Ioren once again found himself within the grand entrance hall of Riverstop Keep. This time, rather than the immaculate marble stone that he had previously admired, the evening sun dyed the walls and columns a deep scarlet. Long shadows from the square window panes, stretched by the low angle of the sun, fell imposingly across the red floor, criss-crossing the floral patterns like the bars of a prison. Ioren’s shadow broke the checkered shade of the floor as he descended the grand staircase and headed toward the service entrance door on light, quick feet.
Nearly imperceptible scrapes of fabric on stone were the only trace Ioren left as he flew through the service hallway and into the darkness of the spiral staircase at the end. However, Ioren heard nothing but the pounding of rushing blood in his ears as his heart raced, accelerating with every step he took down into the pitch black of the keep’s cellar. The cloth tie on his hand had already soaked through with sweat, and he wondered idly if the knot would slip from the dampness.
As he neared his goal, Ioren thanked Yasha for the luck he had encountered thus far. Both Little One and Chernicotl were nowhere to be seen, and though he took extra precautions in descending to the ground floor - peeking around every corner, avoiding the shortest paths to the staircases, and keeping an open ear for footsteps at all times - Ioren was still surprised he had reached this far without a hitch. A nagging pit in his stomach wondered if it was because the two had gone to exterminate the intruders in Riverstop - his comrades - though he forced the idea from his mind. There was nothing he could do for them right now, and if he did not reach the cellar, there would be nothing he could ever do for them. The gap between Ioren and Chernicotl was too great for even the most skilled warrior to overcome.
Now was the time to bridge that gap.
Ioren had reached the solid wooden door at the bottom of the dark staircase. His darks buzzed softly in the silence as he stood still, hand outstretched toward the door. He felt as if he stood on a precipice, a fire raging behind him while the deep black water of the sea beckoned ahead.
His hand wavered as he thought of the masses of rotting Danetian nobles behind the door. Hundreds of them stood side by side, trapped in the endless abyss of their own mind for all eternity, never again knowing the sweet release of death nor the blinding light of awareness.
Ioren pulled his hand back with a start… and wrapped a cloth around his nose, remembering the vile smell that had made him retch the first time. Then, he opened the door.
His stomach churned once again from the rush of wind carrying a rotting stench, yet he held it down this time. The strain in his nervous muscles was far too tight for anything to come up.
As he steeled his will, Ioren unsheathed the two daggers at his waist and extended the float from his hand, allowing the bladed disk to hover around three feet away from his arms.
Then he began.
Steel flashed as Ioren brought his daggers up and rushed into the room, cutting wildly at any neck that presented itself. Odious black blood spilled from the necks of the Greys as he sprinted aimlessly around the room, slashing with reckless abandon. He allotted some of his attention to the bladed float, sending it careening through groups of Greys at head height as he spun his daggers through those standing around him.
The pitiful corpses dropped like sacks as he slashed. Thick puffs of black smoke seeped from their mouths and noses like a diseased miasma, forming a massive cloud that followed Ioren as he swept through the crowded room. The growing cloud of bonds came to a point at Ioren’s nostrils as he absorbed them into his being, shocking his senses with a violent jolt that amplified the strength in all of his muscles. His grip on his daggers became a vise. Bulging veins surfaced across his hands as the rippling sinew beneath his skin became hard as stone.
He had perhaps cleared a tenth of the massive room, cutting down dozens of walking corpses without a hint of opposition. The black cloud that pursued him replenished any consumed energy the moment it was expended. Ioren wondered how many trapped souls of common men now floated through the air, absorbed with impunity hundreds of years ago by the callous gentry of Danet.
The invincible blur that was Ioren crackled across the room like lightning, striking down anything within arm’s reach. His muscles showed no hint of aching despite the hundreds of slashes he had thrown.
Thick black liquid seeped down his blades like amber, trapping primordial life within its ooze. Ioren stopped for a moment to wipe his hands and blades, lest his fingers slip into his own daggers. As he wiped he concentrated on the bladed float, swinging it around the room in a wide arc and cutting a swath through the Greys.
Ioren forced himself not to look at the carnage he had left in his wake. He knew the Greys were mere husks awaiting their inevitable final death. Their minds could no longer offer anything to Cantimorelius; at this point they would cease to come back anyways. Even if an unbonded killed them, or the castle collapsed on them, or rats infested the building and slowly ate them from the inside out, they would simply dissolve into dust, their being having been devoured entirely by the Deep God.
Yet, knowing all of this, Ioren could not keep Chernicotl’s confession from his mind. Though I no longer remember any of them, I know that beyond this door lies all those I have ever loved, and the loved ones of many more. No matter how many ways he rationalized it, he was, at best, defiling hundreds of corpses who had once loved and been loved, people who had walked the same Vanodel as he had, who had laughed and cried and feared as they slowly succumbed to the curse of a mad god. At worst, Ioren was now slaughtering hundreds of sentient men and women trapped in an unresponsive shell, watching helplessly as those around them fell in droves to the blades of a madman. But he was freeing them - right?
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Having cleaned his blades and hands, Ioren took a deep breath. Once, twice more. Then continued.
When he began his task, his blades had tugged every time he swung at a Grey, feeling the resistance of their body as he tore through. Now, with his improved strength, he felt nothing at all. It helped to assuage his guilt, as he could imagine he was shadow boxing with the air rather than absorbing the life force of hundreds of Danetians.
A massive black cloud now threatened to envelop the entire room with smoke. Only Ioren’s blades still shone through the darkness.
---
Dal peeked an eye through one of the empty windows and stared at the heavily armored group across the street. The evening sun now cast a shadow over the group’s makeshift bivouac, obscuring the details of their movements but allowing enough vision to confirm that they were still there. It had been around fifteen hours since Dal and the group had first shuttered themselves within the ancient inn following their botched infiltration attempt.
Don’t these guys have places to be? Aren’t their asses sore from sitting out there on the ground?
He sat back down with a sigh and surveyed the interior of the inn around him. Violet slept against the bar next to him. She had worked with Dal for hours to tend to Linoor and Ardenel’s injuries, all while Ardenel threatened her with vague violence for mishandling the bruises on his chest where the heavy mace had grazed him. Onep still sat atop the bar meditating - or sleeping, perhaps - as he had been the entire time. It was difficult to tell his intentions at any time. Pretty quiet guy. And weird.
Ardenel hid behind the bar in a dark corner, still rambling to himself about how his father was trying to kill him. Dal thought it pitiful. For all they knew, it was Dal’s father trying to kill them all with these hired assassins, and nobody saw him crying and mumbling to himself. Well, not today at least. Linoor had gone upstairs to rest per Violet’s instructions. She thought it would be vital to Linoor’s healing if she was away from the stress Ardenel was causing her. Violet could be a very strict mother at times, so Linoor had obeyed. Very wise.
The other three girls - Ysmena, Petra, and the beautiful Elune - still hid in the kitchens, discussing amongst one another in hushed tones. Dal assumed they were creating a plan to escape, leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves. He couldn’t really blame them if that’s what they were planning - in fact, he wished he were smart enough to think of something besides “wait for the big men with swords to charge the building and slaughter everyone.” He assumed they hadn’t yet done that because of the carnage outside and the difficulty of getting four men through a single defended doorway, but how long would it be before they realized everyone within was merely hiding, and they had no special defenses?
Dal thought of his first tour of the family’s estate nearly ten years ago. His father had ingratiated himself with the Red King while serving as a minor politician in Capira, and was awarded the title of Eastwarden a few weeks after the Red King took up residence in Rolakkhad. His entire family, along with their servants, took the week-long voyage east to the estate in the Rolakk province of Stonebeach. It was the largest estate Dal had ever seen.
Though it only reached two floors high, the manor itself spread across so much land it would have taken half the day to explore every room. Upon arriving, Dal’s father had walked the family through the entrance gates into what he called the “Kill Hall,” a section of path enclosed on all sides - even above - by a metal grate that led to the front of the manor.
“Should enemy soldiers arrive, they would be harried on all sides by archers as piles of bodies eventually blocked any forward progress. A brilliant invention by the former warden!” Dal’s father proclaimed. His second-eldest brother - now the eldest, after the other had died in the Reunification War - seemed pleased with the explanation, marveling at the idea of dozens of bodies stacked upon one another, damming up the entrance as an added layer of defense.
Dal, at the ripe age of seven years old, was dumbfounded at the reaction.
Is everyone ignoring the fact that we can expect enemy soldiers to attack our home? And why would all of the soldiers rush the front gate? Surely they would just create another entrance through the fencing. This would never happen in Capira!
Though ten years ago he was disgusted and scared by the prospect at death at his doorstep, he had to admit that a “Kill Hall” would be lovely at this juncture. And maybe some archers. And a very large jug of wine.
As he fantasized, the woman of his dreams emerged from the decrepit kitchens to grace his presence once more in the front room. He must have been gawking again because Elune demurely averted her gaze to the floor and blushed upon seeing him. Dal inwardly berated himself for another social gaffe. He could never quite get a hold of the unspoken rules that flowed like an undercurrent below everyone else’s interactions - though humor had helped to mask his misunderstandings.
Elune’s cousin, the short-haired Ysmena, also emerged with Petra at her side, both laughing at something the other had said. It was a strange development, but people do strange things in the face of death.
“Alright,” Ysmena said in a firm voice. “It’s time to leave.”
Dal perked up at this. Had they decided to involve him in their daring escape plan? Even Onep opened one of his eyes, if only to stare askance at the noblewoman.
“Onep, please help me remove this door from its hinges,” Ysmena demanded of the wiry man atop the bar.
“You may amuse yourself with your own machinations, noblewoman, but I will await the light of Yasha to save me,” the Ivan man responded. Very zealous; the pilgrims Dal had met didn’t hold a candle to this man. He wondered, not for the first time, why Onep would commit such a blasphemous act as entering Danet if he were truly so pious.
“Are you truly blind to it? The light before you, Onep?” Ysmena asked the man. She folded her arms and tapped her elbow as she continued her argument. “Yasha has gathered us together from all corners of Havan such that we might succeed, here, on this blessed day. Are you in such defiance to the will of Yasha that you would deny her machinations? ‘The man who pounds his own path truly walks in the light.’ Are those not Yasha’s own words?”
Dal raised his eyebrows at this. The girl was impressively smart, with a wicked tongue. She was goading Onep, but her words were rational. His heart beat faster as he wondered how much of her wit had rubbed off on Elune. Yasha above, he wanted to talk to her again.
“Perhaps you are right,” Onep responded after a short meditative silence. Or perhaps he was holding in a fart. The man’s stone face never belied his true intentions. He probably still had to pass gas like everyone else, right?
Onep leapt from the bartop and moved toward the door to the kitchens as Ysmena had asked. A smile broke across her face, despite herself, and Petra grabbed her hand happily. More interesting developments, Dal mused.