22. Twenty-Two

The waterspout was no louder than a brook. It trailed off into the well, dividing into rivulets to disappear in every direction underground, from what Ryurikov could see. This had to be connected to the stream surrounding the town. Its celeste glow drowned out the torch lights, but the sound did nothing for the pained whimpers echoing through the circular dungeon. Rivulets of red trickled down scrawny legs, collecting at bare feet, each witch dressed in mere rags stained brown by old blood.

Ryurikov rubbed his thumb along the index finger in thought. He could leave right now, say his goodbyes, forget he saw anything. Go galavanting with Awimak, rob many a fool, find better attire. They could fuck each other silly. His demon didn’t blame him for the Skin Crawlers, that was all he needed.

Alternatively, he could attempt to free the hags, likely fail, need to kill everyone siding with the Jarl, and thereby doom this entire town and its unfortunate inhabitants.

He regarded Awimak, standing near one of the devices, and readied himself to say they should leave. Sun-like eyes met his gaze, and something awful stirred in his chest.

“Fuck,” Ryurikov muttered in resignation. “I don’t even know where to begin with this.”

Scouring the nearest witch, he refused to let her terror get to him. He took hold of his serrated dagger, stepped up into the iron maiden, and reached to cut free an arm. He froze when the hag croaked something, incomprehensible with panic.

“It’ll be fine, probably,” he said. Then, without looking at her, added, “If I kill you, understand it was an accident.”

Awimak came to him, curling his claws over the top of the device’s door. With a nod from him, Ryurikov cut through rope and wire, catching on the blade’s teeth before relenting under their sharpness.

A faint creak as the door fought against Awimak’s hold. Ryurikov’s free hand shot out, his fingers curling into the fabric of the witch’s rags the moment her arm dropped and she swayed toward the spikes behind her. She clutched his arm for support with a weakened cry, her body already sagging, chest heaving with air she barely managed to take in. Ryurikov struggled to keep her upright, awkwardly twisting ’round to work on the other arm.

“We’ll have to be quick,” he murmured, unable to keep from gagging at the stink wafting up his nose, so foul he tasted it in the back of his throat. “First thing we’ll do is throw you into that well for a bath, beldam.”

His hand trembled, fingers sweaty around the hilt of the dagger, clothes beginning to stick to him from perspiration running cold. Ryurikov momentarily squeezed his eyes shut against the blurring of his vision, the hammering of his heart.

DRURY, uttered Awimak, his deep, wraith-like snarl concerned.

“I’m fine. Just bracing myself.”

He tugged the blade down, sawing through wire, and yanked the hag forward the same moment the door creaked. Her bony knees collided with stone flooring, the clangour of the iron maiden’s doors slamming shut echoing. Ryurikov stepped away, grunting when something jerked him back.

“For fuck’s sake.” He tore the cloak free of the device’s snag, tattered fabric turning an already sour mood mordant.

The hag remained where he’d tossed her, lacking the strength to do much else than lay on the ground, curled up like a woodlouse, as Awimak released the other door, letting it slam.

They only needed to do it thrice more, something that wasn’t a huge problem until hurried footsteps and the clank of armour echoed in through the heavy door. Ryurikov swore, stepping away from the second hag. He switched to his long dagger and drifted to the wall by the entrance. Awimak stayed as he was, holding the front to the iron maiden open, the hag struggling to steady herself, one arm still trapped. She trembled, pitifully, peering at the demon as though she could see him. If she could, she said nothing.

The door opened with slamming force, bouncing against the wall and wobbling. A soldier stormed in, and Ryurikov knew they weren’t looking to talk things out. In one swift move, he slid the dagger into the side of their neck, cutting through black fabric and flesh. A rope of blood chased his withdrawing blade. A thud of the body collapsing and clatter of their sword followed.

Ryurikov swung his right arm up, blocking the lunge of a shortsword through the doorway. Sparks sprinted off metal, he staggered under the force to his dagger. He stepped away, ducking around another forward lunge, sweat beading on his forehead, dripping past his brow and into his eye.

He blinked against its burn, feeling unsteady and worn. The next thrust he barely dodged, the blade catching his side, cutting through fabric. He threw his left fist up, aiming for the soldier’s jaw, caught instead by a gloved hand. A knee collided with his stomach, slamming the air out of him.

Ryurikov collapsed to his knees, winded, the clatter of his blade a distant noise as his hand flicked to the hunters knife he kept in his boot. He hedged under the swinging shortsword, rammed the knife up into the soldier’s belly. Staggered to his feet, pulled the blade out, then knived the man again. And again, and again. Until his stomach opened and disgorged a melange of blood and organs.

Dizzy, Ryurikov flung the door shut, belatedly realising it couldn’t be bolted from the inside. He swore at the thunder of more footfalls down the stairwell. Too many. He couldn’t take them on his own.

He hastened back to Awimak and worked to undo the hag’s other arm, scarcely managing to pull her out in time, her rags catching on spikes as the front slammed shut. Awimak released the other shortly after.

The two hags now huddled by the well, and Ryurikov moved to the back of the empty torture device to push it over. He tried to roll it, then tried to scoot it, pushing with all his might, but hardly got it to move. Fortunately, his demon didn’t need asking, and lifted the thing up like it weighed nothing, throwing it against the door to block entry.

Ryurikov panted, “Thank you.”

YOU DO NOT LOOK WELL.

“I’m fine.”

He had no choice but to be. They were in this mess now, and they were trapped. The least he could do was spare the witches an awful death. Although, perhaps they would all die here. Ryurikov tried not to think about that, resuming his task of freeing the third. He’d only cut the first arm loose when soldiers barraged the door. The iron maiden blocking it slightly shifted, more still with each thud against the timber until a crack along the planks appeared.

A sharp whistle preceded an equally sharp pain and Ryurikov flinched away on instinct. The tooth of his serrated blade cut through the wire. Awimak warned of something. Ryurikov stumbled back, an arrow firmly lodged in his arm. The iron maiden’s front door slammed shut on a piercing cry.

A pool of fresh blood gathered at the bottom of it. He watched in horror as it dripped past the metal lip and onto the stone floor. The two freed witches wailed, while Awimak released the front he’d been holding rather tastelessly, Ryurikov thought. The crunch and squelch that followed seared itself into his memory.

DO NOT DWELL ON IT.

He glanced up, both in disbelief and admiration of Awimak’s unflinching deportment. His demon was right, of course, there was no point in dwelling. Instead, he took hold of the arrow wedged deep in his bicep, and yanked.

Fucking ouch.

Then there was the persistence of the soldiers, and the last remaining hag, still struggling to keep herself upright.

Sibilating a swear, Ryurikov ducked to evade another arrow whistling past his head. He made to dispatch the soldier peering through the crack of the door with a crossbow, but Awimak beat him to it. Hooves clomped across stone, bough-like horns ramming into and through the door. Wood splintered, soldiers cried out, and crossbows and cudgels dropped. Claws tore into flesh. Blood splatters plumed. Gurgling screams lost in echoes.

Wiping more sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Ryurikov darted to the last witch, waiting for Awimak to return before he set to freeing her. His fingers gripped her frail wrist and he swung her forward to join her sisters. They embraced each other, a smelly pile of old women Ryurikov would have thrown straight down the well for a wash, had he any strength left. Just as well, he supposed, as the waterspout began to dwindle.

The breath he released quivered, and he rested his back against the closed iron maiden. Awimak’s eyes were on him. He didn’t need to open his own to know, and chuckled, faintly.

“I may…not be well.”

INDEED.

“Some rest, perhaps, after all this is dealt with.” Ryurikov mustered a smile. “In the bed again, if you care to join me.”

Awimak faced him, blood dripping off his claws. And by gods, Ryurikov had never seen anything sexier than this great demon before him.

THAT SOUNDS FINE.

First, they had to get out of here.

With a grunt, he approached the hags. They stared up at him with their orange eyes. Scared, confused, maybe a little angry.

“I’m sure you know who I am,” he said, swallowing against the hoarseness in his voice. “But seeing as I just saved you, perhaps we can overlook the fact that we’re mortal enemies. At least for now. I will gladly oblige your attempts to kill me at a later time.”

“We’ve heard stories about you,” said one, her hair a short, messy nest.

Ryurikov waved a dismissive hand, his gaze darting to Awimak. “Yeah, I’m sure you have.”

Fucking Radmila. He hoped the witches wouldn’t divulge just what kind of stories they were. He didn’t want Awimak to know all he’d done to her. Then again, maybe Awimak already knew. He seemed to know everything else.

“None of them ever spoke of you saving our kind,” said the same one. She struggled to rise. It was embarrassing to watch, honestly. “My name is Darinka.” She gestured at the one with the longest hair, mostly a matted braid. “Branka, and Una.”

“That’s because I’ve never done it before and make no mistake,” he continued, snidely, “I’m not about to make this a habit. Now come on.”

“We can’t leave,” said Una, wobbly on her legs, thin as sticks. “We refuse to doom this town. The people deserve better.”

Ryurikov squinted at them in disbelief. “They were happy enough to let you die like strung up rats.”

“Nobody knew we were down here, aside from the Jarl and his soldiers!” said Darinka, helping Branka up.

“Suit yourselves.” He walked away. Passing Awimak, he swirled his finger in the air, then pointed at the door.

“Thank you, Prince Leonid,” one of the hags called out. He wasn’t sure which, they all sounded as though their vocal cords were mummified.

“Ryurikov,” he snapped without turning.

“You should get treatment!”

“Fuck you.”

Mangled bodies blocked the bottom of the steps, fingers still twitching as Ryurikov stepped over them. He swayed, catching himself on the cold iron of a wall torch before a large claw came up on his back.

“I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve you,” Ryurikov murmured, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

The open palm on his back pushed, encouraging him to climb the stairs. LIKEWISE, MY HUMAN. I WOULD PREFER IT IF YOU DID NOT DIE SO SOON.

Ryurikov huffed. “Right back at you.”

PERHAPS YOU SHOULD ALLOW ME TO TAKE CARE OF THE REST.Awimak’s massive arms came ’round to trap Ryurikov in an embrace from behind.

He allowed it, for now.

“And let you be entertained all by yourself? It’s only a fever, I’ll walk it off.”

A pat on one bark-covered forearm prompted Awimak to release him.

The moment’s peace didn’t last for long. They reached the door at the very top and clanking announced more soldiers. Good grief, how many of these well-fed assholes did the Jarl have under his boot?

Ryurikov sighed, grabbing hold of his long dagger again, but a hand squeezed his shoulder, then eased him against the wall—out of the way. Deciding it was a touch too risky to be fighting now anyway, he permitted Awimak to take charge.

Watching his demon tear through several men and women like they were no more than wet straw dolls was satisfying. Were Ryurikov not feeling so ghastly, he would have pounced Awimak right after he tore someone’s arms off. His gigantic, enchanting demon looked at him, eyes like a forest fire.

Ryurikov staggered across butchered bodies, tutting at the blood staining his boots. The monk was nowhere in sight, likely the one to rat him out. Walking alongside Awimak through the hall, Ryurikov cleared his aching throat, scouring their surroundings. He slipped his hand into Awimak’s hold, quietly relishing in the way it squeezed him. The sudden heat blooming across his face was most certainly due to his fever.

The presence chamber was not empty. Ryurikov had almost hoped it would be, but wasn’t surprised when more soldiers stormed them, swords raised, bravery affixed to their stupid faces. Until Awimak showed himself to them, and their courage shrivelled like an earthworm out in the sun. Those who didn’t run were rooted by terror as a great hulking beast bore down on them with claws larger than their helmeted heads.

Casually strolling past the massacre and dodging a string of blood lashing toward him, Ryurikov beelined for the throne, where the Jarl sat with his six daughters, watching.

“Jarl,” Ryurikov said, damning himself for sounding so hoarse.

“Sir Dracus.” The Jarl stroked his silver dusted beard, unfazed. Unlike his daughters, who were twitchy in their seats, the thick velvet of their black dresses rustling with each nervous movement. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen Hospod?”

Ryurikov mustered a smug look. “I’ll give him your regards once I find him.”

He flung his dagger at the man’s head, smoky light reflecting off blood-stained steel as it speared the throne’s backrest. Strands of dark hair streaked with silver clung to it, the Jarl looking no more bothered than he had a moment ago. He rose, his black boots scuffing murky stone, and strode forward.

The last few paces he lunged for Ryurikov, who swung himself to the side. The glint of the Jarl’s narrow blade could have easily been mistaken for the many rings on his hand. It was short, sharp, no more insidious than a tapestry needle.

“How deep are your coffers, Jarl?” Ryurikov surprised himself with the venom behind his words, the utter resentment. “How much do you hoard, while your people starve to death outside, in this smoke-plagued shithole?”

Now that wasn’t entirely fair. Briarmour was a lovely town, were it not at the doorstep of Skin Crawlers and burnt wastelands.

“Coming from one who consorts with demons,” the Jarl countered, jerking his head to where Awimak watched, the echo of dripping blood audible in the sudden silence sweeping the chamber.

The fever had clearly taken a hold, for the next thing Ryurikov knew, his chest rumbled with satisfied laughter. “That’s not all I do with him.”

A sneer was his only warning before the Jarl hurtled toward him again, astoundingly quick. His shoulder connected with Ryurikov’s chest, slamming him against the window. Lead and glass cracked under his back. Ryurikov brought his knee up. Rammed it into the man’s stomach. Used the leverage to push him away. Then brought his elbow down on the Jarl’s head, dropping him to the floor.

“And after this is done, you and I are going to fuck,” Ryurikov panted, swaying when he spun to face Awimak.

READY WHEN YOU ARE. Awimak motioned at him. FOR NOW, INSPECT THAT WOUND.

Ryurikov glanced down at his stomach, a pain making itself known. He clicked his tongue, pulling the fabric of his tunic away, sticky with blood.

“It’s fine. Only a pinprick.”

Having taken an arrow to the arm, Valka’s fists to his face—never mind the drake bites—was decidedly worse. Unless, of course, the Jarl had dipped the prick in poison. Ryurikov felt the colour drain from his face.

“Is–Is it poison?” he asked.

Awimak shook his head. I CANNOT DETECT POISONS.

“Wait a fucking minute,” Ryurikov snapped. “You told me nothing in Jezibaba’s garden was poisoned!”

I WAS BASING THAT ON DEDUCTIVE REASONING. WHY WOULD SHE SPREAD POISON THROUGH HER OWN GARDEN?

He stared at his asshole demon in disbelief. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding—”

The shoulder colliding with his stomach robbed him of his breath. Glass shattered, his world rapidly flitting past until his back slammed into the earth.

Ryurikov wheezed out an agonised cry, vision too blurry to see much else other than Awimak’s shape filling the window he’d fallen from. A strained shout preceded wet snaps and crunching. Something fell to the ground directly beside Ryurikov, a splatter of hot metallic fluid pelting his cheek.

He grunted in disgust, wiping his face as he sat up. Only once his vision cleared did he realise the Jarl had joined him outside. Well, his head had. The rest of him was probably still by Awimak.

“I like the way you murder,” he said, affectionately.

ONLY FOR YOU, MY DRURY.

“I’m sure you say that to everyone you court.” All the same, he couldn’t help the smile.

Ryurikov dusted himself off. People had gathered already, the sickly and homeless coming in for a better look at their dead Jarl. Ignoring them, he limped back to the window and reached up to let Awimak grab his forearms and pull him back through. Just as he’d suspected, the Jarl’s body was beyond it, bony under his feet. The daughters had disappeared, Ryurikov didn’t especially care where to.

“Come on, let’s look—”

Awimak’s claws had found the hem of his shirt, lifting it. Ryurikov glanced down again.

ARE YOU WELL?

He shrugged, trying not to shudder under the tender touch, fingers brushing around the tiny wound. “I don’t think it was poisoned.” Then again, if it was, his fever was certainly impeding his ability to tell. “I better find the Quinary as soon as we get the coffers.”

WE TAKE AND GIVE, said Awimak, sounding rather cheerful while following him.

“Indeed.”

Finding the Jarl’s treasure didn’t take long, the coffers as large and ornate as all else in the main bedroom. Ryurikov eyed the bed with longing. He wanted to fuck, but more so, he wanted to sleep this damn sickness off, wherever the hell it might’ve come from.

Exhaustion, maybe, although spending one more day in the smoke-beaten town was the last thing he wanted to do. Strangely, he longed for the warm breeze in Jezibaba’s garden, the soothing rustle of leaves and clucking of chickens.

Awimak helped him drag the ornate coffers outside, where Ryurikov kicked them open, spilling a nimiety of crones and ores across the street. Even jewellery slid across the gold and silver avalanche, landing at the feet of startled and confused peasants.

“All yours,” he said, then looked up at Awimak. “Maybe you should show yourself to them?”

WHAT FOR?

Ryurikov shrugged, wincing at the pain in his arm. “Might be nice for people not to be terrified of you.”

I DO NOT CARE WHAT THEY THINK.

He huffed, bemused. “You really don’t, do you?”

Regardless of how shaky he was and how exhausted he felt, Ryurikov reached out to hold Awimak’s claw again. Because he could, because Awimak didn’t mind. Because it was nice. Looking up at his demon, there were a great many things Ryurikov longed for. His entire body strummed with that peculiar feeling again, strong and warm, consuming him with a nigh painful need.

It had been so long since he’d experienced anything of the sort. The last time he felt an inclination only vaguely similar to this, his eyes were altered without his consent.

“Awimak,” he began, and those sun-like eyes set upon him again. Fiery and full of passion, of a feeling so similar to what Ryurikov held in the deepest cavity of the abyss that was his soul.

The excited babble of the wretched scrambling for coins became a distant sound, despite being directly at his feet. His heart gave a fierce thud of fright, and thrill. He wet his lips, unsure of what to say, but longing to say it.

“I—”

The sharp whistles blowing past him didn’t register. The many arrows that pierced Awimak’s chest a strange sight Ryurikov wasn’t sure how to make sense of just then. His demon grunted, claw sliding out of his hand, hooves scraping across stone. More arrows winged past. Into Awimak’s shoulders and back, pincushioning him. He buckled to his knees.

Ryurikov’s breath wedged itself somewhere in his chest. He moved forward, a cry spilling past his lips, terror disembowelling his heart. Awimak’s name plummeted from his mouth, repeatedly, his hands hovering over one of the many arrows piercing the demon’s heart. Blood vivid and hot like lava sluiced across his dark grey chest, scorching arrow shafts.

DO NOT FRET, Awimak ground out, rising to his full, stately height. He held out his arms on either side, and the ground beneath them quivered and shook. IT WILL TAKE MORE THAN THAT TO KILL ME.

Every tree within the vicinity came to life, roots pulling up like legs out of dirt, swinging, and tree-crowns rustled as trunks shifted, lashing through the air, whip-like. Flowered branches snagged soldiers off rooftops, slamming them down onto the streets below. Bows and arrows rained down around them as bodies broke against cobblestone.

Totteringly, Ryurikov inspected the damage to his demon while his vision swam and his heart beat so harshly it hurt. The townsfolk who hadn’t immediately run for cover whimpered behind him. He ignored them, gritting his teeth against a calamitous fear threatening to strike him down. Awimak might have told him not to worry, but the amount of blood now cascading over him was alarming. It dripped to the ground, blackening as it grew cold.

“Fuck,” Ryurikov breathed. “We–What the fuck do we do, just pull the arrows out?” They would definitely need to go back to Jezibaba now. She’d likely know what to do.

Although Awimak didn’t seem too worried, only chuckled, and anger rose like a wildfire within Ryurikov. How dare he trivialise his worry? He took an angry step forward. A blue necklace crunched under his boot.

The clamouring behind Ryurikov had yet to die down. Someone bumped into him, and it followed a pressure. He grunted and glanced down. Something had slid into him. Swift, sharp. The tip of a blade peered out from the bloodied fabric by his stomach. It pulled away. Reemerged a second later through his chest.

Ryurikov wanted to swear, but spluttered blood instead.