Dark Communion

  chapter thirteen

  The Rat and the Martyr

  Ayla sat on the floor of the castle dungeon chained to the wall, her fingers bleeding and sore. Dylan and Max had escorted her through the castle, down a stairwell and chained her where she sat in the corner. The wide open space echoed every rattle of her chains, and every breath. They emptied out the dungeon for her. She did not want to imagine how.

  On the other side of the iron gate at the bottom of the spiral stairs, the dancing light of a single torch dimly illuminated the cavernous expanse. It was just enough to see the rusty shackles, like hers, hanging from the walls. Implements of torture, among them a whip, lay spread out on a table stained the color of rust.

  She thought they would use the whip on her in a vain attempt to have her renounce her Goddess. Instead, they left Ayla alone long enough she was inclined to believe they had left her down here to rot. She had taken the time to pray.

  In the arena, she discovered that not all miracles required the same components. Some, like healing, required water - though a kiss from the mouth would suffice. To cure a disease, she needed a small sacrifice of the afflicted person’s blood.

  She learned through doing, but one truth rose above all others during her short time in service to her people. The greater the sacrifice, the more power the Goddess granted. About to make the ultimate sacrifice, Ayla had implored the Goddess for her people’s freedom.

  Ayla inspected the tips of her trembling fingers, shredded almost to the bone. She lowered them and admired her work, eyelids heavy. On the floor between her legs, the wall behind her, and even on her legs and arms, she’d drawn the ouroboros in her own blood. She did not have any means to cut herself, so she had just ground her flesh onto the wall, fingers begging for mercy. Dozens of them decorated the immediate area around her, as far as her chains would allow her to reach.

  Boots descended the spiral steps to the dungeon. Ayla rested her head against the wall. At long last, her time had come. The heavy lock clanked and the gate creaked open as Dylan stepped through, sword in hand. He stopped, eyes on the gory ritual all around her.

  “Let me see your hands!” he said.

  Ayla held up her hands, fingers splayed, displaying the dried rivulets of blood to her elbows. Dylan grasped at his medallion. Ayla rolled her eyes. For a man ‘guarding the light’, he knew very little of faith.

  “Your God abandoned you, remember?” she said and picked her head up from the wall. “Would you like me to pray with you?”

  The light of the torch dipped, deepening the shadows in the dungeon, shrinking the radius of the light. Dylan stepped closer to the open gate and pointed the sword at her.

  “If I hear one word of a prayer -”

  “You have no power over me, traitor.”

  Dylan gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He ventured forward one shuffling step at a time, sword out in front of him, like a man in the dark. A large ring with only two keys came from his belt. His eyes wandered over the markings around her.

  Ayla had no idea what Dylan thought the circles meant, but resented the fearful sweat forming on his brow. She had sweat under the God of Toil’s light, condemned to a life of misery and an unspeakable death. If anyone had a right to fear, she did, not Dylan.

  He threw the key ring over the table. It landed at her feet. Dylan pointed with the sword.

  “Use them. Take off the ankle shackles.”

  Ayla considered playing difficult, forcing him to do it himself, but she had no desire to drag out the situation. If he had come to walk her into the flames, then it was time to get on with it. She feared burning at the stake, but not as much as waiting for it to come.

  Ayla picked up the keys and found the right one. Her fingers hurt, and it took some time to hold it right. She managed it, then tossed the ring onto the torture table as she stood.

  Dylan gesticulated with the sword as he spoke. “Alright. Out the gate ahead of me.”

  Ayla pointed at the weapon as she passed him. “You don't need that. I can still escape, or kill you, whether you’re holding it or not.”

  Dylan scoffed, but held the medallion. “Then why don't you?”

  Ayla ascended the first stair. “Because, I want you to think you’ve won.”

  The keys came off the table and he hustled back to the door to follow her up the stairs. “And why would that be?”

  Ayla slid her hand along the round central support as she continued up the stairs. “So you won't hesitate to do what you promised.”

  Dylan laughed. “Don't worry, witch. Your stake awaits.”

  They continued to the top in silence until Ayla reached the second barred doorway. Dylan had her step to the side and pulled it open for her. She stepped into a round room – a castle guard tower. Armored half beasts, their horns tipped in steel, lined the walls of the bereft room, shoulder to shoulder. They stood motionless except for their eyes, which all turned towards her.

  She paused, but Dylan prodded her forward and through the room with the tip of his longsword. The door on the other side opened out to a crowd of slaves. They cheered when Ayla stepped out into the cloudy day. The air smelled like morning, but without the sun and after so much time in the dungeon she couldn't be certain.

  People crowded around the road for the first leg of her half-mile journey to the far off pyre in front of the inner keep wall, beyond the arena. Armored minotaur guards brought up the rear of Ayla’s procession. The slaves stayed off the road under the guards’ stern watch.

  The shouts started at the front as people leaned into her path. They spouted obscenities and accused her of witchcraft.

  A woman threw a half rotten fish at her. It slapped Ayla in the shoulder.

  “Kissfish!”

  Ayla had never heard the term before but could guess its meaning. Word of her and Deetra’s kiss at the arena must have spread to the slave quarter.

  “Witch!”

  Another fish hit her in chest, its festering body splitting and splashing black ichor on her face.

  “Kissfish!”

  Her breast stung and she couldn’t stop from gagging as the smell hit her nostrils.

  More people raised their voices until the screams, accusations, and threats all blended together. People spat and threw more rotten fish. Their shouts blamed her for everything from the flood and the death of their children, to the years of drought.

  Dylan followed behind, dodging the missiles while keeping the sword to her back. Another fish hit her in the stomach, then another in the arm. One slapped in her face, its sharp fin leaving behind a shallow cut. Ayla held up her shackled hands to guard her face. The stink of dead fish quickly became overwhelming as they rained down on her in all sizes, from all directions.

  The flood. The minotaurs had flooded the docks and the slave quarter. When the water receded it left behind dead fish, like an omen or a curse. And the people of Hornstall blamed her.

  Another rotting sun-fish hit her raised hands and split, flinging greasy, stinking water in her mouth. Ayla spit, gagged and heaved, eyes watering. Her boot landed on another one and slipped. Dylan’s sword dug into her back, drawing a drop of blood and a hiss from between Ayla’s teeth. His other hand steadied her by the arm. He kept his head low, between her shoulder blades, using her as a shield.

  A father held a little girl with curly, sand-colored hair. He spat in Ayla’s direction and then leaned the child into the road and told her to do the same. She put her fingers in her mouth and cried instead. Ayla smiled at her and met her brown eyes as she passed. The curly haired girl smiled back and gave her a tiny wave. Her father turned away.

  “I told you to spit!”

  A man with a scarred chin and lips grabbed Ayla by the tunic. He twisted it in his hand until it choked her. “Whore! My boys drowned!”

  Dylan slapped the man’s hand, but he held on. More people crowded into the road. Dylan pushed them back, but more kept pushing forward from behind. Dylan stabbe
d the man in the gut, sword angled upward into his chest. The man grunted and his scarred eyelids fluttered as he dropped to his knees. Dylan withdrew his great-great uncle’s holy sword, dripping blood. He screamed a warning to the crowd.

  “Everyone back!”

  People screamed and pushed back against the crowd behind them.

  Ayla knelt down. The man’s lips foamed with blood as he struggled for breath. She held her hands over his wound to slow the bleeding. She began reciting the prayer. She’d only spoken a few words before Dylan slapped her in the face. Ayla landed on her rear, cradling her stinging cheek. Undeterred, she continued whispering the prayer.

  Dylan grabbed her by the back collar of her tunic. Ayla touched her finger to her tongue for a drop of water as she stood. She reached out to the dying man but Dylan dragged her away.

  A woman screamed and covered the man’s body with her own. She accused Ayla with her eyes, despite what they’d witnessed.

  Ayla met her eyes. “Let me heal him.”

  The woman spat at her.

  Ayla spat back. The woman moved, letting it land on the bleeding man’s cheek. Dylan slapped her again and light flashed in her peripherals. She blinked away spots as he pushed her forward. Her face burned. The woman shouted from behind her, this time in elation, with a distinct note of disbelief.

  “Danny? My Gods, Danny!”

  Dylan stopped. Ayla turned around in time to witness the woman holding Danny by the cheeks, her expression filled with wonder. The wound in his chest had healed. Danny’s eyes opened and then widened in terror.

  The woman looked up and shrieked as Dylan stabbed Danny a second time. The blade withdrew with a spout of blood and Danny’s eyes glazed over. The blood doused the woman’s cheek and neck. She screamed until it twisted into a long, heart-rending howl.

  Ayla understood then that should the arena fall, the minotaurs and the Guardians of Light would not spare a single life. Anything Ayla touched with her Mother’s blessing offended the God of Toil and his traitorous, merciless minions.

  Ayla lunged for Dylan’s throat. He punched her in the face, but Ayla caught his neck. Her torn and grated fingertips burned as she squeezed. It only made her grip stronger as she fought the pain.

  The slaves swarmed her, kicking, punching, and spitting. A fist collided with her mouth, and another in the same eye Dylan already struck twice. Something pummelled her stomach, and it sucked the air out of her lungs.

  She collapsed to the ground, holding her belly. Dylan shouted, trying to regain control, but no one listened. One of the unseen minotaurs that followed from behind bellowed. A hock pawed and scraped on the flagstone. People scattered and screamed. Blood spattered Ayla’s neck.

  She rolled onto her back. A man clutched at a steel tipped minotaur horn protruding out of his chest, eyes rolling. The half-beast lifted his head and tossed the man into the air. He flipped once, limbs flapping around like a rag doll. The crowd backed away from her.

  Dylan pulled Ayla to her feet, his lip bleeding and a fresh bruise forming on his chin. The minotaur’s breath tossed the short hair on the back of Ayla’s head, heating her neck. Spots blinked in her eyes. She forced herself to take slow breaths as Dylan dragged her along.

  A few more steps and they cleared the crowd. Ayla’s heart fluttered. Until this moment, her imminent death had not seemed real. She searched the structures built into the wall, six all together. Ayla imagined the sewers beneath, trying to pinpoint which building might be the temple.

  The crowd trailed behind at a distance, eager for revenge on the witch. They continued to shout; whore, witch, kissfish, and other epithets. No one seemed to notice or care what happened with Dylan and Danny. A chant of ‘burn the witch’ came together and rose above the rest. At least with Dylan and the minotaurs behind her, they did not throw any more fish.

  The arena loomed over the paused battlefront in the courtyard. Human and minotaur alike watched her pass. The wind, heavy with the promise of rain, cooled her neck and played with her long black bangs.

  A stack of wood waited in front of one of the buildings. The temple. The Guardians of Light must think themselves brave to burn her at her Mother’s doorstep. Ayla expected more in attendance, but in front of the temple stood only the Furless Guard.

  Her cheek swelled to obscure the bottom half of her vision on one side. Dylan prodded her again and she took another step. Ayla wiped blood off her chin and winced at her split lip.

  “I guess it looks better if humans put me to the stake?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said and jabbed her with the sword again to hurry. “The honor is ours alone. Their only request was to have it done before Tor arrives.”

  Ayla looked back at the fifteen-foot-tall statue inside the carriage circle in front of the arena. “Tor is coming?”

  Dylan nodded. “But this will be over before then. When word spreads of your fate, your people will attack. Isn't that your plan? Martyr yourself and give them a reason to fight?”

  Ayla smirked, channelling Alex. “I know the garrison isn't back.”

  Dylan shrugged. “We don't need them if your friends come out to fight.”

  Deetra came up for air at another intersection. The dim light of the cloudy day came down through the storm grate above. The canals between each intersection had filled to the top.

  She treaded water, taking deep breaths and wiping her face. Half a dozen rats swam beside her. Deetra swatted them away.

  Butch held onto a ladder rung embedded in the canal wall that led up to a storm drain above. He pulled Deetra to it so she could rest.

  Max stood at the top of it, surveying the road through the grate. Rats crawled over his feet and lined the small ledge under the grate above his head.

  “What’s it look like up there?” Deetra asked.

  Max peered both ways one last time and then started his descent. “There’s a crowd out by the west guard tower of the castle. But the road is clear to the temple.”

  “How much farther to the secret hatch?”

  Max shook his head and stuck one finger in his ear to clear out the water. “It’s the longest stretch. We have to swim past it to the intersection to get some air. Then double back.”

  Deetra nodded, bobbing up and down in the water. “Which way?”

  Max pointed to her left. Deetra took a deep breath and held her nose as she prepared to go under. Butch gripped her arm, holding her in place. He gave Max a perturbed look and pointed to her right.

  “It’s that way.”

  Max grimaced. “Sorry, he’s right. Just got turned around.” He mussed the orc’s wiry hair. “I'm glad you still remember, Butch.”

  Deetra eyed Max. She didn’t like him before. Now, she didn’t trust him either.

  Butch released her arm. “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the next drain.”

  Deetra shot Max one last suspicious glance, then held her nose and plunged forward. She kept her eyes squeezed closed and lips curled. Her hand found the canal wall and she slid her hand along it as she swam for the next drain.

  Just as her breath ran short, the canal wall ended. Deetra swam up to the surface with a gasp, then reached for the wall ladder. More rodents huddled and squirmed together in the crevices of the worn wall. The ladder extended below the waterline and Deetra held on there, leaning away.

  A loud creak from outside vibrated the drain, followed by a slam that rattled it. Deetra held onto the rung and covered her head as rats rained down from above. They landed on her arm, head, and shoulders. She held her breath so she wouldn't scream in horror as she thrashed. She pulled one out of her hair and flung it against the wall.

  A man ran past the storm drain. “I have to get the commander!”

  Deetra lowered her brow as a convulsive shiver travelled down her back. She reached for the next rung of the ladder.

  Butch’s olive-green face popped up out of the water. Deetra covered her mouth to stifle a shriek.

  “Where’s M
ax?” she whispered and held out a hand for Butch. He took it and she pulled him to the ladder with her.

  “He’s coming. He needed a minute to cool down.”

  “Why?”

  “We had a talk.”

  “About?”

  “He needed to remember who the enemy is.”

  Ayla drew closer and closer to her fate. The pyre awaited just over a hundred yards down the main flagstone road through the trades district. A man in a breastplate waved from the formation of Furless by the pyre. He ran towards them.

  “Commander! The temple!”

  Dylan patted the air with his hand. “Lower your voice, fool.”

  The young Furless caught his breath. “The front doors of the temple.”

  “What about them?”

  The young Furless glanced at Ayla. “They closed - by themselves. There are circles drawn in blood all over them.”

  Dylan’s eyes went wide and he glared at Ayla. He grabbed her by the upper arm and signalled the minotaurs to stop and hold the crowd at bay. Dylan shook her.

  “What did you do? What are the symbols for?”

  Ayla shrugged her arm out of his grip and continued walking ahead of him. “I don't think my Mother appreciates your choice of location.”

  The young Furless walked backwards in front of her, eyes on Dylan. “We should call it off.” He said and glanced up at the sky. “It’s gonna rain anyhow.”

  Dylan pushed him back toward the minotaurs and the crowd. “There is enough pitch on that stack to burn through a hurricane. Get moving. Tell everyone to stay back until we know what in the Hells is going on.”

  Ayla laughed and kept walking. “Does it feel like a day for atonement?”

  “Shut up.”

  Another quarter mile brought Ayla to the foot of the rounded pyramid of wood with a log standing straight up in the center. The scent of pitch assaulted her as she stepped up onto the pile without hesitation.

  Dylan climbed up after her. She put her back to the pole. Dylan looked up at the sky, then back to the temple door. He pointed at one of his men. “Kenny, throw some pitch on that door. Then head back and tell Edwin no one passes the Arena perimeter.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Dylan went behind the pole and looped a rope around it and under Ayla’s chin as Kenny tore off down the main road. The Furless leader pulled the rope tight, but not enough to restrict her breathing.

  How considerate.

  She pulled against it as he tied it behind her, leaving herself an extra fraction of length. He did the same for her legs, around her waist, and her arms above her head.

  She faced the arena. Ayla could not turn her head to see the temple doors but the sound of splashing tar came from that direction.

  Word must have spread. People appeared on the top floor of the arena like tiny shadows. One by one, they filled the entire rim.

  Deetra’s face broke the surface. Rats squeaked and squealed in the dark all around her. The Freeman hideout had filled with water to two feet below the ceiling. The sickly sweet stench of decay assaulted her senses.

  Butch came up out of the water beside her, ducking under the low ceiling. “Ugh, what died?”

  Breathless, with a growing anxiety over the rats, Deetra felt for his face in the dark and found him. Rats squeaked and chittered from all around.

  “Which way to the door of the temple?”

  “It’s right behind us - open. Hang on to me.”

  Deetra took a fistful of his tunic and went under with him and came up on the other side of the door.

  A trap door in the floor stood open at the top of a short staircase that rose up out of the water. The smell of death greeted her again - stronger this time. Deetra swam over towards the trap door. Her feet found the rest of the submerged stairs. She wiped her face again, and her arm brushed against something floating next to her. A black rat screeched.

  Deetra glanced at it, then looked again. The rat stood on the back of a bald head. A man in a Freeman tunic floated on his face in the water. His scalp sagged and his neck had bloated.

  Deetra covered her mouth and backed away to the other side of the stair. The rat stood on its hind legs and eyed Deetra a moment before leaping for the stairs and disappearing into the dim light of the temple above.

  Butch lifted the face out of the water.

  “No,” he said and pulled the body closer to him. Butch looked the hideous corpse in its swollen, grotesque face. The head lolled back and the orc forced open its mouth with his fingers.

  No tongue. It was Blabbermouth. Deetra put her hand on Butch’s shoulder.

  “I'm sorry, Butch. I liked him.”

  Butch let Blabbermouth’s body go and it sank into the crypt. He cupped his hands under his mouth, then lowered them again.

  “See you in the Abyss, Blabbermouth.” He said, and then cleared his throat.

  “You alright?”

  Butch nodded and took a deep breath. “Let’s go see this temple. I’ll deal with what happened to him later.”

  Deetra climbed the last couple of stairs, water cascading from her tunic and hair. An overturned stone table lay on its side next to the opening in the floor. Smaller, and dustier than Deetra imagined, the temple did not live up to a single expectation.

  “This is the temple?” Her voice went up into the rafters.

  Newer sections of stone covered slender, old windows. Some of the stones had fallen out, letting little shafts of square light shine on the dusty floor. It had no ceiling, just rafters up in the angled roof. A few empty crates lay scattered and broken on the floor.

  The double front doors came to a point at the top and the light of day peeked in from underneath.

  Butch folded his heavy green arms. “What’d you expect? It's been a storage room for two hundred years.”

  Someone coughed and moved about in the water beneath the trapdoor. Butch ran over to the opening. He reached down and hauled Max out by his tunic. Max fought, still wiping water from his face.

  “Butch, what gives? Let me go.”

  Butch dragged him over to the wall and pinned him up against it with both hands. Max’s eyes went wide. Butch pulled him close and then slammed him into the stone again.

  “Where’s Blabbermouth?”

  Max blinked. “I told you already, you overgrown toad. Get off me.”

  Butch growled. “Call me that again and I will snap your spineless body in two.”

  Max quit his struggling. “If it bothered you, you should have -”

  Butch slammed him again. “Where is he?”

  Max’s voice rose two octaves. “I don't know! Okay? We came back separate. He said he was checking out the dam.”

  Max killed him. Deetra didn't know how she knew, but she did. Blabbermouth knew the canals. Even if he drowned checking the dam, the idea that the water carried him to the steps of the temple went beyond coincidence and into the realm of impossible.

  Butch held him and turned back to Deetra.

  Deetra met Max’s eyes. He looked away. Blabbermouth had his tongue cut out once for talking. For what, and to whom, Deetra couldn't fathom, but Max killed him to stop it from happening again.

  “That’s why he told me the wrong direction in the canal – he was buying time to hide the body. He was betting you would follow me, but you remembered the canals better than he thought.”

  Butch slammed him against the stone wall again. The orc leaned in close, saliva dripping from one protruding canine, his heavy brow menacing.

  “So you would have time to hide the body while we were lost.”

  Max threw his hands up. “Butch, I can explain.”

  “Start.”

  “When Blabbermouth and I joined the Freemen together, there were only three other Freemen. You, Alex, and Dean - I mean, Blabbermouth.”

  Butch nodded. “You better get to the point.”

  “The day we got caught at the mill, when Blabbermouth cut out his tongue -”
r />   Deetra gasped. “He cut out his own tongue?”

  Butch answered, his eye still on Max. “Yeah, they tortured him. He did it to stop himself from talking. Crazy bastard.”

  “No,” Max said. Butch pushed on his neck harder and Max fought to make words, his voice strained. “We just told you that. Alex cut out Blabbermouth’s tongue because he gave you up.”

  Butch let go and took a step back in the empty room. “What? Who did? Blabbermouth?”

  Max nodded and coughed. “Alex didn’t want to kill him.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Deetra asked.

  Max straightened his tunic, and swept back his hair. “He was going to do it again, for a Furless insignia.”

  “Prove it,” Butch said.

  “How?” Max threw up his hands in the empty former temple and scoffed. “Alex and Blabbermouth are dead. Want to go ask the Furless? Other than Ayla, you are number one on their list.” Max offered Deetra a sneer. “And I didn’t kill Blabbermouth, it was an accident. I was trying to stop him.”

  Deetra could sense Butch trying to decide if he believed Max. The story was convincing.

  “Butch, I-”

  A black rat scampered over to Max and sat between his feet. Deetra marveled at its brazenness. It cocked its tiny head to the side and looked at her with frosty-blue eyes, like Ayla’s.

  Rats can’t have blue eyes, can they?

  “Butch. Look.”

  “I see it.”

  Max kicked at the rat, but missed. It ran a few feet away, stopped, and glared at him.

  “It’s a sign. He’s a rat.”

  Butch cocked a fist.

  “Butch, wait!” Max yelled, and Butch paused. Max brought his fist up into the Orc’s ribs.

  Butch roared and stumbled back, a dagger in his side. Wide eyed, he clutched the wound and pulled out the weapon.

  Max pushed him and ran for the open trapdoor. The black rat ran between his feet. Max’s boot came down on it, crushing blood from its body and slipped. He went face first onto the dusty wood.

  Butch stumbled back to the far wall, blood dripping from beneath his leather jerkin.

  “For the crime of witchcraft and invoking the Evil One, Ayla of Hillside, you are condemned to burn at the stake. May it please the God of Light.”

  Ayla bowed her head to pray as Dylan walked over to his line of men. Over the past week, Ayla asked for many things and her Goddess never denied her. The wind blew in from the south, still teasing the idea of a downpour. She finished the prayer, but like when this all first began, let her Mother decide what she begged for. The aroma of scented oils replaced that of the pitch around her. Ayla opened her eyes.

  Dylan retrieved a torch held by a man at the end of their funeral formation. He turned to face her and stopped in place, his eyes staring at her feet. Ayla looked down. The pitch smoked, and the wind blew once more, feeding it until flames appeared.

  The Priestess nodded, fighting back tears, as the Goddess’ answer to her prayers burned its way up the pitch. In her secret heart, she wished her Mother would save her; come out of the temple and snuff out the flames with her gaze.

  Ayla knew the truth of her fate since the beginning. Her life was forfeit. The stake and the flames were the fulfilment of all she asked. She hadn’t wanted to die like her mother, and now she wouldn’t – for better or worse. At least her death would have meaning and Goreskin’s seed would die with her.

  Dylan walked past her to the temple door, out of Ayla’s line of sight. Orange light leaped up in her peripheral vision as he lit the door.

  The flames warmed the air around her and the toes of her boots. The thought of death had not scared her since the day her Mother told her of the calf growing in her womb. In her mind, no fate could compare - until now.

  Her boots charred and her toes blistered. Ayla bit her split lip, imprisoning a mounting cry in her soul. The flames licked her shin, singing hair. The hem of the tunic smoldered.

  The maddening need to flail or run overwhelmed her. The pressure to scream built like a steaming kettle in her throat. Ayla fought the bindings at her ankles, rending skin. The kettle inside boiled and scared noises escaped her throat. The wind shifted, bringing a half-second respite for her toes, but it stoked the slower burning wood like a bellows.

  Ayla gasped for a breath and inhaled hot smoke. She coughed against the rope, chafing her neck, throat raw from the heat. Her eyes bulged and watered as each wracking cough led to another sharp inhale of acrid smoke.

  Fire climbed the pile of wood on all sides. The rising heat distorted the world around her in undulating waves. The curtain of haze and flames drew closer on all sides. Every breath burned. Her tunic caught and her legs blistered. Ayla tried to recite the prayer. She lifted her chin to keep her face out of the rising flames.

  The words wouldn't come. The pain eclipsed thought. She could hold it back no more.

  Ayla screamed.