She was beautiful, arching up against him, whimpering. Fleeting and warm. The woman clawed at him and thrashed and her eventual submission was very sweet. When she was gone, he flung the body of the Wildling Elf away from him. She looked less lovely now, her throat shredded, her skin too pale. Ashtorath had no time to savor his kill, nor the next. The Wildlings had torn through the defensive line.
A hail of arrows rained on him and his men. He flung a gauntleted arm over his bone-white face, shielding it and his throat. Several arrows bounced harmlessly off his thick, black, plated armor. Men fell around him, some injured, most dead. Ashtorath trod forward, plodding, slow and heavy. His footfall lacked grace. He was a towering behemoth of a man made of broad muscle and impressive height. His hair whipped behind him like a pale flag, long and fine, the only thing about him that was beautiful.
Blood from his enemies frothed around his mouth, stained his shark-sharp teeth. His blood and ichor, black and slow-moving like thick syrup, stained his side. He would need to see the necromancers after this. They were the only ones able to repair an injured Unquenched. But even those repairs would eventually lead to his downfall. If the madness did not take him, his body's decay would. Ashtorath would become a patchwork horror, mindless and driven only by the urge to feed.
Even now, the rage and desire coiled like vipers inside him. Like stinging, buzzing insects in his brain. A Wildling man, filthy, naked, and baring only a bone knife, flung himself at Ashtorath. It was like watching someone else as his big, thick hand snapped out and caught the Elf by the throat. His fingers, hard and cold as stone, sunk in and snapped bone and tendon until the man's mouth was a red, lurid font of life. Ashtorath drank.
In life, he'd been a kind man. Good and sturdy. Salt-of-the-earth. But in undeath, he was a vicious monster who only found pleasure in this. He sank to his haunches over the corpse, hunched over the bleeding, broken man, and he found his supper. He feasted on anything to soothe and calm the raging tide of hunger inside him. Gobbets of flesh filled his mouth. Sinew snapped. He glutted himself. He crawled over bodies. Bodies of his men, broken and staring sightless. They had found their peace. They were lucky.
He crawled and feasted again. The battle was over. Like him, all of the Unquenched were eating the dead. Crows joined them, cawing and pecking out eyes, eating the tender places. Bellies and breasts. Ashtorath liked those too; they gave and yielded sweetly under his self-sharpened teeth. It was still and stinking. Shit and piss and blood. Gore. The air was fouled. There was no pride in this victory. It was the only respite from his unending torment.
Ashtorath tore open a woman's thigh and snapped her femur in half with his preternatural strength. He sucked the marrow from the bones. He was a ghoul, an Unquenched. Once, he had been a mindless thing, a puppet on bloody strings. The Pale Witch, servant of Nehmain Lord of Death, had garnered enough power to raise an army of his kind. She set them on Belshalara.
Thousands died. Hundreds turned. The world was a bloated corpse, ripe and stinking. And for no reason anyone understood, they stopped and regained themselves. The armies of undead were whole in their minds again and very sorry for what they had done to their brothers and sisters. Their mothers and fathers. Even their own children.
His son.
Ashtorath sank his teeth into skin that had long gone cold to banish that thought. He couldn't afford to dwell on what he'd done. It brought the madness on far more quickly. And he had his debt to pay. He had not lost his honor. The Unquenched who were not lost in the great purging forever guarded the city they were no longer allowed to live in.
Before the war with the Elves of the Wilds, it had been a dull and empty post. They had all passed the time hunting. But some of them took the hunt too far, past animals. They took women from the villages in the Great Wilds. And they lost more and more Unquenched until only a few hundred remained. Ashtorath was their king. Their general. It was a job he did not want, but it was given to him, thanks to the clout of his half-sister: Lillandyr Shadowglade, Marquis of the Flesh Quarter.
It was thanks to the Lady that he was allowed to walk amongst his living brethren again. Allowed to smell their flesh and feel their warmth. He was her guard, for the Lady needed a monster to keep the rats at bay. He delighted in his work. It let him feed. Kill. And it was the only pleasure he knew.
The moon was high when he and his men had finished off the small war party. They buried the bones and said their thanks to Nehmain; for who else would be their god now? They affixed the skulls, licked and gnawed clean, on pikes. Let it stand as notice. Let it be a perch for carrion birds and a beacon to any Wildling come to avenge their kin. The Unquenched kept a cold, silent, hungry vigil over Belshalara and her opulence.
Ashtorath and his men took their dead and devoured them, too. It was a sour and bitter meal and brought no pleasure, but it was their way. They caged their Lost. The slavering undead, blind and consumed by hunger. The Lost were Unquenched taken by the madness which nipped at the heels of them all. But they were good for spreading disease and fear. They would serve until Nehmain called them home to the cold halls under the earth.
Unlike other soldiers, the Unquenched did not relax. They did not sleep nor did they have families to go home to. They never left their posts and they worked tirelessly. Even now, as he made his way to the city gates, his men worked to repair the walls. They worked on making diseases to strike down the Wildlings once and for all. All they had aside from the cold and the hunger was their great purpose and work. It kept the madness at bay. It soothed the burn of unpleasant memories.
The guards, he knew, would deny him entry. They did every single time. Tonight was no different, as he smelled the perfumed air of life that breathed from the throbbing, beating heart of the city. Even from here, even from the great gate, he could see Lillandyr's sparkling tower. It was the tallest in the city. It was set with crystal and gold and tonight it pierced the full, silver moon like a garish finger clawing at the sky. Appropriate, he thought.
Ashtorath towered over the men at their post. Even in their dress plate, gilded filigree against the polished black, even as they stood on a rise of marble with their pointed, curving scimitars, he dwarfed them. He'd been a golden haired man in life with tanned skin and his height had been a subject of teasing. Ashtorath the Giant. The Gentle Giant.
No one could call him gentle now. Ashtorath, the Ravager. He wasn't fond of the moniker but it made his enemies smell sweetly of fear. That copper, sick tang in the air that their rushing blood produced. An almost ozone acrid smell. It soothed his madness. It made him feel whole, for just a little while.
"You will turn around," the older of the two guards said to him, voice shaking.
Ashtorath knew he looked the part tonight. Blood slicked his chin and armor. He stank of death. Flesh was in his teeth as he smiled slow and broad. Fear. He devoured their fear and felt the madness in him sing.
"You're not allowed this close to the gate," the younger man said, his voice wavering as well. Both men gripped their weapons a little more tightly.
He did not speak when he didn't have to. His voice wasn't the same. It was hollow and it made the living nervous. His appearance was enough. So he reached into the satchel strapped to his belt and he drew his official papers, complete with his half-sister's seal. All far and wide knew who the Lady Shadowglade was. He found it amusing that she was often more feared than he was, and she was a mere slip of a woman. She did not frighten him. He worked for her in memory and honor to his father. It would've been what Lord Shadowglade would've wanted.
The two guards looked between each other. Ashtorath knew they were weighing the options of displeasing their superior or displeasing the Lady. He let them waffle. He let them talk in hushed whispers and treat him like he wasn't there. Death had not done his temper any favors but his belly was heavy with meat and blood. He could wait. He could be patient when the madness wasn't curling and squeezing around his brain like a python.
They let him pass as they always did and he made his way into the city he used to call home. It hadn't changed much; the power had just shifted hands. There were five Marquis all scrambling and scrabbling over the Quarters. All of them, at one point or another, attacked their neighbors, and the city's streets would be awash in crimson.
But for now, there was an outside threat, the Wildlings, so there was relative peace within. The Marquis weren't foolish enough to weaken the inside when the outside was so very battered.
It was late, well past the witching , when he made his way to the center of the city. Like a whore, she opened her legs, people parted, dogs digging through garbage whined and fled. It was all splayed and empty for him.
A pair of drunk women spilled out of a noisy tavern. A shaft of golden torchlight illuminated their red faces and they laughed. They stank of too much perfume, sour with liquor. Whores probably, and not the kind his sister employed. Back alley wenches with knives and pistols in their garters. He stopped, staring, cold and unmoving. His eyes were like a dog's or cat's; they reflected light back, crimson in his gaunt face.
The drunken laughter died and they screamed. For a moment, he saw himself as they saw him, a walking, hulking nightmare creature. It had only been ten years and most elves remembered when the Unquenched were not their allies. The women fled, stumbling over each other to get away from him. He found then, in the tense silence that followed, that he missed women. Perhaps he missed that most of all. He no longer desired sex and his organs didn't function besides, but he would have given all he had to be looked on with desire again. To be touched gently. To drink a kiss from the lips of a softer creature than he. But he would never have these things again. Ashtorath didn't feel malcontent. He wasn't sad. He felt very little and just stood there in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the tavern. Time meant nothing to him anymore and an hour passed easily as he stared. Like a mountain sighing he moved away again, plodding down the street. His heavy, thick armor clanged and jangled noisily. No other souls crossed his path as he found the Flesh Quarter.
Unlike the other Quarters, the Flesh Quarter never slept. It was quieter during the day, true, but it was still a writhing, squirming mess. Under his half-sister's rule, it had become the wealthiest of the five. Under a firm, uncompromising hand she ruled the pleasure houses and temples. The worshipers of Baellith tripled in number and their god found favor in twice the sacrifice he'd had before. Lillandyr was their high priestess. She bloodied her hands every Seven Day and cut the heart out of the sacrifice herself.
He respected her, in his way, though he wasn't fond of her. She was young, too young to have such power, barely a woman grown. And she was more cutthroat than he thought a woman should be. But it was none of his concern now. His father was dead and his other siblings had marched into the grave after him. All he had left was Lillandyr, and in her fashion she was good to him. She gave him work. She kept him busy.
Work stymied the madness. So for that he owed her a great deal. And in turn he made her more feared, more respected. She was the only Marquis to keep Unquenched as guards. He served as such to her and as an inquisitor. He questioned those who displeased her and dispatched them if they were guilty. His sister would not see him this night; she was away. Just as well, he thought – he found her manner cloying and obnoxious. She was a creature of flirtations and simpering smiles that never reached her shrewd gaze. While Ashtorath did not fear Lillandyr, he was wary of the woman.
He waited in the shadow of her tower and peered up at the swollen moon. He waited until the gray hours of dawn when all that haunted the streets were lanky tomcats slinking through the middens in search of rats. He was growing impatient. His sister liked to play games, test his will and loyalty often. And she did so now by making him wait, his only company her stoic tower guards.
At long last, one of them spoke. "The Lady."
Then the other. "Is indisposed. She."
"Sends word," the first man said behind his veils, mask and plated gold.
"And gives instruction."
"Ashtorath," the first man blurted, the cadence of his speech sounding mechanical and forced.
"The Lady has need of you."
"Dear brother."
The second man's lips curled and twitched into a puppet's smile. "The Gilded Lily."
Ashtorath frowned. He knew the place. He had been called there once before to dispatch a drunken patron who had cut the nose off one of the Lady Shadowglade's whores, rendering her useless and unfit even for sacrifice to Baellith. The Lady's god adored perfection.
He knew, too, that his sister spoke through the men, bent their wills and minds to her purpose. It was her voice on another tongue and spoken through other lips. He nodded to the two guards. He waited for her instruction and command. He took to knee, his plate scraping over the stone with a dull whine of metal on rock. The leathers he wore under the heavy armor creaked. "Command me, sister," he rumbled in his low, rasping baritone.
The men were smiling in that same infuriating coquettish way she had. It was meant to trick lesser men into thinking her a mindless girl. On her guards, it was a horror to see their faces manipulated into masks. A mask of a mask. He scowled. He need not hide his displeasure from Lillandyr. He was dead already and his mind was a place so vile she feared to tread there.
"Go and make the place stink with fear," one guard said. They could have been twins, these men. They were of similar stature and height, but their faces were veiled save their lips and strong jaws.
The other guard pressed a thick, leather clad finger to Ashtorath's cold forehead. The Lady's magic seeped into his skull like icy smoke. He felt the choking tendrils of it pierce the meat inside his skull and it made him see what she wanted done.
"Deal with the whore Belindra first. Follow the instruction to the very letter. Tonight, we show this city what comes from threatening me."
The finger stroked over his jaw now, over his cold, blue-tinged lips. He was repulsed and wanted to snap the digit off with his shark's teeth but he refrained. It was not the guard's fault he was being used to torment and annoy him.
"Once it is done, once they are weeping and her blood stains the ivory courtyard, you will question each and every one of them. You will learn the names of their favored clients." The first guard paused and smiled. Slow, cold and unnatural. It made his dead flesh crawl over his brittle bones.
Ashtorath stood then. He had his instructions and he bowed stiffly and formally. The visions danced and teased him. He was certain the whore he was going to slay was lovely. Ripe and young. Her skin so tender. Her blood rich with the rust taste of patina. It would be good to hurt her, hear her scream and beg. The woman's flesh would taste like respite and relief. It would quell the rising tide of hunger and anger.
And then he told himself, they will cast you out. Purge you. You will meet the final death and you will have no honor in greeting Nehmain at the gates. You will be forced to wander the earth for all eternity, a pale and hungry ghost. No, he thought, this is punishment enough.
Along the uneven cobbled streets there were golden flowers painted, showing him where he should tread. Where he should turn. They were glittering in the sputtering gas lamps that lined the streets. And though he had been to the Gilded Lily before, the sheer glittering opulence, the golden brightness of it, even in the dim light of predawn, was enough to stir something inside him. It was a whitewashed building of marble and stucco laced with gilded filigree. Crimson flags fluttered from the spires and the windows were stained glass. Roses and cherubs and women with full, bare breasts. The sweet smell of women, sex and perfume, tobacco smoke and the sourness of wine spilled from the open door. Curving bodies, golden hair and plush, crimson lips danced just out of his reach.
He was the monster looking in. For a moment, he wished only to be Ashtorath the man. But those days were a decade done and gone. He was left as he was and his sister's word was law. So he strode forward, chasing the brightness away.
The drawing room of the Gilded Lily was done in golds and reds, in lurid black lace. There were couches and cushions and on every surface, a scantily clad woman rested, waiting for her night's suitor to come and shower her in coin. It didn't take long for the girls and women to notice him. It didn't take long for the gasps and whimpers and cries of terror.
Guards weaved through the sensuously curving female flesh, their hands resting on the pommels of their blades. Ashtorath sneered and yanked a silk cloth off a small table. He sent curios crashing to the ground, little porcelain rabbits. They smashed to the floor, bringing more mewls and cries. With the diaphanous cloth he swiped the blood and gore from his chest plate, where a crimson, leafless tree was painted.
The sight of this stopped the guards' advance. The men bowed curtly. "Lord Sunmourne," they said at once and together. Women huddled, holding each other. Perhaps, he mused, they think I've come to bed them. Look how afraid they are. He laved his slick, cold tongue over his lips and watched the women shudder in revulsion. It stung him, tore at him, for in life he could have had any woman he'd wanted. Now? He was relegated to the pleasure the hunt and fight gave him. And that was so very fleeting.
"I've come for Belindra Lily." All the whores from the Gilded Lily shared the same surname.
The guards nodded, once again in unison, leaving little doubt (to him anyway) that his sister tampered with these men too. To test me no doubt, he thought, expression grim.
The women began to turn on one another. Some of the younger ones moved in a loose pack, exchanging knowing looks. Better her than me, the looks said. They circled a woman who was lithe and tall like a reed. She had hair the color of inky night and skin so pale the moon was envious. Ashtorath saw only a very young girl, and while the madness inside him gnawed and growled at its cage, the idea of killing this very young woman was wholly unappealing.
Not that it would stay his hand. Ashtorath knew that were it not his blade that would finish the whore, Lillandyr would merely hire someone else to do the job. So the girl would still be dead and he'd be out something vital, he could tell. So he pushed through the throng of perfumed, oiled women and took Belindra by the hand.
Like all the others, she begged and pleaded and offered him every delight with whispers that spilled out from her full lips like desperate prayer. She eventually struggled and beat her fists uselessly against the slimy, black, plated armor he wore. She offered him herself. She told him she could please him. He did her a mercy and snapped her neck.
Ashtorath set about his grim work and didn't complete it until dawn broke pink and soft over the rough edges of the city's towers and craggy buildings. What was left of Belindra was a splayed and obscene thing. No beauty, only ugly naked truth. With equal parts relish and guilt, he licked his long fingers clean of her blood and gore.
The women of the Gilded Lily had shuttered their stained glass windows against the sight of what he had done, and when he parted their doors and curtains again, there was weeping in earnest. With the aid of the guards, he made the women form a line. He would interview them, interrogate and terrorize each and every lovely face until their secrets were laid bare like Belindra's corpse.