The Reaping Season

by Sarah Stirling

  She stumbled out of the main door, tripping down the stairs, into a normal street. The girl slipped from her shoulders and she had to grab her wrists to stop her from crashing to the ground. She gasped for breath, wiping sweat from her brows. Never had she felt anything like it. The riftspawn had completely overwhelmed her senses and made it impossible for her to react.

  “What – what is that thing?” breathed Viktor as he stumbled drunkenly after her.

  Rook glanced back just as a scream tore through the house and she shuddered, heart leaping into her throat. Despair threatened to crush her, looming over her head like the blackening rain clouds above. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  *

  “Stop fidgeting. I promise we’ll go as soon as we’re done. I just need to make sure she’s okay.”

  Rook had deposited the girl on a park bench beneath the protection of the massive red-leafed tree. Water dripped from leaf to leaf and landed on the back of Viktor’s neck, sliding down beneath his shirt and making him shiver. He rubbed at it, too conscious of the eyes that slid their way as people passed, wondering what they saw. His nerves were shredded, the tattered remnants fluttering in the breeze of his anxiety. The sensations in that room; the strange, crashing waves that made him feel like he was drowning and the shrieking wails of the riftspawn had instilled in him a fear the likes of which he’d never felt. Not just fear, it had been a looming dread, as if all hope had been bled from him, leaving him hollow. Even now the terror still lurked within him, his hands still shaking when he held them up to his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he heard Rook ask. When he turned back to them the girl had opened her eyes – big, dark, framed with a sweep of dark lashes. Set in a small and round face, she looked more doll than human, something about the way she stared without blinking setting him on edge.

  “What happened?” murmured the girl, rubbing at her head.

  Rook glanced at Viktor. “We escaped. I had to get you out of there and my companion here was about to lose control.”

  “Yes,” she said, sweeping her eyes over both of them, “you nearly undid everything.” Viktor’s skin prickled beneath her stare. “You do not belong here, do you?”

  He crossed his arms. “I was born here, I’ll have you know.”

  She shook her head, hair flying around her chin. “No. I mean, you hide in that skin. Something about you feels… wrong.”

  Just as he was about to argue, Rook stood and put a cool hand against his arm. “Who are you? Why are you the only one left?” she said to the girl.

  Her lips twitched. “I am not one of them. I’m not a rift warden, or anything of that like. But you may call me Vlankya, if you wish.”

  “Not a….” Rook’s eyes widened and then she grabbed for the woman’s wrist, pushing back a dark sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a symbol Viktor didn’t recognise. “You’re a rift maiden.”

  “Hm. Not any longer, I’m not. Or else I would most certainly not be here, stuck in this miserable city.”

  “A rift maiden?” Viktor blurted. He’d seen paintings and girls dressed in their costumes at festivals but he had never seen someone actually claim to be a rift maiden. He hadn’t realised it was still an actual thing. “Does that mean something?”

  “Not really,” said Vlankya. “A rift maiden is not so far removed from a rift warden when one looks at it. They are both gatekeepers for the doors between worlds.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” Rook interjected. The two women shared a look.

  “To be a rift warden is a great honour. Or rather, it was considered so, once. It was a noble calling – a path to choose and train for. To be a rift warden is to choose your destiny. A rift maiden is born into the role. She is nothing but a servant of the rift and the Riftkeepers, merely there to maintain balance. To be a rift maiden is to be without choice.”

  Rook looked uncomfortable at this declaration. “Then how did you end up here?”

  Vlankya smiled wryly, her eyes on a fallen leaf that had landed on her lap. She picked it up and twisted it between her fingers, tearing the red flesh into chunks. “I had wanted out. I sought more and I believed I could find it here.”

  “But you didn’t?” said Viktor, watching pieces of leaf scatter to the floor like confetti.

  “No. There is nothing here. I thought that if I proved myself – that if I showed I was every bit as capable as those rift wardens – then perhaps I could live differently. But I find mine is to be a stigma that lingers.” She glanced up. “No one will hand you what you want. It must be fought for, I find.”

  “You were forced into being a rift maiden?”

  “Were you not aware of that? It is different for you, I suppose. No. I was born and raised to become one. Told it was my grand destiny.” She grimaced. “It matters little now. The Order of the Riftkeepers will soon fade into nothing but distant memory. Their power has been waning for years. It is time.”

  “But if you know about rifts and what this will mean, how can you say that?” Rook exclaimed, mouth agape.

  She tilted her head. Shrugged. “I am not saddened by it. When the Sonlin ships came I was not surprised. Their numbers had already dwindled as belief in them began to dry out. When the last of them disappeared I was not surprised they did not fight. They are cowards.”

  Viktor frowned, still lost when it came to rifts and the Order. “But surely you do not welcome the soldiers. Look what they have done. What they continue to do.”

  “Of course not,” Vlankya scoffed. “But one monster is interchangeable with another, I find. In the end, they play their games and the world suffers.”

  He didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed too young to be so bitter and world-weary, but then again Viktor had seen his fair share of hardships; had known hunger and exhaustion and the ache of not belonging. The anger was something that he could relate to, if nothing else. It seemed to come to him all too easily these days.

  Rook looked like she had more questions but she paused and cocked her head as a pulse of energy rippled through the air, clutching her head. It triggered an acute pain in Viktor’s skull, vision blurring when the energy only grew stronger. The hair on his arms stood to attention as a shudder racked his entire body. As each wave only became more forceful, he felt his body sway, dizzy with nausea. Bile rose in his throat and he gagged, sinking over to rest his head between his thighs with a groan.

  “Viktor?” said Rook. Her own voice sounded weak.

  “It must be the Tsankom,” said Vankya.

  “The what?” He slapped a hand over his mouth, another wave crashing over him. The feeling sank into his gut, oily like the day after binging on blood rum and ale.

  “The riftspawn. It’s a Tsankom. Terror-feeders. They breed fear and that is why you struggle to be near it. Most other riftspawn are affected by it, which is why you both suffer now.”

  “It’s powerful,” Rook gritted out. When he glanced up her eyes were streaming but she still stood. Viktor wanted nothing more than to flee, to be rid of the poison that was that hideous energy, buzzing and scraping against the inside of his mind.

  “You cannot hope to fight it on your own,” said Vankya.

  Rook swept her eyes over the girl. “You are in no position to do anything in your state. I cannot leave it there in case it ventures further… No, if there are truly no rift wardens then I am all that stands in the way of its escape into this realm.” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and he saw her hand tremble.

  Before he knew what was happening, Viktor had stood too, knees briefly collapsing. He had to grab onto the bench to keep his balance, the mosaic tiled ground spinning in a flash of coloured stone. A groan escaped him. He could smell charcoal despite the fresh breeze that wafted in from the coast and the acrid aftertaste of fear. His limbs locked, refusing to move, and his heart hammered against his ribcage so fast he thought it might burst.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” said Rook, her gaze on the
building ahead of them.

  “I’m hardly going to leave you on your own,” he scoffed, even if he longed to do just that. He didn’t know if it was simply false bravado that compelled him to act. All he knew was that he didn’t want to only ever be the cause of trouble. Viktor could help too.

  They left Vankya on the bench, her eyes fluttering shut beneath the shelter of the tree, head lolling against her shoulder. As they drew closer to the building with the symbol for the Order of the Riftkeepers outside, the nauseous feeling only grew. It festered inside him, the dread eating up whatever determination he had mustered when he volunteered. Images appeared behind his eyelids, of memories, of nightmares. Vivid visions of lonely nights huddled under doorsteps, numbness creeping into his fingers until he could feel them no longer. Of featureless faces crowding around him, warping and morphing together as their cackling harmonised into a terrible symphony, blood dripping from his hands. His blood. Then pain, like a fire inside him. The look on Janus’ face when he pulled the trigger.

  A cold weight seeped through his clothes and he jumped, swinging blindly. “It’s all right, Viktor. It’s all right,” said a familiar voice and then Rook’s concerned face was fading into view as he blinked wildly. Paler than normal, she pressed her lips together and glanced to the door. “I think it’s stronger than even the Gorgei.”

  Viktor gulped. He wondered if it wasn’t too late to back out now.

  Rook gripped the handle and pushed the door open. It creaked, slowly revealing the hall in fragments. There was nothing there. He didn’t know what he had been expecting – the imagination could often be the worst villain – but it set him on edge to enter into the same corridor as before, not a potted plant or mirror out of place. As he passed, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and had to steal a second glance at his wide eyes, sweat beading on his brow.

  “Can you hear anything?”

  Viktor tried to listen but the only sound was his own breath echoing in his ears. The incessant signature of the riftspawn took the form of buzzing his head yet he couldn’t sense any movement from within the building. But it was there. He could feel it.

  Rook paused at the foot of the staircase. “Before we go down, are you sure you want to come? I won’t judge you if you don’t.”

  Desperately, he wanted to say no. He almost did. But she was as every bit afraid as he was, and he couldn’t just leave her to go on her own. “I can do this. I’m not going to burst into flames at every little thing,” he said.

  She pulled a grin from somewhere and ruffled his hair, making him squawk. “I know. But I’m worried about myself as well. I wouldn’t want to accidentally nick you again just because I can’t keep a lid on this thing.”

  Viktor snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

  Her grin widened, finally reaching her eyes. Reaching back, she pulled her riftblades from the sheaths strapped to her back, nearly dropping one as she twirled them out in front of her. She caught it with a short laugh, taking a breath. Her expression settled and then her eyes flashed silver in the gloomy corridor. For a second he glimpsed the outstretched wings, moonlit pale, and felt the familiar hum of her signature. Rather than being detracting, he found comfort in the rhythmic cadence, his own pulse settling into the same beat. For the first time since he had entered the Riftkeepers’ house, he felt like he could breathe.

  “Ready?”

  Viktor nodded. “Ready.”

  With a kick, Rook thrust the door open. It rattled against the wall, startling them both, and she flashed him an apologetic smile. They both fell silent once more as he followed her down the darkened depths of the staircase, stone echoing beneath their boots. The silence was eerie. He kept waiting for screams or shouts, or some indication of what was going on down there, and every time it didn’t come his nerves wound even tighter. As much as he was getting used to the creeping fire in his veins, he wasn’t adept at focusing his senses. He could sense a disturbance, like a fly tangled in a spiderweb, vibrating down the line of silk. Now he just had to become the spider, able to weave a net of his own making.

  “It’s getting stronger,” murmured Rook as she paced forwards, each step measured. Cautious.

  It was gloomy down below the ground level with no windows to let in the daylight from above. Lights fitted into the wall were covered in a blanket of dust, seemingly untouched for some time. Clearly the Riftkeepers had not seen fit to hire a cleaner. The dust tickled his nose and he fought against the sneeze, pinching his nose. The further he went, the more that uneasy sense of nausea pressed into his skull, his body beginning to shake once more.

  “I hope the soldier is okay. I should not have left him.”

  Viktor shrugged. He was not willing to risk his life for one of those bluecoats. “Serves him right.”

  She made a disapproving noise under her breath, still taking slow steps towards the door. “We need to be prepared for any –” The door swung open and Rook just managed to dive out of the way of its radius, crashing into him as the soldier in question launched himself from the room. Blood dripped on the floor from his wounded arm.

  “What in the ever-loving almighty is that thing?” he gasped, shoving past them.

  Viktor turned back and instantly regretted it. The head of the creature was at the door, its dark, penetrating eyes staring right at him. It did not move; simply held him there with the weight of its gaze. It was large enough that it could reach out and snap him up in its massive hooked beak-like mouth at any moment. And the feeling that came from it, an anchor of dread and terror dragging his stomach down, sinking like lead. His limbs were too heavy to move. Feet plastered to the floor and limbs locked, he found himself stuck. Hypnotised.

  Its mouth stretched into the grotesque caricature of a grin, rings and rings of teeth flashing. He got the terrifying sensation it was preying upon him, enjoying how his fear grew as he waited for it to strike. Perhaps it could smell the stench of it on him. Viktor could feel his legs tremble. The more he stood the weaker he became, head drooping as his eyelids fluttered.

  “Viktor, it’s draining you!”

  A force thrust him into the wall and he howled as pain cracked up his elbow, collapsing into a heap on the ground. Rubbing his head, he watched Rook launch herself at the creature, a blur of steel arcing across her body as she swiped for it. How she hoped to take the thing on by herself, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was running, feet slamming against the ground as he launched himself for the stairs so he could get out of there as fast as possible. His chest heaved, breaths coming in ragged gasps. He latched onto the railing of the stairs and hauled himself up two at a time, flinching at the clash of energy below him.

  As he turned the corner he saw a flash of movement swinging for him and he ducked just in time, the weapon skimming the top of his head just enough to hurt but not incapacitate him. “What in the Locker are you doing?” he cried at the solider who was clutching a candelabra across his chest with both hands.

  “What is happening? What is that – that thing?”

  He could sense every time Rook and the creature clashed together, sending out a dizzying pulse of energy that crashed into him hard enough to make him stumble. More images burst across his vision – dreams, visions; memories. That woman from before with the green eyes and vicious smile. A boat in a storm, sinking fast. Fear like he’d never felt it. Water all around him, surface trembling under the pounding rain. Cold. Knowing he was going to die.

  A hand wrapping around his arm and wrenched him back into the present. “We need to do something. How do we kill it? Can it be killed?” The soldier’s mouth tightened, his knuckles turning white around the candelabra.

  “Rook will handle it,” he said. “She knows what she’s doing.”

  Footsteps resounded down below and they both flinched, glancing at one another and then to the staircase. Eyes wild, Rook darted up the stairs with a glance back. “Run! Run!” she cried, panting. “I can’t fight this thing.”

  Viktor w
as already tearing through the house, trying to remember the way out. In his haste he stumbled into tables and shelves and any item that was remotely in the way of his escape. The fear had turned his limbs to liquid, stealing control of his body. Beneath the tight knot winding tighter in his gut, he could feel the burning fire begin deep inside of him. The presence lurked in the back of his mind like a ghoul in an ancient house, ingrained into every dusty corner and fold. He wanted nothing more than to give himself over to its warmth but somewhere in the hazy part of his brain clouded with terror, he knew he shouldn’t.

  Stumbling over a discarded book he had dropped earlier, he tripped a few steps into a wall, balancing himself against it as he caught his breath. Even now he couldn’t shake the feeling of the riftspawn preying upon him, as if it had latched onto his scent and was now hunting him. Its signature pressed down upon him, constricting rational thought as his mind was flooded with panic.

  Focus. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember what Rook had told him to do. Think of something that would calm him down. He thought of balmy high season evenings in the fading sunlight, doing jobs for Red. For brief spurts of time he had just been another one of the boys, working and mucking around and sharing laughs. On good days Red would ruffle his hair and say nice words that would make him swell with pride, making every hard day worthwhile. The thoughts helped settle his mind, calming his heartbeat and quelling the raging fire within. He breathed a sigh of relief and opened his eyes.

  To big, black eyes staring right at him. He screamed. Across from him upon the wall was a large square mirror in a gilded frame. His reflection was side on and looming over his shoulder was a large head, shimmering slightly in the gloomy light of the hall. It didn’t quite look real, vaguely translucent and drifting very slowly, almost too slow for the eye to recognise its movements. The creature’s lethargy made it worse somehow; more chilling.