XXV
Cicatrice
----------------------------------------
> For the soul of every sort of flesh is its blood by the soul in it.
—The Saint-Skin Scrolls, Áskēsis 9:9 (the Verse of Ensoulment) translated into Vulgar by Bishop Gascoine D’Tristime; New Standard Version printed by Argo & Sons.
----------------------------------------
I had never valued companionship before I became kindred to the Night-God, not to this degree and certainly not to this nature. Strange that it took throwing your lot in with the D’yabel Herself for you to begin to not take simple human bonds for granted. Or perhaps, it was just because I’d never had someone become my backbone in the manner of the d’Amice scion.
Had plenty of time to ruminate as I traversed the autumn woodland that lay southward of Saint-Getaine, each of my steps more sure than the last. I was broken but unbowed, bloodied yet undaunted. Should I take even a moment to rest, I knew that the phantöms of my torture would haunt me.
That’s the thing that no one knows about otherwise callous exteriors—you don’t become callous without being subjected to suffering.
“Thank you, Ré.” I said for perhaps the hundredth time.
Marvellous derrie—I mean, de rien.
The smile was hollow but it was something. Better than dead, I supposed though I knew that to be false for there were worse fates than death and those lay below our feet.
Under the threat of the coming winter, leaves fell down with colours of amber and ruby, scarlet and firelight intermingling in streamers upon the boughs of the wind. The cold nip in the air did nothing to my skin, gooseflesh unseen as my insides were at balance with ambient temperature.
Vampyres are cold-blooded and fear not frostbite but rather fire. ‘Whether you stake them through the heart or burn them at the stake, matters not’ was as the saying went. That bit of lore festered at the back of my head as I travelled, naked if not for my cloak of living shadow.
What would happen if I was exposed to rowan wood? Would the oils of its bark set me aflame or blacken my flesh with invisible fire as the ken of the elders’ said it should?
As I was in the mood for idle questions, I was rather curious as to how long I’d been in Hel. “You’re a betting man, Ré; tell me, how long do you reckon it was?”
A moment passed as the d’yabel on my shoulder weighed the odds.
‘Seemed like an eternity but given we’re mostly sane, mayhaps a few months? Just enough to tide over into autumn—leaves are falling down like God’s tears.’
I considered my prospects and said: “Thirty silvers on a year.”
It was a stupid gamble, done out of absurdity because no one could survive torture and then endless combat for four entire seasons. I played this game because—well—you already know.
I did not come here to win.
----------------------------------------
Opportunity makes the thief and I happened upon wild ash, a centuries-old sentinel that might have lived since Red Christ died. Its leaves were that sempiternal malachite with veins of verdelite tourmaline enmeshed throughout; its ashen bark was well-knotted and twice as warted, the trunk erupting from a hillock that barely deserved the name; fruits, white of skin and purple of flesh, hung upon branches just waiting to be made into liqueurs and cordials or even a bitter wintry confiture to spread on bread or within pastries.
Like Adam betraying Lilith, I took a single tiny little forbidden fruit from the tree and swallowed it whole and waited. Then waited some more. And then some more.
Confused, I asked Lamaré: “Did I get it wrong? This is a quicken tree, is it not?”
Sorbus Rosaceae, my resident spectre told me. A wild rowan, in the flesh. Eat a handful and see if it’s not a case of dosage.
I did so, gulping down roseberries as if a man dying of hunger and again waited and waited and then waited some more. Nothing.
The gold within my bones, that solidified sunlight, had taken any and all weaknesses of the vampyre curse. My lack of shadow was due to Sathariel’s influence rather than Methusael; and as for the spontaneous combustion of phlogiston? Well, that I did not truly understand.
Perhaps it was an evolution of the Solaire bloodline’s sorcerie or that of Narancan’s or even a mix of both as vampyrism is a disease that seeks to assimilate foreign blood into itself for whatever unknowable reason.
Ever the man of science, I took with me a branch of the sacred ash. Perhaps Calcifer would have some novel idea for it or some such. Even if he didn’t, I had my own designs that I could employ—with Lamaré’s help, of course.
----------------------------------------
The walls of Saint-Getaine are thick and run for leagues upon leagues to keep out monsters during the blood-rains and to shield the populace from the ash-storms. I did not attempt to climb them, knowing better than to risk a sorcier sensing me—magique creature that I am—and smiting me with a spell of lightning or some such.
I took the long route around, treading through forest and then happening upon the eastern highway that snaked through the Blue Mountains which are the natural walls of the Western Cairn. Rivers fed from the sempiternal winter of the peaks wept downwards, encircling the Saintess’ Tomb with a mote that had been carved by the hand of both Man and God.
Running water did nothing to me so I took a good bath once I reached the upper part of the stream, before it was sullied by the use of the general populace or the toxins of industry. The waters were cold and living like the breath of a geist, filling up my lungs with vigour and my loins with blood. Were I not a vampyre, I might’ve lost my stones by taking a dip in the River Sorrow.
Took me the better part of a day’s travel to reach the eastern gate of the Cairn. I did not have with me papers of any kind by which I might enter without issue; wouldn’t have mattered that I did either as it was night, the eventide to boot. The wrought-iron teeth had bitten down and blocked my passage into the throat of the Saintess.
I hadn’t sold my soul to the D’yabel for just a paltry little cloak. It came with power as well, this one more arcane than any sorcier’s spell for it was based upon the Old Ways before Man had tamed magique with natural philosophie.
My shadow came up and swallowed me whole, drowning me in the nothing-waters beyond the final threshold. Just as Jespar could delve into this fell realm as an omen-touched of Sathariel, so could I by having compacted with the Idol of the Evil Eye.
Ink and mercury became my world, a sea of interstitial fluid where I could feel the gargantuan forms of lévayathan arousing from ancient slumber at my presence. They were hungry and would devour me alive should I stay too long and so, like a fish into water, I dove back into the realm of the living.
When next I opened my eyes, I was on the other side of the gate, clawing upwards from the tar pit of a body of darkness; thousands of miniscule feelers, miniature hands and fingers of writhing shadow, attempted to drag me back into the Black-Hel of the Raven-God. I dug into the stone and pulled myself over the lip of stone that was the floor and looked back to see a single eye staring back from the abyss.
It held no colour as it was wrought of the eigengrau, of the innate greyness of the mind, and so was rendered as shape and contour rather than form and light. The eye blinked closed but I still sensed the nothing-things staring back at me through the dancing shadows cast by the lamplight.
Though I had the same ability as the Hagfish, mine was of a lesser stock. The unbeings of that dread and fell place were quick to single me out as an interloper and so I could not shadow-step as far or as many times as Jespar. I’d bypassed the wards and ensorcelled stone by having swum through the Black-Hel which would have otherwise struck me with lightning.
Hearing that the local patrol of guards were soon to come, I cloaked myself in my severed shadow and hid away as if not more than just another body of darkness. The gatehouse’s construction was a simple enough affair and with many a shadow within so as to preserve the guardsmen's night sight.
Once they’d passed me by none the wiser, off I went into the geist-quiet streets of Saint-Getaine, in search of all that had been stolen from me. I was a wræth from the Host of Hel in both metaphor and flesh, flitting through the night on dark wings as grim as that of the bat and more portentous than that of the raven; vengeance flew to enact divine punishment, and in its wake trailed the vainglory.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
----------------------------------------
I did not return to my lair, knowing better than to expose the location of my journals and tomes to the sympathiste’s needle; rather, I simply stole some simple clothes off the clothesline that hung between the yawning second storeys of the houses of the artisan’s district. I’d return them soon enough for though I was compacted to Azazel’s Apostle of Thievery, I was no thief myself, no matter what the Lucielãçais said about the Éder. We were no horse-thieves though we did steal many a heart—Lamaré’s words, not mine—natural story-tellers and poets that we were.
As always, with the advent of ambarique light, the Western Cairn was a city that never slept, its many night-markets wide awake in the eventide. I took to them, looking for familiar faces and contacts and the like; tongue-wagging is the bounty-hunter’s companion and we reconciled them after a divorce of—
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, I am in need of the date; could you tell me of the Lord’s year and month?”
Lorelás, an Underbowel apothecary, did not recognise me as the shadows of my cloak were deepened by sorcerie. Used to the strange and occult as she was, the septuagenarian simply lifted a well-wrinkled brow and spoke, nonplussed.
“Six-Hundred-and-Eighty-Eight After God’s Death, Sixth Day of the Month of Evenstar.”
—two years. I’d been held captive by both Man and stone for two whole years.
Disbelief struck me with an uppercut and then unbridled anger finished with a left hook the last of my wits. So deep in the throes of my rancour was I that I did not realise that two years were but two days to an immortal. That lost time was just another thing stolen from me, just another indignation, fuel thrown atop the fires of my wroth.
I saw red as the blood boiled in my veins; owing to my nature, this was not limited to the realm of metaphor, spilling over into the flesh as würms writhed into being; hollowed-out eyes began to open upon my skin like sores. Quickly, whilst I was still within a semblance of my scruples and humanity, I retreated from the apothecary.
Had I stayed a moment longer, I would have ripped her head off her neck.
The curse took hold in my eyes as pins and needles rippled along my spine as if I was back in Calcifer’s enchantrie. Veins burst, spilling boiling blood that quickly scabbed over and then reabsorbed; rinse and repeat upon my sclera. My time in Hel, battling Her countless d’yabels and bedfellows, had rendered me a war-scarred soldier that does not know that his battle is over.
Ærengeists cried out somewhere faraway, their keening song oh so very haunting.
I writhed insensate in some forgotten corner of the Underbowels, holding myself back from indiscriminate slaughter. It was a feeding response, my Ré told me as he consoled me during the pang of all-consuming madness. I was weakened, having been weaned of stability for too long. The release of humours within my mutated brain had exacerbated the reaction, tipping the alquemique cascade into the point of no return, removing nearly all my inhibitions so that I might feed, so that I might murder.
Vampyres are addicts to life-blood, to ichor, and so the withdrawals are designed to force night-spawn to give-in. Had I not been through the crucible of Hel-on-Earth, I would not have resisted and had I not been through it, I wouldn’t have needed to. Had I not had another soul to watch over me and whisper calm nothings into my ear, I would have ripped out my own beating heart from my chest to end the excruciation. Pain had made me callous and it had also rendered the meat just underneath oh so very tender. Once harm wormed its way past the unfeeling exterior, it easily burrowed its way into my very core.
Hours passed like this until I regained a semblance of rationality. Afterall, I would still be taking a life just not that of Lorelás. A semblance was all I’d ever possess at the best of times. At worst, well, you’ll find out soon enough.
----------------------------------------
Ashen, Luæth-liath, That-Which-Remains, the Ninefold Heresy, the Lamentation-of-Dál-Riathöm, Æravàch the God-Killer Blade; that sword of mine had so many kennings and would gain many more throughout my adventures in Naranca. The order of the titles is important for it was this very same schema in which I’d earned them; through blood and sweat first, then bardsong and rumour second.
Tonight, though, was not the time in which Luæth would return to me as the Ninefold Heresy. Through the chains that bound me to my reliquaire-sword, be they Éderi or Lucielãçais, I could sense the artefact within hallowed ground though not which one. I was not strong enough yet to brave the threshold of a church, much less its vault, so I went after my alp-leather boots and cloak first.
Guess which vulture had pilfered them; I’ll even give you two hints: soulless eyes and a penchant for wood imported from the Green-Hels of the Dark Continent.
If you guessed the one-and-only Claude-Marc Von Janus, proprietor of the Mangy Feline, you’re about half right. The man was also now a somewhat influential merchant of legitimate wares, though I’d reckoned he was somewhat legitimate rather than influential. Then again, the pox was influential so the adjective was apt enough.
Most likely got my stuff as payment for selling me out and providing general information on me to d’Amice. Pierre had no use for alp-leather, much less any of his cronies, so he’d rather get rid of them than attempt to sell the articles of clothing; too much work. Honestly, I was offended because alp-leather made me look rather dashing—my words, not Lamaré’s, this time around—velvety black complementing my vivid-red skin.
Crawling along walls and opening windows was rather easy owing to my nature as a predator. Vampyres are made to hunt and stalk in the cities and so we are adept padfoots. There was a stone in my boot though; Claude had glyphed his shutters with a ward of some sort, eliciting a surge of ambarique current through my bones and a high-pitched squeal from a shrunken head out of sight.
There was nothing for it so I quested forth as fast as my half-mortal speed would allow me, closing distance until I was atop the man as he crawled backwards out of his mahogany bed before the shadow of his death. A woman prayed mutely in the corner opposite us, hollering the name of every saint and apostle and apostate.
Had I taken a minute longer for what would happen next, I reckoned that the woman would begin to call out to Hel having exhausted all other recourse.
I wanted Claude to know why’d he die so I had brought with me a lamp, stolen-off some market-stall or another, a small little heart-chip-powered artefice that would shed light. I sparked it alive by triggering the flint-lock and my face was rendered in sanguine tones. My smile was a rictus grin that showed-off my elongated canines and the mad glint in my eye. My sclera had darkened unto a vermillion so dark it might as well have been black whilst my irises were a vibrant gold.
“Dead gods hear no prayers, Claude.”
I did not need to say more. I’d warned him all those years ago not to pick a fight with me. It was the greatest kindness I could have bestowed him. Tonight I did him the greatest cruelty too.
My pseudo-fangs erupted from the roof of my mouth and I enveloped the whole of his neck, plunging deep into his flesh. Vampyre venom pacified him in what I knew was rapturous pleasure and insensate opium made one. My tongue turned into a leech, mutating rapidly so that it became a proboscis by which I could feed. It pumped and throbbed as it sucked the life out of Claude-Marc Von Janus.
Having had my fill of him and rendered the man into a dried husk, an empty casket of red wine, I regained my full stature and threw the corpse to the wayside like trash.
There was strength in my veins and wind behind my steps now; I was once again superhuman and beyond the paltry limitations of mortal anatomie and physiologie. Clenching my fingers into a fist, I heard the tendons creaking like steel cables and it might as well have been lutesong to my pointed ears.
The raven-idol had moulded them to resemble Azælaphesh but I was past the horror of disfigurement and shame of sin before the image of God.
“Be not afraid.” I said, black-scarlet blood dripping down my chin and staining my teeth with the dread visage of a wræth come from the Host of Hel. My words fell on deaf ears as the woman returned to prayer, crying silently at the monster before her.
Never again would I regret being right: she had begun to call out for Sathariel to steal away her babe’s death in exchange for her soul. Said child was underneath the bed, holding his knees to his chest, barely past four solstices if even that, shaking back and forth as his father lay dead before my feet—only ever seen a person shake like that when within the clutches of withdrawal.
‘You are what you become.’ A little voice in the back of my head told me, neither mine nor Lamaré’s.
I could have killed Claude within his flesh-peddling establishment rather than his house but I’d erred on capitalising on weakness as befit my worse nature. Easier to kill a man in his bed where his wife and child were present than when he is surrounded by able-bodied tradesmen of war.
Hadn’t heard the boy’s presence but it wouldn’t have mattered for I’d already trampled that little piece of my humanity that once felt black remorse. Only loathing remained, that of others and that of myself.
I went over to the wardrobe of the man I had just murdered and took my cloak and boots and whatever else struck my fancy. I cleaned off the blood by simply rubbing the alp-leather on it, the fabric gorging itself on the élan vital. After I’d fed enough ichor to the artefact, it would be ripe for an enchantment proper but that was for another time.
With a final look at the broken people left in my wake, I flew out the window, defenestrating myself and fleeing into the night long before I was caught. Shortly after, the woman and child were consoled by a serf girl that slept in another room—I knew so from my pointed ears now that I’d regained my full power.
No regret was held in my heart; not for traumatising Claude’s wife, not for murdering him in cold-blood, not for stealing like a common thief, not for killing a father before his own son. Claude had stolen from me and had murdered the man I once was and as for his widow and orphan? Well, she’d just become quite the wealthy woman and the son would not inherit a business built on misery. I doubted that Claude was a good husband, soulless as he was, much less a good father.
But out of all these rationalisations, none stuck because I did not need them. I was dead inside; a shadow of a shadow of a man. Callous did not begin to describe my current state of mind and psychopathic was too reductive—there was nuance to whatever space I now occupied though perhaps that was just sophistrical nonsense spouted by a murderer as he attempted to grapple with the loss of his soul.
Either way, the scales of my vengeance were not yet in balance for I still needed to retrieve my satchel and gloves and the Éderi artefact upon which I had staked my compact with Abeloth. The latter was bound to me by oath of blood and so I could track it with ease, the vampyre parasite amplifying the sympathetic copulæ; where it had once felt like a tug at my awareness, now the sensation was as if the tendons of my psyche were pulled near to being ripped out of their moorings. Just one more league would snap the tight-strung ligature and incur backlash that would spell my doom.
I returned the clothes to the clothesline from which I’d stolen them, marking the first penance of tonight. I wore Claude’s instead, rather liking the way the silk and fine leathers caressed my skin rather than scratching it like roughspun wool.
In twelve years time—Seven-Hundred After Crucifixion on the first day of the month of Morningstar, specifically—Mortifer Von Janus would stake me through the heart for the death of his father.