close the gates? Suspend entry?”

  “It doesn’t work like that. There is a check on my powers, too, by Heimdall. The seal opens the gates and parts the Bifrost for any non-mortal. He intended it as a skeleton key, just in case.”

  I feel a god could have thought through the possible exploitation a little better. “So the Svartr can come in; there’s no preventing it.”

  “No. And I promise you Pentave already has them lined up at the bridge. All he needs is yew parchment which I’m sure he’s cheated his way into by now.”

  “Can you stop the clock’s movement?” I whisper to Kumiko, watching Pentave fade rapidly into the ballroom’s debauched tapestry.

  “I don’t know Blaloch’s work. I…”

  Pentave moves faster, with purpose.

  “Yes.”

  I squeeze her hand, wonder if I’m touching her for the last time, before releasing her. “Of course you can.”

  “And then?” she calls.

  I tear off after Pentave, finger to my temple. “Don’t worry – it’s all in here!”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of!”

  “It’s you! You’ll be fine!”

  I mean, we’re not that far in over our heads…

  Right?

  –The Great Hall –

  A Learning of Lessons

  The great hall is empty, still, and full. It strains with fate and magic, the air hot and dry enough for lightning.

  Pentave’s cloak lies in a heap at the room’s center. I keep one eye on it as I descend. A serpent’s shadow moves across the floor in the intervening space, turning the white tiles into an eclipse. The cloak flutters, rises with a ripple, and Pentave appears.

  “I knew you would follow. You reek of magic and Artifacts,” he murmurs, ravenous, bronze skin pallid and amber eyes fevered. “Give them to me!”

  I’m not prepared for the strength of his influence. It grips me like a fist, pressure that creaks my ribs and steals my breath. Meridiana’s gift rebuffs him, but I’ve tasted a fraction of his strength. This won’t be an even fight. I’ve faced beings more powerful than me in every trial, but his strength still sends a tracery of fear through me. I haven’t faced anyone like him, not yet.

  Still, I take some pleasure when Pentave’s eyes widen. “What are you?”

  “A gentleman. So let’s decide this like gentlemen.”

  “Ahh,” he brightens. Doors open; they flow from the ballroom, the withdrawing rooms, even the entrance hall from which Kumiko and I were for
bidden. Men clad in costumes similar to Pentave’s file in, ringing us. “You see, I am not a gentleman.”

  I turn, searching for something to even the odds, a chokepoint. “Or a warrior. The general of the Svartr needs his cohort to beat a mortal? How embarrassing.”

  A henchman starts forward. Pentave raises a fist to stop him. “I am Fafnir de Pentave. Hungriest, most ambitious of my brothers. I’ve consumed their hearts and a hundred others worthier than yours.” Pentave flips his hand. His men stumble back, batted away by magic.

  Guests trickle out on the balcony above and down the sweep of steps, drawn by my exit or a rumor among the flights. Tindra stands at the balcony, her eyes willing me to understand something. Given Kumiko’s absence, I think I know what that something is. Kumiko’s consciousness thrums in my mind like a second heartbeat, moving off through the fortress.

  “Swords!” calls Tindra; the steward appears from another door hidden in the paneling, cradling an ironwood case to his chest.

  “How can we trust any weapons you provide?” cries Pentave.

  “I don’t need to cheat to best you. I’m not the one laying curses to raise my chances of winning,” says Tindra.

  “Ah.” Pentave nods, looking sad for her while he tests the weight of his blade. “But if you had, like me, you’d already have won.” He zips his blade at me suddenly, intimidation. It’s a casual flick, but it rips the air like paper, and I feel the wind of it. “I’m satisfied.” Pentave glances at the cabinet-sized wall clock. “Let’s get this over with; I’m about to be a very busy and important man.”

  I’ve used countless weapons in my time, and while I don’t believe much of the Church’s superstitions, I place all my faith in the first feel of a weapon. Its weight and balance, the energy it gives off and how it responds to the one who wields it. That first grasp has always told me my odds of winning.

  I raise my rapier and grin. “No magic, Pentave.”

  “Oh, on that, you have my word.”

  I’m sure I do. Just as he has mine.

  Pentave takes up the form of a master, from the long-tilted line of his back and hip to the scientific angle of his feet. I’m facing an opponent whose been practicing the art of swordplay for centuries longer than I’ve been alive, an opponent so perfect that I have to be the same.

  We start, clumsy and fumbling as old lovers on a last tryst before they betray each other. His strikes are artistic, showy, easily blocked or dodged, but ridiculously powerful. Even with the thin dueling blade, he’d cut me in half with any of them. I take advantage of the show he’s putting on, and mimic Crispin’s effortlessly efficient moves from our practice, and after rolling around a looping swipe aimed to take my arm off, I thrust with all the speed Kumiko’s leant me, straight for his heart.

  He huffs, dancing back, eyes narrowed. His blade swipes up, inhumanly fast, deflecting me at the last moment. “It’s to be like that, is it?”

  I wink. “Always.”

  “Well.” What happens next is almost the end of me. His style and movement shift so suddenly that I’m not prepared for it. Gone are the flourishes and swirls, the showmanship, and he cuts toward me so savagely, so quickly, that his blade nicks my throat as I desperately throw myself to the side.

  I roll across the ground and come up. He’s already on me. Air crackles with the trade of a dozen blows in half as many seconds. I hold my own, but barely, even with all my gifts.

  I strike, so hard his block almost pops my arm from its socket, but the move buys me a breath. He bounces away, a few steps back, and his eyes narrow as he gazes as my throat, already healed thanks to Freya.

  “Very interesting,” he whispers, hungrier than before.

  “That’s me,” I grit, launching a blow upward that he blocks easily.

  Whispers swirl the air; we’re at the mercy of voyeurs, but I hardly notice. A block rings in my teeth; a parry waits abandoned by any thrust. And I can feel in each electric contact that Pentave withholds, metes it out. He’s wearing me down without breaking a sweat.

  Two cuts find purchase, steel biting through the velvet and silk of my clothes. Cold metal kisses inside my thighs and a hot trickle transforms a sting to a throb.

  He’s holding back, but I can do better. “Hold.”

  Slash, strike.

  “Hold!” I shout again. Customs laws and adultery laws be damned but I expect any man, any creature, to obey the rules of the duel.

  Pentave smirks. “My pleasure, prince.”

  His dig strikes home before I can brace.

  “You didn’t think I’d missed that detail... Prince of the West Leighs.” He runs a tongue over pearl teeth in a vulgar swipe. “Mordenn’s bounty of souls was delicious, when your kingdom fell, when your family was slaughtered.”

  Rage heats my blood, but I can’t let him bait me, breath deep as he continues. If I lose control, he’ll end me.

  “Your father’s soul tasted unexpectedly rich for a mortal. Not the purer vintage of your mother’s bastard grandsire but still...I was a little put out to have it torn from my belly.”

  A little put out contrasts the flint of murder and wrath that blazes in Pentave’s eyes as he speaks the words. “The damned Oryllix. I tried warning Mordenn about his cursed offspring. No matter. “ He winks, a slash of his eyelid. “I’ll fix their mistakes after I finish you.”

  “I’ll allow you to try. Just give me a moment to set my affairs in order.” I climb the steps, pushing aside the crowd to reach Tindra.

  “I beg a favor of my queen.”

  “What are you doing?” she whispers for my ears alone.

  “Championing you, and a champion wears the favor of his lady.”

  I lean in, lips close enough to feel her silken breath. Her eyes search mine, bright. “Trust me.” One flick of my blade; I cut the scarlet ribbon from her hair.

  “What are you doing,” she whispers again, lips twitching.”

  “Trust,” I entreat again.

  She nods.

  “Are we fighting or lovemaking?” Pentave groans, drawing cheers and boos from the crowd.

  “Keep your scales on, Pentave,” I mutter, tying the ribbon across my eyes.

  His disbelieving laugh meets my ears like far off thunder. “Ah-ah, Kynthelig. No magic…”

  Words give him shape and distance, though it takes a moment interpret it. Gasps and whispers weave a bright background that isolates him.

  He growls, and attacks, his blade like lightning. I’m faster, and without raising my sword, I duck, dodge, and dance around his blows. I can feel him, feel his movement, by the wind of his strikes, the skid of his feet over marble, his tiny grunts when he attacks. My feet are nimble over slick marble, and he grunts in frustration as every strike misses.

  Finally, when his breathing is ragged with anger, I cut back, for the first time since donning the blindfold. I’m rewarded by the sweet sensation of cut flesh and clothing as the tip of my blade digs a furrow across bicep.

  “You dare…” he rages, and his strikes come faster now, powered by his fury. I move like liquid, around each cut, but I’m tiring, and even with this boon, I don’t know if I can beat him. His point sings past my ear. He’s close enough to fill my nose with cologne and sulphur, but the swipe misses, as his last score have.

  Pentave makes a strangled sound of fury. Heat singes hair above my ear; the blindfold surrenders to my shoulder. Dodging his thrust, I hold the cloth up. A line of char cuts its white silk.

  “You cheated. You–” I keep my eyes closed, not breaking Tindra’s vision, and duck a slice meant to take my head off. “You used magic,” I finish loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “And who is going to do anything about it?” Pentave charges me, form abandoned, and I open my eyes to see destruction flaring in his.

  I won’t run and I can’t hold my ground. So I do the only thing that makes sense: head straight for him, with every ounce of Callista’s gift powering my rush.

  Our bodies collide with the geolo
gical force of mountains, an impact that echoes off the walls and smacks away the crowd. Agony screams in me for as Freya’s gift instantly repairs the damage from the impact, and plaster dust and stone crumble in streams from the arches above us.

  We fly, weightless for a second, then heavier than a star. Our bodies shatter a mirror to diamond shards, stardust and blood beneath us when we land. The crowd screams and a small panicked exodus ensues.

  “Cheating, cheating,” he pants over the din, struggling up. “But you cheated to get in here, didn’t you Tamlir? So preoccupied with what’s beneath the water that you didn’t listen to your pretty pet’s warning about what was beneath the bridge, watching.” The ephemeral silhouette of dragon wings billow from his shoulders like smoke and hang like razor-tipped gossamer before evaporating.

  I scrape to my feet and paw for my sword among the glass and chandelier crystals. Shards pop from my flesh and ping off the stone as I heal. But that’s my superficial wounds; Pentave’s strength has torn and twisted me to the core. The time it will take me to heal between hits like this...they’re not fast enough judging by what’s in his eyes.

  I glance at the clock. Twelve minutes to go.

  And then it hits me: I don’t have to match him. There’s probably little hope of it until I defeat the temple. I just have to keep him moving for eleven more minutes.

  I raise my sword, slide into fighting form. “You knew I was coming and I still got in. How humiliating.”

  Pentave lunges. I throw a column flame that sends him writhing back. Only for a breath, but it’s enough time to jump, grip the balustrade and pull myself onto the landing. His boots pound the stairs as I slide into the ballroom. Guests shriek and protest, marking Pentave’s progress in my wake.

  And then something surreal happens: we grow an entourage. Only in the world of bored, meddling, conspiring immortal creatures would what’s happening now be a night’s entertainment. Beings older than my family line flit around us, mercurial, colorful, distractions. I understand the respective flights having a vested interest, but the others...do they know what hangs in the balance? Do they care?