Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass (5 page)

Matt recoiled in horror. Goshaan – the ancient goddess of death and desecration, the Eater of Worlds, the Black Lady. Legend said the First Gods banded together and banished her to an eternal prison because of her boundless appetite. Beside him, Sen asked, "What of me, Iharan? Will you kill me now?"

"You, Sen? I will not slay you, no." Iharan turned to stare at Matt once more. "Goshaan will need to feast when She is reborn."

Iharan helped Emma steady herself against the table, and then proceeded to empty the bag. He removed a large copper bowl, heavily embossed with strange designs. Next came a vial of oil. Last, he removed a large, black dagger from the sack. He stared at the corroded blade for a moment, gaze loving, before laying it on the table next to the other implements.

Iharan poured the oil into the copper bowl, careful not to let any of the liquid splash beyond the rim. He pulled flint and steel from a pouch on his belt and struck a shower of sparks into the copper bowl. The oil caught fire immediately, waves of greasy, black smoke rising from the flames. Emma hissed, alarmed, and backed away a step.

"It's necessary, Handmaiden, the blade must be purified," Iharan soothed her.

With their attention diverted, Matt chose that moment to act. He shoved himself up, moving away from the wall. Emma noticed his movement, shrieking a warning, an unearthly sound. Iharan whirled, hand descending to his sword hilt. Matt was swift, years of living on the streets had honed his reflexes. Emma was faster, though – faster than Matt could believe. He was mere steps from the wall when she launched herself through the air in a tremendous leap, hands extended like the claws of a predator.

She slammed into him, sending him sprawling on the stone floor. They rolled together, Matt grappling with her icy limbs as she clawed and raked at him. Matt was aware of Torgen Sen shouting something, but he had no time for the man. It was all he could do to keep Emma's fingers from his face. With inhuman strength, the creature that had once been Emma Sen forced him flat against the floor, back arched. Her hands clamped like vises on his arms, pinning him down.

"Now! We must accomplish the transition now!" Iharan shouted at the Handmaiden. Matt struggled against her, but the creature was far too strong for him. He stared up into the face of his death.

The lithe thief strained and twisted, but it was no use. The creature was beyond his strength. The Handmaiden lowered her head, face inching closer to Matt's own. Her mouth gaped open wide, growing wider. He heard the
pop-pop
as her lower jaw tore from its sockets. The muscles bunched along her jaw and in her cheeks. In the darkness of that cavernous maw, Matt saw something move.

Writhing black tentacles slithered from her mouth, groping for his face. The tip of one brushed his cheek, its warm, sticky caress obscene. More tentacles emerged, stretching the Handmaiden's lips farther and farther apart. They writhed along his face, wrapped themselves in his hair. Each jerk and spasm pulled Matt's face closer to the Handmaiden's jaws. A thicker tentacle emerged, dripping dark fluid. It swayed back and forth, and Matt knew the horrendous limb sought his mouth. He also sensed that if it succeeded, it was over. He would cease to be, burned away as Goshaan was reborn.

Matt refused to give the monster what it wanted. He pulled his head back, feeling hair rip from his scalp. It was not enough. Still the things came; still that monstrous proboscis inched its way out of the Handmaiden's bloodied, stretched jaws, intent on extinguishing his life. It coiled back on itself slightly, as if preparing to spring.

Matt had one chance. The tentacle shot forward. Matt jerked his head to the right, as hard as he could. Searing pain erupted as chunks of hair ripped from his scalp, and his left ear felt as though it were aflame. The tentacle hit the stone where Matt's head had been. Before it could pull back, the thief whipped his head back to the left, mouth open. He felt the hot, fetid flesh of the thing and he bit down, hard. Fluid burst into his mouth, threatening to drown him, but Matt bit harder, tearing flesh with his teeth.

The Handmaiden screamed then, jerking upright in her agony. The tentacle dangled from her deformed jaw, fluid spurting through a gaping wound in the side. Matt did not stop. As the Handmaiden jerked backward in pain, he brought his right knee up into the back of her head, while simultaneously rolling to his right. With the Handmaiden off balance and distracted, Matt was able to roll free of her.

His roll took him several feet from her and closer to Iharan. The servant kicked out at Matt, but the thief was faster. He grabbed Iharan's foot and twisted hard. He felt bone snap, and Iharan howled in agony, falling to the floor. Wasting no time, Matt pushed himself from the floor and bent over the agonized servant. A glint of steel showed him all he needed, and Iharan's sword was in his hand. Matt whirled to face the Handmaiden, who still shrieked her agony, but had regained her feet.

"Quick, before she can recover!" Sen had managed to stand, and now leaned against the wall.

Matt was far from the most skilled swordsman in Celadon. Still, he knew where the pointed end needed to go, and his reflexes served him well. He advanced on the creature, the tip of the stolen sword weaving back and forth. The Handmaiden staggered, loss of fluids and pain making her lurch as she came at him.

"Kill her, now!" Torgen Sen shouted.

In a flicker of silver, Matt shoved three feet of naked steel into her chest. Nothing happened. The Handmaiden made deep, wet, retching noises that might have been laughter. In his shock, Matt let go of the sword hilt. Still laughing, the Handmaiden gripped the hilt and pulled the blade from her body, black fluid dripping from the metal to spatter the floor. With a negligent flick of her wrist, she sent the blade clattering into a corner of the room.

She advanced now, and Matt retreated. Her grotesque tentacles curled and wriggled, wrapping about their neighbors in their frenzy to clutch him close once more. Matt backed away, desperately searching for a weapon or some way to escape, but there was nothing. Suddenly, he felt the hard, cold edge of the table pressing against his back. In that instant the Handmaiden rushed forward, still unsteady, but fast and merciless nonetheless, her misshapen face illuminated by an orange glow from behind him.

Matt fumbled behind him, and his fingers found the copper bowl, now blistering hot. Ignoring the new pain, the thief gripped the bowl, bringing it around in a flaming arc. The Handmaiden's headlong rush to capture her quarry left no way to avoid Matt's improvised weapon. He whipped the bowl around, the burning oil covering and then igniting his fingertips, but Matt pushed the pain away.

The bowl hit the Handmaiden in the side of the face, burning oil spilling down her features. Flames engulfed her entire head, burning oil coating her tentacles and spilling down her body, where it ignited her clothing. Shrieking, she tried to continue coming for him, but Matt leaped on top of the table and put its width between them. Still scrabbling at the stone table, the Handmaiden of Goshaan collapsed on the floor, the flames licking her body. Matt stared at the burning body, half afraid she would leap up and attack again, but it seemed she was well and truly dead.

"Oh no you don't, you bastard!" Sen's cry of outage brought Matt back to the present. He turned to see the merchant kneeling on Iharan's throat. Torgen looked up at Matt, "He was trying to crawl away."

Matt walked to the corner where the Handmaiden had discarded the sword and picked up Iharan's blade. He felt as though every movement was slowed to a snail's pace. Iharan saw what Matt intended and redoubled his efforts to escape, managing to dislodge Sen, whose hands were still bound behind his back. His shattered knee made it impossible to flee, though. Matt caught him long before he could reach the door.

"No!" Iharan cried, hiding his face behind his hands. Matt did not bother speaking to the man. A short, sharp jab through the throat served to silence him. His last breath gurgled up through his throat in bloody froth.

Matt turned his attention to Torgen Sen. The merchant eyed the bloody blade in Matt's hand, unsure what Matt would do now. Matt, knew perfectly well what he was going to do. Raising the blade, he walked to the merchant. A quick cut severed the ropes binding his hands.

"Why free me?" Torgen asked, rubbing circulation back into his wrists.

"Why not? You did nothing to me. It was Iharan," Matt gazed at the dead man, his expression empty. "Besides, I think there has been enough killing in this room for one night."

Torgen rose, still massaging his wrists. The garish light of the burning Handmaiden was dimming, the flames dying down. "I agree," he said, eying Matt with a considering eye, "Come, I wish to discuss something with you, and I think it would go best over an ale." Torgen walked toward the door.

Matt cast one last look back at the Handmaiden. "Or a whole damn cask," he muttered, and followed Sen out the red door.

The End

Interlude II

It was an ill-starred beginning, but Torgen Sen and our young thief built a rather mutually satisfying relationship. Let’s just say that the Shattersea Consortium would have been a might different had the two not met.

Still, I can’t help thinking what would have happened had things gone otherwise!

Eh? Surely you’ve heard of Goshaan! No? Well, there are tales and then there are tales, and that is the sort that you don’t want to hear when the dark draws close around you. Better the sun’s blessed light for those stories.

The hour is getting late, but after that, I feel the need for another tale, something to put the thought of the Blackheart from my mind. I have just the thing, too!

The House of Joss never has always been embroiled in some tragic thing or other. Old King Hargravine’s family more than most…

Beneath the Stone

The sound of screaming ripped Bran from sleep. He clawed his way up from a nightmare realm and sat, breathing heavily. It took him a moment to realize that the screams were not his own. It had been the old familiar nightmare, and many nights during his eighteen years of life, he had awakened to the sound of his own screams in his ears. This time was different, though. The screams were louder now, coming from within the palace itself.

With that realization, Bran leapt from the bed, hurriedly pulling on his pants. His sword stood beside the door, and he wasted no time in buckling the sword belt in place. Another scream echoed down the hallway outside his door – a woman's scream, he thought. Imelda? Panic surged through him; something had gone dreadfully wrong in the palace. Forgetting his shirt and even his boots, Bran opened the door and peered out.

The hallway was dark save for a single torch burning away to the right. All was silent now, the screaming stopped. The silence was more ominous than the screaming in its own way. Bran found it easy to imagine all types of terrors – rogues from Blackspire creeping through the hallways or assassins from Süt lying in wait for him. He padded slowly down the dark hallway, hand clenched tight on his sword hilt. A soft sound came from just ahead. Bran padded faster, his bare feet making barely a whisper on the cold stone floor.

It took only seconds to reach the next door, the entrance to his sister Imelda's room. The door was ajar; dread set in immediately. Bran had never known his sister to leave her door open. Her childhood fear of terrors in the night had never left her, and she checked her door time and again to make sure it was secure. The dark gap between door and doorframe was an ominous sign.

Bran put his hand to the door, feeling the swirls and whorls of the wood clearly beneath his hand. All of his senses heightened, he thought he could hear whispery movement from within the room. Steeling himself, he eased the door open farther, stepping through and bringing his blade up in one fluid movement. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

The light was low, the only illumination coming from the gibbous moon leering through the window like some hateful eye. Within its garish light, the room was a stark tableau – it was all black or white, with no shades of gray. Bran clearly saw the prone form of Imelda where she lay on her back. A dark stain spread out from beneath her, blackening the bedding. The blade that made the wound still jutted from her stomach. A figure crouched in the window, a black shape against the moon's face. Bran took a single step forward, and the figure disappeared beyond the window frame, vanishing into the darkness with the soft rustle of cloth.

He sprinted to the window, sword at the ready. Both hands on the window ledge, Bran leaned out, hoping against hope to catch the assassin, but it was no use. The figure had vanished into the night, leaving Bran alone with his dead sister.

Sheathing his sword, Bran moved to stand beside the bed.
Poor Imelda
, he thought,
barely sixteen
. She was to wed the Duke of Mumsford not two weeks from now, and her face, ecstatic with the news, swam through his mind. He put out one hand to touch her smooth cheek, still warm though life had fled, poured out through the gaping wound in her stomach.

His hand dropped to the hilt of the dagger. It was still warm from the murderer's hand. Unable to bear the sight of it any longer, Bran pulled it from Imelda's body. It was a plain dagger, of the design one could find hanging on the belt of any craftsman or dockworker in the city, plain steel blade honed to a razor's edge. He turned his attention to the hilt, but the unadorned leather wrapping gave away no clues to the dagger's origins.

A voice from the doorway startled him and he fumbled the knife, barely catching the hilt as it slid toward the floor. Bran looked up to find his elder brother Davin. "What have you done?" Davin demanded, his voice cold, angry.

For a moment, Bran did not understand. Then he glanced from the dagger to Imelda's body and it all became clear. "No, Davin, I found her like this," he protested, but his brother cut him off.

"You slew Mother and Father, too, didn't you?" Davin advanced into the room, hand raised, finger pointing in accusation.