They’re also fucking maddened lunatics.
I grit my teeth and stand. “If they never leave, brother, then they should be easy to find.”
He understands my intent when we lock eyes—to get away from Sister Cyprilis and leave the vampiress in peace. Nodding, Vallan says, “Quite right, cub. Quite right.” He peeks out a window. “Best get moving then, if we’re to finish this by daybreak.”
As we head for the door, Cyprilis’ voice stops us. “Soldiers of Sephania,” she croaks, and we turn to regard her. “If you find the tombstones of my three children . . . pray over them, will you?”
I clench my jaw, nodding but not deigning that with a response.She already thinks her offspring dead and buried . . .
Given who we’re dealing with, she’s probably fucking right.
“How do we feel about killing our own kind?” I ask. We’re staring at the outskirts of the Faith Ward, the southeastern district of Olhav. It’s comprised of large pointy temples, oddly shaped cathedrals for their worship, huts for their housing, and ramshackle buildings similar to the area where the Chained Sisters reside. A tinge of magicked, emerald-green lampposts rings the entire miles-long area, telling us we’ve come to the right place.
In all, the district is in rough shape. Upkeep is rarely done, the zealots deciding to live in squalor rather than splendor like the Commerce Ward, or secrecy like the Intelligence Ward. No one ever comes here, because why would they? The zealots are mad, warped by the Damned, if it’s to be believed.
“We’ve been killing our own kind for generations, cub,” Vallan says from the carriage bench. “Only difference this time, is we actually have a reason for the violence.”
“Fair point.”
With a snap of his wrist on the reins, our wheels turn and roll us into the district.
It doesn’t take us long to meet our first resistance. Three slumped zealots appear from the shadows of a crumbled building with vines growing around it and through the windows.
When they approach, the front-most vampire speaks in a wheeze. “Who dares approach the enclave of the Damned Sister? You outsiders are unwelcome here.”
Vallan frowns and hops off the bench. “We’re all Olhavians, are we not, brother?” He towers over these three wretches, their hoods and forest green robes hiding gaunt, skeletal bodies.
It seems these three have not been eating well.
“Nay,” says the vampire. “We are warriors of the Damned, blessed for eternity. You are warriors of nothing, doomed for your ambition and negligence to the deities and spirits.”
I catch a hint of moonlight on his pale, weathered face, and notice the stark whites of his eyes. The emblem of Valenthia Yurlyth is tattooed directly in the center of his forehead. It’s an ugly mark, something akin to a wheel and an X within it.
Vallan sighs. “Warriors of nothing? My axe would disagree.”
“What?”
In one swift motion belying his size, Vallan wrenches his war-axe off his back, swings it wide, and splits the vampire through the middle in an arc that sprays black blood across the cobblestones. The vampire’s head and torso fly to the left, his legs fly to the right, and his robe is caught somewhere in the middle.
My eyes widen.
The other two vampires screech and turn to flee.
Vallan launches his axe into the back of the one on the left—a maneuver he’s become quite accustomed to in recent months, I’ve noticed.
When the huge blade plants itself in the vampire’s spine, he pinwheels forward and somersaults to a halt.
I crouch and dash toward the limping zealot on the right, drawing two daggers. The creature moves slowly and I’m on him in seconds, stabbing into both palms as he spins and lifts them heavenward to try and ward my attack.
Bringing my blades down, I pin the zealot’s hands to his own head, stabbing into his brain. The vampire seizes, screeches, and topples over. His hands flutter like tiny wings against his face.
I draw my sword and lift it to stab into his heart.
“Wait,” Vallan says.
I stab down anyway, ending the wretch’s cries. Then I wipe the blood off my blade. “Sorry. Couldn’t hear you over all his screaming.”
Vallan frowns, standing over the vampire with the axe in his back. The wretch tries to crawl away, spine severed by the blade but still using his arms to dig. “At least we have this one to question,” he says, crouching and wrenching the axe from the zealot’s back. He kicks the wailing monster over, now pooled by its own blood.
