Nightrender emerged from the trees, scowling deeply. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Science, obviously.” A young woman looked up, and with wide, round eyes, dim behind the obsidian-tinted goggles, she took in the wings and sword.
Very quickly, she realized who she was talking to.
“Nightrender!” She dropped the flask she’d been holding and fell to her knees.
“Nightrender?” Both young men she’d been bickering with followed her gaze, and then the guards all turned. Next, everyone was genuflecting like their lives depended on it. The sour stench of their sweat grew under the constant stink of smoke and malice, and someone—one of the young men, perhaps—peed a little.
Why are they worried? They’re not royalty.
Nightrender scowled; the voice clearly thought it was hilarious.
Figuring out what the group was doing here—and getting a better answer than science—would have been the smart move, but they were all so unbearably terrified and she couldn’t stop thinking about what the Red Dawn must have looked like: blood, fire, bodies….
“Get up,” she said. “All of you need to leave immediately. I’m going to cleanse this malsite and you don’t want to be caught in it.”
The entire group scrambled, sweeping their belongings into crates and hauling everything to the wagon so quickly it was a wonder the glass instruments didn’t break. Within minutes they were gone, riding through the forest as speedily as the smoke and trees and underbrush allowed.
She waited for a little while, listening to their retreat. The young woman and a young man chattered excitedly in that giddy way humans did when they’d survived something they shouldn’t have, while the other young man—the one who’d peed—was crying. The guards shushed them, and soon the clatter of the wagon was out of hearing range.
Nightrender was alone again, except for the malevolent forces inside the malsite.
Whatever the scientists and their guards had been doing—it had probably been of no account. Ivaslanders were forever studying the world: marking it, gauging it, calculating it. Most likely, they were royal-employed scientists from Athelney. She put it out of her mind.
Now, she steeled herself against the impending pain.
You deserve it, murmured the voice. You’re a murderer.
She walked farther into the woods, stretching her senses to feel how deep the contamination ran. The last thing she needed was for the fires to fight back, like the plants in the first one had. No, when she struck, it had to be planned perfectly. Precise.
A sour stench, like rot, made her pause.
But no, it wasn’t rot. It was something else. Something more dangerous.
She wrinkled her nose and followed the odor, readjusting her grip on her sword. Just because she hadn’t run into a second rancor yet didn’t mean there wasn’t one here. Or hadn’t been one here recently, rather, because the stench was not as potent as before. It was fading, drifting off in the wind and getting lost with the acrid reek of smoke and ash.
Silver glinted in the light of a nearby fire, drawing her closer.
Every muscle went tense, ready for attack. Every sense strained, waiting for danger.
Carefully, she picked her way around a fallen log and found herself before a trio of tall trees. Their roots, blanketed in ash, had long ago twisted together like a decorative knot. They arced above the silver object, winking on the ground.
Nightrender tilted her head, listening, and when nothing happened for several moments, she sheathed her sword. Whatever had made the stench was gone. Now it was just her and this…whatever this was.
She knelt and scooped ash away from the curve of silver.
It was a bowl, its inside stained with a rusty film of blood and coated with cinders.
This…was not good.
She kept digging deeper beneath the twisted roots, until her fingernails caught on fabric. She pulled it forth and found a canvas sack. Upending it, she discovered three small bundles wrapped in black silk.
The first held ash, different from the forest around her. Mindful not to touch, she bent to smell it. Human. The ash had been human, once.
The second scrap of silk carried small cream-colored particles: crushed pearls, if she had to guess.
The third concealed dried flower petals the familiar purple of nightshade.
With trembling hands, Nightrender tied off the bundles again and stuffed everything—even the bowl—into the sack.
You know what they’re doing.
She did. Someone had summoned a rancor.
It didn’t take much: a small collection of death, a bit of malice, and a dark intent. With the right words, anyone could call a rancor, and the Malstop wouldn’t even be able to stop them. It was almost never done, for obvious reasons, but such a summoning spell was possible—and the gravest sin imaginable.
You must have had a good reason for killing them all. Was this it? Was this what the kings of old did to deserve their slaughter? Was this their rite?
“No,” she whispered. “This is a new summoning.” The scent was only days old, a week at most. The forest ash hadn’t completely covered the bowl.
Is it? The voice gave a pleased little purr in the back of her head.
Burn everything. She’d responded to it. Acknowledged it. Now it would never leave her alone.
Nightrender tied the sack tight and clipped it to her belt. Then, without pause, she drew her sword and plunged the blade deep into the tree roots, calling the fire of the Numina into her.
An agony of ice fractured her head, but she was braced for it and she breathed through it, pushing herself to focus on what was important: cleansing the malsite.
Her first strike wasn’t as sharp or precise as she’d intended, and the malice-soaked forest knew it. Fires flickered out—but recovered in seconds, burning brighter, higher. Hot orange flames reached toward the sky, releasing heavy black smoke that thickened and surged toward her. It wrapped around her like ropes, but shredded as she flared her wings.
This was going to get bad.
Above her, smoke and fire coiled together, twisting and bending until it shaped itself into a massive serpentine creature with wings and horns. Flames roared across its entire body, making her eyes sting and water. Within the beast’s depths, vile green and black threads glimmered: malice forming bonds between substances that were not meant to combine.
The fiery dragon spread its wings wide, catching trees and brush alight as it moved through the forest. It towered over the canopy, illuminating the banks of black smoke—impossibly huge as its eyes settled on Nightrender below.
There was no warning: a jet of fire shot from the dragon’s jaws.