Page 39 of House of the Beast

Chapter

I had seen the great, round chamber from above back in the banquet hall, but it was disorienting to walk out into all that space and feel a hundred eyes trained on me.

The lords and ladies in attendance were all gathered around the glass dome.

Many of them were muttering to one another, but it was impossible to hear what was being said.

Somehow, it was even more disconcerting than when I had been in the Avera temple, preparing to face the Tinkerer’s Thing.

Feeling very small, I steeled myself and stepped forward past the doors.

The marble floor stretched on before me, the basin of umbral water sitting by its lonesome in the middle of it all.

Behind me, armor clanked as two knights followed me in.

There was the whisper of metal over marble as the doors glided shut again, and then the whir of the revolving locks, shutting me in until I had completed the ceremony.

I approached the basin of umbral water. It was large enough to submerge a man, with shallow carvings along the wide rim, but it was otherwise unremarkable.

I was reminded of the temple where my arm had been taken.

The water there had looked like a piece of the abyss, cut out and slipped into the brass maw of the Beast.

The water here, though it came from such an eldritch place, did not look unusual in any way—completely clear, showing the brass bottom of the basin, with some light from the braziers glinting around the edges.

A bowl had been placed along the rim—the same one that had been used to baptize the condemned man.

The blood had already been mopped away, no trace of it left on the polished marble.

There would have been no evidence of the violence that had occurred here, if not for the smell of it lingering in the air.

The scent of death, fetid with a sweet undertone, as cloying as the perfumes worn by the ladies upstairs.

There was no need to worry , I told myself again like a mantra. Aster would not let me down.

Taking a steadying breath, I picked up the bowl.

Metal screeched behind me. I whirled around, startled. Had something gone wrong? The knights were suddenly on edge, weapons already half-drawn. Above us, the lords and ladies of Kugara looked at each other in confusion.

A loud clang rang through the chamber, and then the heavy metal doors were being pushed open.

A man emerged between them. He was in a ragged, stained set of pajamas, over which he wore a dark bathrobe.

His black hair hung limp around his face, and his cheeks were dark with stubble.

In one hand he held a sword made of familiar black steel. Its blade dripped with blood.

On the floor behind him lay the court clergyman. He was dead. Murdered so swiftly the shock still hadn’t left his face.

The crowd above us churned as alarmed conversation, muffled through the glass, filled the chamber.

The man in the bathrobe stepped through the doors, slamming them shut behind him with unnatural strength.

He did not wait for the locks. Instead he used his right hand—made of black metal—to wrench at them, pulling parts off, clawing into others, destroying them totally.

Now grinning, he lifted his sword in challenge, pointing it first at one knight, then the other.

Somehow, though I had never met him before in my life, I knew this was my Uncle Maximus.

“Lord Maximus!” one of the knights gasped. “My lord, you cannot be in here—”

My uncle ignored him. He stalked slowly forward, his gait fluid in a way that reminded me of one of the mountain lynxes that sometimes wandered into the estate.

After a moment of hesitation, the other knight fully unsheathed her sword.

I wished I had my own. This man was the First Hand of House Avera.

He was, in all ways, my superior—I should have been bowing to him in respect.

But in that moment, all I sensed was danger.

I cast my eyes about for a weapon, but there was nothing I could grab besides the bowl in my hands, which I set carefully back down on the basin.

“Lord Maximus,” said the knight. Her voice quavered. “A ceremony of initiation is currently underway. I must ask you to leave at once.”

My uncle did not stop. The grin never left his face.

The stench of death clung to him like a cloud, wafting over us as he continued his approach.

The strength of it nearly had me staggering helplessly backward; I was stunned at the blood and violence blanketing this man.

He had cut his way into the banquet hall, when they had tried to stop him.

I saw those severed lifelines as clear as day: a dozen men dead in just one night. But for what?

Why was he here?

My uncle’s inexorable approach brought him close enough to tap his blade against the knight’s, as if in greeting. Then, in one fluid movement, he disarmed her and put his blade through her throat.

Instinct had me jumping backward, putting distance between myself and the threat. “Uncle!” I gasped, horrified. What was he doing? What did he want?

Blood splashed onto the ground and into the basin of umbral water, sending it rippling.

Screams from above echoed through the glass.

The remaining knight shouted in alarm, drawing his own sword.

But his movements were stilted, hindered by fear—he was no match for the First Hand of the Dread Beast. His weapon was easily knocked aside, and my uncle drove his blade into the soft gap between his armor at the pit of his arm.

I had no weapon. Nothing to defend myself with. I was helpless, waiting for my end at the hands of my uncle. There was no time to grab for one of the fallen knights’ swords, not with the speed with which he moved.

Was this going to be my end? Had Aster chosen to reclaim my uncle and forsaken me?

With effort, I stilled my shaking hands and I squared my shoulders. If this was going to be my death, I would face it with dignity. I met my uncle’s mad gaze, planted my feet, and tilted my chin up.

Only, instead of running me through like he had done to the knights, my uncle lowered his sword. He stood before me, covered in blood, disheveled like he hadn’t washed in days, and stinking of rot. Despite this, his gray eyes were sharp. He smiled.

“So, you’re the one who will bring us all to ruin,” he said. His voice was ragged, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

He bent into a low, courteous bow.

My mind was blank, save for the panic clamoring at the edge of my consciousness. I did not know what to say. His words made no sense to me, and I knew one wrong move could end my life.

Slowly, he straightened up. I watched, still frozen, as he leaned his sword against the rim of the basin and dipped his hands into the umbral water. Cupping them together, he brought them up atop my head, water dripping from between the gaps of his fingers.

He opened them up, and thus I was baptized for the trial.

Water dripped down my forehead and into my eyes. I blinked it away, not wanting to let my guard down. My worries about failing the ceremony now seemed so trivial compared to the threat right in front of me. I clenched my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering and giving away my fear.

“Good,” said my uncle. “Now for the true test.”

Something banged against the doors, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Someone on the other side was trying to get in. I prayed for them to succeed, to come in here and restrain House Avera’s First Hand, but to my dismay, the broken locks refused to respond.

Unhurried, my uncle went to one of the dead knights and pried the sword from his fingers. He tossed it to me by the hilt. I managed to catch it, though the blade scraped harshly against my metal hand as I fumbled.

“Good,” my uncle said again. He went to pick up his own sword. Then, to my dismay, he pointed it at me, issuing the same challenge he had issued the knights.

“Why?” I asked. So many questions swam inside my head, but that was the most pertinent and most encompassing. Why was he doing this? Why had he singled me out, among all the other Pilgrims, including my father and cousin, in front of all these people, to ask me for a fight?

“You must prove you are worthy of the god you host,” he replied. He deliberately switched his weapon to his metal hand—the one that belonged to the Beast.

“Aster!” I called, voice cracking in distress. I was fairly certain that nobody would be able to hear me from beyond the glass, but even if they did—I couldn’t bring myself to care right this instant. “Aster, what is going on?”

“Yes,” said my uncle, sounding delighted, “call for him. Bring him unto yourself!”

He lunged at me.

I had thought my father was a good swordsman, but he was nothing compared to Maximus Avera.

He crashed into me like a hurricane, raining blows with his sword in an endless torrent.

It was all I could do to match them, each one pushing me back until my foot crashed into the basin of umbral water.

I stumbled, and then hurriedly turned that momentum into a dodge as his blade swept by me again, letting the movement carry me all the way to the other side of the basin to give myself some space.

My uncle laughed. It was the laugh of a madman, of someone who found enjoyment in this sort of bloodshed.

The fear I had been fighting so hard to temper rose like bile in my throat.

“I don’t want to fight you,” I said, enunciating the words as if that would get them through. There must have been reason in him still—he spoke clearly, and his eyes were keen. “Whatever it is you’re challenging me for, we can talk about it.”

“It is not up to us,” he replied. “You and I are simply vessels for a greater struggle.”

A greater struggle? His words still made no sense. Why hadn’t Aster warned me about this? He had said that he wanted me to meet my uncle; I would have refused if I knew it would happen in this way. More than ever, I needed him by my side.

I needed him to explain what the fuck was going on.

My uncle saw my moment of distraction, and in an instant, he was leaping over the edge of the basin to plunge his blade down toward me.

I leaped back just in time, but his assault did not stop.

The ring of metal against metal reverberated through the chamber as our swords met, again and again.

He swept his blade in a wide arc, and I parried.

He went for a thrust with ferocious speed, and I jerked to the side to avoid it.

In the blink of an eye, he changed the momentum of his thrust to instead slash at my throat, and I barely brought my sword up to knock his away.

Each blow rattled through my very bones until it was an effort to even hold my weapon.

My feet skidded sloppily over the marble as I did my best to evade my uncle’s attacks.

In desperation, I kicked at his knee, knocking his footing out from under him.

A dirty move, and one my father would have scolded me for, but I didn’t care.

My uncle only laughed.

I only had to hold on until the door opened, I told myself. Just until someone else could come in here and help me.

The problem was, I wasn’t sure I could.

Quickly regaining his balance, my uncle renewed his assault.

He wore me down quickly and brutally, the years of experience he had over me making themselves obvious.

Sweat stung my eyes; my throat burned as I heaved for air.

I was backed into the wall—smooth and high, with no footholds to aid an escape—and managed to twist myself away from my uncle’s blows, only to be driven effortlessly into the opposite wall.

My energy was fading fast. Snarling with effort, I lunged forward with my borrowed blade to try and turn the momentum of our fight.

My uncle easily knocked me off kilter with a sweep of his own sword, and then he impaled me through the shoulder.

White-hot pain lanced through me. My vision blurred as I bit down on a scream.

My legs instinctively jerked, but I was pinned and could not move away.

Quick as lightning, he withdrew his blade, sending my blood flying, and swung it around to cleave my neck apart.

I would not be able to dodge in time. Instead, I let myself fall to the ground, the sword scoring a line against the marble wall above me as I quickly scrambled to give myself some space.

My right shoulder screamed in protest at the movement.

I forced myself to ignore it, somehow hauling myself back upright just to try and parry another assault from my uncle’s blade.

All hope that I might be rescued by a guard, another Pilgrim, or any of the spectators left me. Only one thought remained, raging through my mind.

Aster .

Desperation narrowed my world down to only this. He was the only one who could help me now. I reached for him like a drowning man kicking to the surface. Pain shot through my shoulder like lightning with every blow I had to parry. My feet slipped on my own blood. I was not going to last.

Aster , I thought with all the energy left in me. Aster, help me .

I felt it the moment I broke through. Something— someone , so familiar I almost gasped—reached back for me, touched my mind so deeply it felt like my soul had been exposed.

I let him in, and he took hold of me, of my metal hand, wrapping around me like a lover’s embrace.

The pain fell away, the entire world fell away, until there was only us.

The stench of death sharpened, the path it carved for me so clear, it was the simplest thing to follow it with my sword.

My uncle struck at me again, and this time, it was like I could see the movement before he made it.

I knocked his sword aside with force enough to unbalance him.

Quick as a darting dragonfly, my blade sang through the air.

A brilliant light had filled me, blinding me from within to everything but the call of the black steel in my hand.

The next thrust did not meet metal but flesh. Something clattered to the ground. Blood spilled hot onto the marble, and somewhere, someone screamed.

The doors finally burst open, the locks giving with a great groan. Footsteps thundered as knights rushed in to surround my uncle—who stood, swaying, with my sword impaled through his chest.

He smiled at me, his teeth stained red.

He said, “I hereby declare Alma Avera as my successor: when my soul passes into the realm beyond, she shall be the First Hand of the Dread Beast.”

And then he fell.