When the Villian Comes Home Read online

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“No.” Sael pulled free of Azallé’s arms. “You cannot be here. After what you did...you must go.”

  “I will not be parted from you,” Azallé said. “I have sworn it these last five years. I...”

  Then the full impact of their reunion struck her. She observed her friend’s carriage, and the way all the men and women in this place looked at her with contempt. Like a nagging mother and a whore both at once. A few of them who’d noted their reunion were casting the two women lewd, suggestive glances.

  Azallé realized what it all meant. “Old Gods, Sael. You’ve been made mistress of the Common House? Who has done this thing to you?”

  “You don’t understand,” Sael said. “My husband—”

  “Husband?” Azallé asked.

  “Girl!” A man in the stained white-and-gold robes of the Elder of the Aza barreled out of the kitchen. “How many times have I told you...” He saw the travelers and fell silent.

  Azallé knew him. “Tarkesh.”

  Elder Tarkesh was a big man, broad in the shoulders and jaw, with a thick mass of gray hair. Azallé tensed, any joy she’d felt at her reunion with Sael turning to churning acid in her middle. Tarkesh had once been a boon companion to her father, though their friendship had ended long before that bloody night five years ago. They’d kept it quiet after, of course, but Azallé would never forget the awful things Tarkesh had done to her brother—things he had tried to do to her as well. And now, Elder Nava was dead, the Hall lay in ash and rubble, and Tarkesh—of all people—dishonored the old robes.

  Blood thundered in Azallé’s head, and she could hardly breathe. The whispers of the Red King rose, and she almost listened to them. It was all she could do not to stab the golden blade into Tarkesh’s fat belly and festoon the Common Hall with his guts. Or else she could feed upon him: turn him to dust and devour his strength for herself. What there was of it.

  Tarkesh regarded Azallé with wariness. His body registered her threat immediately, even if he did not seem to know her consciously. “Walk safe, travelers.”

  Azallé wanted to tear him apart, but she kept her words locked as tight as her fists.

  “And you, gracious host,” Mask said with a bow. “Your hall is comforting and welcoming, and we have all we might need.”

  Tarkesh glared at Sael. “Come to bed, girl. I’ve needs of my own.”

  Sael raised one hand, which bore an ugly gray scar across the palm—old and faded, but there. “Walk safe, stranger.”

  Azallé’s heart was breaking, but she nodded.

  “Pleasant dreams tonight, I think,” Mask said when Tarkesh was gone. “You’ve a history with our host, I take it?”

  “You do not understand.” Azallé trembled. “That man—that thing—he...” Her words wouldn’t work right. Neither would her hands, which kept clenching and unclenching, forming impotent fists over and over.

  “Azallé.” Mask put his hand on her wrist, his eyes serious.

  “I can abide,” she said. “I am one of them.”

  “Indeed.” Mask nodded. “They’ve the same marks you do. All but this Tarkesh. Why so, I wonder?”

  Azallé settled her breathing. “He always pleaded a weakness of flesh, and so he begged off taking part in the blood rituals.”

  Mask looked intrigued, but Azallé said nothing more.

  The night grew long, and Azallé watched as the men and women in the Common House fell asleep. This was not as she had expected. She had thought to save the Aza from the Children of Ruin, not bring ruin upon them. They seemed to her now just as horrid as the barbarians.

  Azallé looked at her scarred palms. Though the blade of the Red King could heal as well as hurt, she’d kept the ugly marks to remind her who she was and what she had done.

  She shut her eyes and tried to ignore the blade’s whispers.

  5

  In her dream, Azallé saw herself standing in the Elder’s Hall, watching her father conduct the Ritual of Giving. A dozen Aza knelt around a basalt altar. Naked as the ritual demanded, Sael lay upon the stone like a calf for the butcher. Azallé could see purple-green bruises on her face and body and blood trickled from many wounds. She had been beaten badly but the Red King’s magic would restore her. Many Aza would give their blood that one might live.

  Elder Nava intoned the ancient ritual of the Red King and raised the golden dagger. It caught the light of the setting sun and cast it dancing around the room. The supplicants presented their hands, crossed with old scars. They had given of themselves many times.

  But this was her price to pay—not theirs.

  Azallé stepped forward, interposing herself between her father and Sael. She raised her hands as though to plead with him and ward him off.

  “Is this what you would do?” Elder Nava asked. “Give your life for her?”

  Azallé nodded. She wanted nothing more than this.

  Elder Nava brought the blade sweeping across and opened Azallé’s throat. Blood spurted past her eyes, and she felt it coat her chin and chest. She collapsed, choking.

  Elder Nava turned away from his dying daughter and dripped the blood onto the injured Sael. It fell onto her wounds and washed them away like dirt.

  Azallé’s life for hers.

  But her sacrifice was not enough. Even as she lay dying, the Aza came forward, one by one. They offered their hands, and Elder Nava drew the blade across their palms. Their wounds sealed and the flesh around them turned gray. Their blood wet the dagger and healed Sael.

  They were giving of their blood that she might live.

  For a price.

  Of a sudden, the room was empty, and Azallé stood alone at the altar of the Red King. Her wound was gone. The dagger—stained with her blood—lay on the stone, and she heard its voice in her head. It said she needed its power to save her people. She closed her fingers around its handle and felt a sucking hollow in her guts. She was so hungry.

  Azallé knew immediately what was coming—knew this was a dream, but could not stop any of it.

  A hand fell on her shoulder. “Lea—?”

  Azallé could not say if the blade moved on its own. She wrenched away and slashed in the same motion. Flesh split like pudding, and blood welled up to spurt across her mouth and nose. She sputtered, trying to spit it out, but she could smell and taste nothing but the tang of the first life she would take.

  Damoren, her brother, stood cradling his hand.

  “Lea?” he asked. “What have you done?”

  “No.” She wanted to scream but this was only a dream. “I—”

  Damoren’s eyes widened as the flesh around his cut hand turned withered. He had not given his blood willingly, and the ritual had gone undone. His flesh rotted and fell away as she watched. The corruption spread up his arm, turning his flesh gray. He collapsed to his knees and stared up at her as his body shrunk inward and became a skeleton. Then he shattered apart into dust, which coated her face, filled her mouth, and stung her eyes.

  His life—bright and hot and delicious—flowed into her.

  There was always a price.

  5

  The dream ended, and Azallé awoke weeping. The pain was so real, it could have happened only five seconds before, rather than five years. She slapped at her face to wipe the dust and blood away, but all she found were tears.

  Around her, firelight illumined sleeping bodies in the common room—men and women entwined without shame. This was where the new Elder held court—here, amongst the lowest of the low. The Elder was meant to rise above the rabble. He should be a lord to be emulated, not a petty drinking companion.

  When she was young, she had been a princess among the Aza. Now all the villagers seemed the same: grubby and without honor. At her side, Mask snored fitfully, and even he seemed more noble in repose than these mongrels she called kinsfolk.

  She wondered how much of her co
ntempt came from her dream, and how much from the Red King’s whispers in her head. She had not realized she was clutching the dagger in her sleep.

  Azallé saw a faint light at the far end of the common room: someone watching. She pulled herself together, like a warrior should, and rose quietly with her hand on the Red King’s blade.

  A shadow moved behind the door, and Azallé stepped through. Sael caught her arm and pulled her closer. “Lea. Thank the King. Listen—”

  “What passed here?” Azallé demanded. “My father? The Hall?”

  “I—” Sael shook her head. “After you left, the Aza were furious. You had perverted our greatest treasure—turned our last strength into a horror. They could not be placated. They burned the Hall not two days after you had gone. Elder Nava could not escape, or chose not to. I think—I think you broke him.”

  Azallé stiffened. “I had not expected this.”

  “You must leave,” Sael said. “If anyone were to know your face, they would—”

  “They would what?” Azallé asked. “Kill me? Drive me from the lands of the Aza? They can do neither.” She drew the blade of the Red King.

  Sael’s eyes widened. “You yet carry it? Oh, Lea!”

  Azallé set her jaw. “I am Azallé the Blood Reaver. With this blade, I have drunk of the strength of almost a thousand men. I am mightier than the Old Gods themselves. Let the Aza come—their lives will sustain me, however many years come and go. Let the Aza face me, and I shall show them the power of the Red King.”

  Sael shook her head. “Oh Lea, can you not hear yourself?”

  In the candlelight, Azallé saw a bruise around Sael’s left eye. She touched it lightly. “Tarkesh did this.”

  Whispers in a long-dead language filled her mind. She recognized the blade’s hunger. She shared it.

  Sael shook her head. “You do not understand. He gets angry sometimes, but he is my husband.”

  “Was,” Azallé said.

  Sael’s face went white. “Please. Listen to me. He—”

  “Stop me, then. Give me a reason not to end him.”

  Sael put Azallé’s free hand on her belly. There was movement there, and Azallé’s rage flowed away.

  “You carry his child. Sael, I—”

  The door behind the kitchen crashed open, and Tarkesh’s bulk cast a heavy shadow over them both. “What has come over you, girl?” He saw Azallé, and the vein on his forehead throbbed. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The Red King whispered to her.

  It was too much. For too long, Azallé had suffered this nightmare version of her childhood and tolerated the injustice of a monster like Elder Tarkesh.

  She would correct this—bring the Aza back to what they were supposed to be.

  She drew the golden blade. Instantly, she felt the familiar hollow in her belly. She was ravenous.

  Tarkesh staggered back. His eyes, fixed on the blade, showed white all around the pupils.

  Azallé stepped toward Tarkesh, knife low. She thrust.

  The blade stopped, but not in Tarkesh’s flesh. Instead, Sael stood before Azallé, arms outstretched. The Red King’s blade sank just a fraction into her chest.

  Sael looked into Azallé’s eyes, her face confused. Perhaps she’d thought Azallé would stop, or perhaps she wanted to end her life. Perhaps she’d meant to save her friend, more than her husband—to stop her from using the dagger in anger.

  Or perhaps she’d known it was too late, and this was the only way to be together again.

  “Lea—” Sael started to say.

  Then her flesh withered, gray and old in a heartbeat, and turned to dust. She burst, and the flaky powder covered everything: Azallé, Tarkesh, the kitchen spoons and knives. Azallé felt Sael’s life flow into her, strengthening and healing her. She felt a second, smaller life flow into her as well.

  Blood beat in Azallé’s throat—it pounded like drums in her bowels. Her hands and arms trembled. She breathed out the dust that had been her dearest friend.

  “Lea, daughter of Nava,” said Tarkesh. “You...no...”

  Azallé screamed in terror, mourning, and rage. She screamed so loud Tarkesh fell back a step. Her heart and mind strained to the limit and broke. Nothing mattered—not anymore.

  Azallé surged forward and drove the dagger into the Elder’s heart. His shocked face registered an instant of pain before he boiled away into dust. More strength entered her.

  The Aza gathered around, shouting in fear and anger. Gorode ran at her, spear high, and she put her fist through his face, then shattered his head with a flick of her fingers.

  The Red King held sway over all.

  5

  When Azallé came back to herself and could finally think, she stood alone and naked, smeared with blood and dust.

  The village had fallen to ruin around her. Buildings lay in rubble while greasy smoke wafted from their scorched bones. A fire had caught in the midst of her fury. It would not catch up to the destruction she had wrought for hours yet.

  She could hear nothing but the wailing wind and the distant howl of wolves. No shouts of enraged men. No lamentation of mourning women. No cries of orphaned children.

  Azallé knew that she had killed her people. She felt them all inside the dagger. Inside her. All of their lives given that she might live.

  The Aza were ended.

  A cough announced she was not alone. A dark form shambled out of the dust and death. Red-rimmed eyes fell upon her, and hands crackling with magic rose to keep her at bay.

  “I told you we would not find what you sought,” Mask said.

  Azallé and Mask faced each other across the remains of the Common House. In his gaze, she could see mourning for a family destroyed, a history perished, and a friend lost. His eyes reflected her heart.

  “Do not tell my story,” Azallé said.

  Then she drove the dagger into her belly.

  There was pain.

  The world sucked in around her, drawn toward the agony in her middle. Her flesh crisped away.

  Then nothing.

  5

  Mask stood over the dusty blade that was all that remained of his companion. Around him, the village burned. The wind rose, howling its welcome for a land returned to Ruin.

  “You were asking what I won,” Mask said.

  He bent awkwardly, wincing at the effort, and retrieved the Red King’s blade. He slid it reverently into his belt, alongside his other relics of forgotten atrocities.

  With a nod, he turned and limped away.

  ERIK SCOTT DE BIE has published five fantasy novels and a host of shorter fiction ranging from there to science fiction, superheroes, or horror. His tragic tale, “Hunger of the Blood Reaver,” ties into his epic fantasy series, the World of Ruin. When not writing, Erik enjoys hiking with his beautiful wife Shelley, gaming with his geeky friends, and fencing with his sworn enemies. He also spends an inordinate amount of time wrangling his multifarious cats and jogging with his hyperactive dog. He lives in Seattle. Visit Erik online at his website/blog: erikscottdebie.com.

  VILLAINELLE

  Chaz Brenchley

  Not everybody dies.

  War...happens. You choose a side if you’re that way inclined, if you’re allowed the luxury. More likely your side is chosen for you by birth or by geography, by loyalty or happenstance, by edict or by luck. Good luck, ill luck. Either way.

  You fight or you don’t fight, depending. On what you can get away with, if you’re wise.

  Sooner or later, one side is going to lose. As often as not, it’ll be yours. You were in the wrong town at the wrong time, you listened to the wrong prince or the wrong god or the wrong recruiting sergeant. One way or another, it’s your turn to go down. Fighting or otherwise.

  There will have been battles; people will have died. In the fighting, and
afterwards. In the cities, in the villages, in the fields.

  Eventually there’ll be an ending of sorts. A last siege, a final battle, some kind of surrender. And then more deaths to come: executions public or private, official or otherwise, in justice or punishment or revenge.

  And then the hunger, because of course nobody brought the harvest in, you were all too busy fighting or being besieged, running away, dying in droves. And the sickness that follows the hunger, and the jail-fever in the prison camps, and the pox that leaps from one brothel, one harbour, one occupied city to the next; and...

  And still, not everybody dies.

  Some of us have to come back.

  Home. For some people, it’s where they end up, where they settle.

  For some of us, it’s where you start. Where you run away from. Where you leave.

  For some of us, coming back would never be a choice. Only ever a thing we did because we had to.

  Still, here I was. Home again.

  “Djoran. Still too pretty to kill, then?”

  I gave him half a shrug, half a smile. Wry would be the word. You get to be good at that. “Pretty boys don’t mean much anymore.”

  “They never did.” He was a man who’d never been pretty, even as a boy; but his trade was intimate with beauty. He did know.

  “True enough,” I allowed. “These days, though...” The other half of the shrug, and no smile; that was all it took, to say what I knew too. That with a glut of prisoners, orphans and runaways, bandits in the hills and half the world in motion, the market was sodden with the likes of me. Boys had never been so cheap.

  That mattered.

  I still had to sell myself, but there was no better way to start. Beggar your own value before you begin.

  I said, “Well, I’m back now. And still pretty. And I know the work.” Better than ever. “Will you—?”

  “Wait. You mean you’re not just passing through?”

  “No,” I said, perhaps more heavily than I meant. “I’m home now. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “And you want your old place back, is that it? You want to put yourself under my roof, my charge?”

  Want is a slippery word at the best of times, which these were not. One more time I shrugged, while I could still afford to. And said it again, “I’ve nowhere else to go.”