by Kai Kazi
Aiden swallowed, piecing the meanings together as best he could,
“You… I do not understand.” He said, but he understood perfectly well, “I was at the battle of Castle Bledd, I fought like every man ther-”
“I know, my son.”
“Then why was I only sent for now?” Aiden said,
“Because your wife needed you, because you are young, and because you are my son.” Eaglecross said,
“I should have been here because I am your son, you entrust to servants and mercenaries the place that should be mine-”
“I entrust to more experienced men the place that they can hold.” Eaglecross said simply, “You are not a warrior, Aiden, you excel in diplomacy, in understanding,”
“In the work of women,” Aiden spat, “is that not what you mean?”
“No,” Eaglecross shook his head, “Avondale, too, fought at Bledd.”
“Then perhaps she would be better here.” Aiden snarled and turned on his heel,
“Aiden come here.” The voice was one unheard since his childhood, and like a child he slunk back to his fathers side. “Sergeant Combs is an experienced and brutal man, you will be with him tomorrow morning. The command is yours, but I urge you to listen to his advice; the field of battle is all he knows.”
“Then I shall.” Aiden said, staring at his boots,
“We may not have time to speak in the morning,” Eaglecross said, “but I want you to know that I am proud of you Aiden. It was never a matter of your deficiencies, only your safety.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I will see you after the battle,” Aiden said and bowed, walking away from the table with as much dignity as he could muster with the knowing eyes of every knight on his back. If Avondale were here she would have scolded him for his lack of empathy and consideration; she would have reminded him of his fathers unerring support. She would have made sure the old man was beaming with pride and brimming with joy. But it was too late to return to him now, and so he weaved to a makeshift tavern and ate steaming gruel with watery beer before retiring to the makeshift barracks that someone assured him Sergeant Combs would be sleeping in. To awake at dawn had once seemed a punishment, but more often it was a luxury now. The first screams woke him before the light could break over the forgetful ocean horizon, and Aiden found himself glad he had slept in his boots once again.
“Where is Sergeant Combs?” He bellowed at a passing soldier but received no reply. Aiden cursed and clenched his jaw, grabbing his sword from under his bedroll before exiting the barracks with the rest of the human flood. Every man, no matter how dirty, dishevelled, or drunk, seemed to know his place; this was why Archibald’s army was the envy of Europia, and it was why Aiden, staggering from place to place looking for Combs, stood out so starkly.
“Prince Aiden,” a rough, scarred man came into view; his face and neck were clean, his uniform as close to starched as anything could be here, “Sergeant Combs, I’ve been instructed to give over command to you.” And didn’t he just look happy about that? Aiden nodded as smartly as he could,
“Where is the muster point?” He asked,
“This way,” Combs said, turning to walk down the hill, “there’s a fording point before the port of Dirge, a natural bridge when the tide is low, used by the merchants to bring over wide loads and cattle.”
“The enemy are trying to use it?”
“They want to take the town back,” Combs said, “when they landed it was caught by surprise and they started to use it as a base. Their leadership council, or whatever it was set up there,” he turned to looked at Aiden as they walked, “last week there was some kind of disagreement between the king and another member, an Avondale spy shared information with us, said maybe it was his brother. The old king died the day before we took back the town.”
“Coincidence?” Aiden asked,
“No, your father used the confusion to push forward,” Combs said, “but the new leadership is more aggressive, and something’s going on with the enemy foot soldiers. They’re getting stronger, faster. Maybe they saved the best till last but…” Aiden stopped,
“But what?”
“Nothing.” Combs shook his head, “it just seems strange, that’s all. They jump well, though, so we don’t want them getting the port again; we’ll never oust an army of acrobats from an urban battlefield.”
Aiden nodded, head jerking as a horn sounded the approach of the Royal contingent. His father sped past on Cadance, his aging, but sturdy, Destrier. Aiden raised his fist to his chest, biting his lip as they disappeared into the rising sun.
“I recommend a pincer position,” Combs said, “draw them into a three-sided trap with a bottleneck behind it and only the sea as an escape route.”
“Very well,” Aiden said, “see it done, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER XI
“It is not enough,” Temejun said,
“We can push no harder,” Drago said, his heavy-lidded eyes red with exhaustion, “the men have not slept in days, they need food, they need rest. They need new boots!” Shaitani eyed the gathered warlords from the shadows,
“Can you give them no more energy?” Temejun said to her, and she shook her head,
“I give them nothing, my lord,” she said, “I enable them to reach deeper into themselves than they otherwise could have.” He seemed unhappy with the answer, “I cannot push them further unless you wish me to raise them from the dead.” He seemed intrigued rather than repulsed,
“You can do this?”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head, “but the results are variable, and the bodies rot quickly.”
“My men will suffer no such black magic!” Drago snarled,
“My men will do what is necessary.” Temejun shot back.
Shaitani sighed,
“There is another way, my lord.” She said, picking at her nails as if she were bored. All eyes settled on her, “I could give to them the benefits that were passed to you.” Temejun blinked,
“And the price?”
“The same.” She said, “Blood for glory, as you well know.” Temejun stroked his face, and said nothing of how her reluctance to use blood magic was fading, though she was sure he had noticed,
“Do we have any prisoners?” He said eventually,
“Forty or so women and children.” Kihra said suddenly; the lone woman leading a war-group should have been more ferocious than the rest, Shaitani would have thought, but she acted as the conscience of the table. She looked dubious,
“How many will benefit from such?” Temejun said,
“Perhaps one hundred and sixty.” Shaitani said, “if the magic is strong.”
Temejun nodded,
“Bring the prisoners… and men of your choice.” Temejun said to Drago. Kihra’s eyes widened,
“No,” she said, “absolutely not. That foul witch will not touch-” Temejun stood and slapped her smartly with the back of his hand,
“If you lack the guts, Kihra, send in your husband and return to spreading your legs and cooking dinners.” He sneered, and she pursed her lips. The insult was one that Shaitani felt keenly, but the woman was in her path. She raised a brow and looked away. No one spoke, “bring the hostages, and sixty men of your choice.” Temejun said once more before turning to Shaitani.
“Ready yourself,” Temejun said, “and inform Kihra if anything you need.” Shaitani smiled and bowed,
“I need only space, some time to ready, and a sharp knife, my lord,” she said with a smile.
The basement of an out the way inn they had commandeered would serve as well as any other space, and the curved dagger she carried at her belt was more than sharp enough. The milieu of the earth thought of magic as something untouchable. If they could only find the right book, the best knife, the correct candles then the world would turn on its head, when in truth it took only power. Power and sacrifice.
When the first men trooped into the room Shaitani watched them with guarded
, narrow eyes. They made her skin crawl; big, heavy, brutes with confident grins and rough hands…
… they circled like vultures, and made her wish that the Others would bring back the hounds. They were not considerate lovers, but they could not kick and spit like she feared these men might. The hounds had no malice, only desire for satisfaction. This was, perhaps, the last step of many, presuming it was successful, and it was this she held on to as she stood. They were here for her, she reminded herself as she reached for the first, smaller, slimmer man with careful, if not kind, eyes. She took control, pushing him to the floor, riding him as she saw fit until the others began to join in.
The two lessons of life; those who act first have control, but numbers always win out. They dragged her to the ground and began to order affairs between themselves. Began to pinch and slap when she did not do as they wish,
“I am a Priestess of-” a sharp slap silenced her,
“Open your mouth.” The voice could have come from any one of many, but it was safe to assume it belonged to the man who filled the opening.
This was not the way it was meant to be; they were to provide a child, not take as they wished. She started to struggle, and only then did she realise she was no longer in control.
That she was never meant to be… The lessons of life were harsh.
“Stay against the wall.” Shaitani barked, fists clenching, and the men obeyed. She raised her chin, smirking when they backed away like whipped dogs. They feared her, and that was the way she would have it above all else. Drago, however, circled too close, watching her every move,
“Your magic is that of a poor man, witch,” he said, looking around at her makeshift preparations, “you have fooled Temejun, but I will not be so easily impressed.”
“A fine chance of luck, then, that your state of impress is irrelevant.” She said, pulling the dagger from her belt to begin the summoning. The scars on her palm varied in age, width, and regularity; more than one had healed badly, but it didn’t matter. They parted under the blade like any other flesh would. She squeezed her blood onto the small stone floor, grinned when it seared along the lines of the circle to make a smooth stone basin with a ragged spout in the middle. Drago stepped back.
“All is ready?” Temejun spread his legs and pressed his hands to his hips,
“We need only the prisoners,” Shaitani nodded, casting a weak binding spell over the flesh of her palm, and motioned to the first prisoner who was pushed down into the darkness. A pregnant woman. Shaitani remembered the heavy swell of her own belly, and something inside her shuddered.
A tiny broken body, blood, so little blood for a full life… Such small cries for so much promise. And so little effort to snap that spine between her hands…
“Come here,” she whispered, but the woman shook her head, sobbing soundlessly, “I will gift you a painless passing, child, by skill and the compassion found between mothers. A better deal that you could ever have hoped for.” The woman, more of a girl really, looked at the men around the room and quickly formed the wrong idea; she crossed her arms over her chest, curled her toes. Shaitani pursed her lips, “come here.” When lies eased the path there was no need to dispel them. The girl tottered to her, sniffing and shivering, with outstretched arms. Shaitani smiled and stepped forward as if to embrace her, letting the girls weight push the thin blade between her bones into her heart. A low, soft gasp ripped the silence apart, and Shaitani stepped away. Her body looked smaller folded into the dip in the floor, her swollen stomach a strange growth now that the life in it was ebbing from its host. Shaitani stooped and opened her stomach with a practiced flick of the blade. The child slipped out, live and kicking, if small. Even Drago backed away, but she held the child out to him,
“You first.” She said,
“What would you have me do?” He sneered, “Raise the colourless creature as my own?”
“If you wish, but I’d rather you crack its skull and serve a purpose.” She said, and the colour drained from his own features. Drago blinked,
“Foul witch,” he said, but greed won out and he took the poor, squalling thing in his great hands, twisting the little neck swiftly and brutally to the left. Shaitani raised her brows and hoisted the corpses into air, wringing them of all vitality with a twist of her hand. They floated for a few seconds before withering to nothing but dust in the air. The other prisoners whimpered and huddled together.
“The blood must run to the bowl,” Shaitani said,
“Must every man kill?” Drago asked, looking at his hands as if they were no longer his own,
“No, have only the most experienced kill,” she said, “and suspend the bodies over the bowl. I will do the rest.” She took the stairs two at a time and burst into the wet, Europian air gasping. The muddy world swam as she doubled over. Every night her world turned head over heels; dreams of laughter, and warm sunshine, and fresh cut grass while warm hands pulled her hair softly behind her hair. Visions of soft beds, of sweet foods, of smiling faces… of a life that was not hers.
And during the day memories upon memories until her head was dull and broken, bursting with questions.
Her stomach rumbled, heavy and sour feeling. Shaitani grimaced and clenched her jaw before she stood and pushed her hair back from her face.
“What’s happening to me?” She whispered into the sea breeze, but there was no answer. Shaitani closed her eyes, reached out for Avondale and was staggered by how strong her presence was… of course Shaitani had crossed an ocean since the last time she had reached out. Crossed time and distance enough to feel the child as a different being. The taint in its core was weak, now, whittled away by its mothers aura, but not gone. Not yet. The core of that darkness could only be removed by the child itself. Come to me… she touched Avondales mind, now that it was possible, bring the child, and I will relieve you of your burden. She stirred but did not reply; the woman was a wide shallow pool, Shaitani realised with disgust. No natural talent for the craft, and seemingly no desire to learn, and yet that seemed to protect her. Disgusting, weak, ignorant… but perhaps biddable if she could be pressured in the right way. Shaitani narrowed her eyes and focused on the feel of that soft, vulnerable mind, imagined grasping it in her hand. She needed only to squeeze-
“Witch, you are needed.”
Shaitani jumped and Avondale slipped away. Drago blinked at her, t8hick lips twisted in a sneer,
“I am coming.” She said and followed him once more into the reeking depths.
The bodies hung now by ropes, not magic, and when she wrung them out they left a forest of nooses behind. Shaitani felt their last moments in the weave of the ropes and waved her hand to stop the soldiers pulling them down; the spout burbled, sucking in the blood only to spit it back out in rivulets and a fine mist. She extended her hand and felt the energy; the women were weak, starving… and yet some were young and vital, some in the throes of their female cycle, some wizened with age and wisdom. The moon was on their side. The children were all boundless energy. It was a potent cocktail.
“Another twenty men.” Shaitani said, “unless you would rather take the spare yourself?” She turned her head to Temejun and raised her brows. He worked his jaw and then grinned,
“Another ten. Let us split the difference.”
Drago left to seek them out.
“Strip, walk through the mist,” Shaitani said to the gathered soldiers, “and then drink,” a susurrus ran through them, she paused, “drink a palms worth,” she said and stepped back. The first was a short, stocky man with a hard, square face and a missing hand. Others could have passed him, and yet they waited through the process of his undressing, through his first tentative steps, through the first spasms of agony. Those who tried to flee were cut down. Those who stayed gaped in awe when they saw the change affected; the cracked skin on his back gave way to gleaming spines, the stump where his hand had once been gave way to a large, wicked pincer.
The sea had called to those women and children, nurs
ed them, wrapped them in its darkness and mystique, and this was the result. She grinned, and the other men followed suit.
“Drago,” Temejun said, motioning to the dwindling pool as each of the demons that had once been his men dug deeper into the earth beyond the basement and more human men poured in. Drago shook his head,
“Temejun, this is madness… you-”
“I am your king.” He said simply and motioned to the bowl once more, “the blood or the blade brother.”
He passed through the mist with his eyes closed, winced when each droplet hit his face. Shaitani smiled and looked up to the basement doors. For the merest second Kihra’s face seemed to be amongst the men, but the image was gone as soon as she noticed it. When Drago began to change she knew her gut had been right, as always; the sin, the killing of the child, twisted him more terribly than the others, and when he straightened, nearly ten feet tall, she saw in his eyes the gleam of Xarces madness.
CHAPTER XII
When the first wave of demons streaked towards the fording point the defenders there were ill-prepared; the shield wall they formed was at once too weak and irrelevant. Those that did not smash through the steel like blades through butter simply leapt it and tore at the defenders from behind.
The people of Archibald that were left in the port fought not for victory, but to escape; too fresh were the memories of Bledd’s ravages on the land. Too familiar the slinking, obsidian frames of their assailants. When the soldiers eventually scattered they did so without order or coherence, and their bodies began to choke the meagre shallows and quicksand of the bay…
Avondale turned amongst the chaos, reaching for each soldier as he fell, but her hands passed through them. Aiden stood at the top of steps leading to a crumbling church, a stony-faced man seemingly made of scars and steel by his side, but she could not reach him.
