It fought back—of course it did—but Hanne had fury on her side, and fear, and a thousand other feelings she’d always been taught to hide. She was driven. Possessed. She would not be cowed into serving rancor ever again.
The pounding on the doors continued even after the rancor had stopped struggling.
Hanne gripped an obsidian tine that had come off the crown, and she began to saw. Slice by bloody slice, her hands and arms stinging, she removed the rancor’s head.
Only then did the guards manage to get inside. They immediately looked to Grace, whose body was so broken that even Hanne could not stand to see it, and one of them retched. Hanne didn’t blame him one bit.
She stood, gore dripping down her forearms and fists, gripping the broken pieces of her obsidian crown. The stench of carnage made her want to gag, but she swallowed back the taste of bile until she could speak. “A rancor has killed the dowager queen. I have killed the rancor. But this one creature’s death is not enough retribution for what has happened here.”
“How—How did it get here?” a guard captain asked. “The Malstop…”
Still coated with rancor blood, Hanne’s skin was burning, blazing hot. She needed to wash it off, to neutralize the acid, but first, she needed to seize control of the situation.
“The Malstop has been thinning,” Hanne said. “And last night it flickered. Who knows how many rancor were released or how many new malsites were created?”
Guards and gathering nobles crowded the door, pressing their hands or handkerchiefs against their faces. “The dowager queen,” they breathed. “She’s been slain.”
“Soon,” said Hanne, “we will conquer Ivasland. We will make them suffer for the assassination of King Opus. We will make them suffer for everything they have done.”
No one cheered, but a few of the stricken nobility nodded their agreement.
Hanne didn’t need their enthusiasm, only their obedience. “When we have conquered Ivasland, we will march on the Malice.” This Daghath Mal—this rancor king—would learn that no one controlled Queen Johanne Fortuin.
“But the Nightrender—”
“The Nightrender has done nothing for us.” Hanne clenched her jaw, gripping the broken crown in tight fists. “Remember the Red Dawn. Remember the malsites, like the one I escaped. We cannot count on her to perform her duties. No, we must take our fate into our own hands. I have vowed to fix the Malstop, and I will, but we cannot stop there. Begin training more soldiers at once. Forge obsidian-tipped weapons. Under my rule, a united Salvation will march on the Malice and destroy everything inside it. We will end the Incursions once and for all.”
40.
NIGHTRENDER
She did not die.
Not right away, at least, although with the pain searing through her body, she wondered if death might be preferable.
What did death look like for someone such as her? She must have known at some point, but she could not remember anymore. She couldn’t guess whether something good waited for her, or whether that was even possible, with all she’d done and left undone.
She’d been sent to protect humanity, and now—after thousands of years—she’d failed. She’d as good as killed them herself.
Perhaps death, for her, was this: memories and thoughts and feelings fading away until there was nothing left.
* * *
Perhaps she had been dying since the moment Rune summoned her.
Minutes—or hours—later Nightrender opened her eyes.
She was in a cavernous space, octagonal in shape. Bone chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, studded with blood rubies that gave the room a red cast, but little real illumination. Eyes glowed in the darkness, and it seemed as if the entirety of the rancor army had come here, such was their number.
For a moment, she imagined the empty wasteland from here to the Soul Gate, left undefended. Nothing stood in the way of a human army now. An army could siege the rancor castle.
Not that anyone was likely to do that. Rune had made himself clear.
Nightrender clawed at her heart, but there was no way to rip out her feelings. Now, the best she could hope for was forgetting.
The rancor filling the room were unnaturally quiet. They watched her, restlessly, like dogs hoping their master would release them to eat the scraps of the prey they had hunted and deposited at his feet.
Their master.
It hurt too much to turn her head yet, but even so, she could see that the center of the room, where twin thrones stood, remained bathed in dusky shadow. A pale figure sat there, immense and motionless…and then hot pain fogged her vision.
“You’ve been unconscious a long time. I’ve been watching your injuries close and your armor mend itself. It’s fascinating. Do you think you’d die if you were torn apart? Or would the shredded pieces of your body eventually work their way back to one another?” The voice paused, thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s not something you’d want to test.”
Nightrender knew that voice.
Currently, it originated from the occupied throne, but it had been in her mind since she had awakened in her tower. It had taunted her, guided her, tested her.
“No.” Her voice sounded so weak, so groggy and desperate. She wasn’t even sure she could lift her sword, let alone swing it. The rancor had done everything short of tearing her into a thousand pieces. Her armor had done its best, but even the numinous fabric could only take so much before it split apart. “You can’t be.”
“You sound like a child.” The creature unfolded itself, stood, and came to her. It was larger than the other winged rancor, and it was a glossy, alabaster white, the blinding flesh red-veined with rancorous sigils—although the moment she recognized them, the memories of how to read them vanished. “You disgrace yourself by rejecting what you know to be true.”
Revulsion pulsed through her. “You shouldn’t be here. Rancor kings can’t leave the Dark Shard.”
“I arrived here centuries ago,” he said, his gentle tone at odds with the venom in his glare. “Then you came to stop me from—well, from doing what rancor kings do. Conquest, you know. We had a wonderful discussion, and then you left. But I found you fascinating, Nightrender. Do you remember me?”
Of course she didn’t. She’d never seen him before. At least—her blood chilled—that she could remember.
The rancor king sighed, as though put out.
“I am Daghath Mal, King from Beneath, Guardian of the Rupture, and Conqueror of All.” Then, he bent over her and grinned, his mouth too wide, his teeth too many. “What a shame they’ve done this to you.” He reached for her, dragging his clawlike nails down her face in an agonizing caress. Blood dripped down her cheek. “Humans are animals, aren’t they?”