Pentimento, Nick Kyme [each kindness read aloud TXT] 📗

stir the soul, but what if they were only stories? What if the God-Emperor Himself was a lie? Could there really be worlds beyond this one, let alone a glorious empire that spanned them? Surely–

No! He wouldn’t – couldn’t – accept the possibility. Throughout the squalor and suffering of his life, he’d clung to the legends and the hope of something better. Nobler. Yes, that was the word Father Fairfield always used when he preached about the Imperium. It was a wonderful word, filled with the promise of great deeds and more to life than drudgery. Sometimes the boy felt sure his memories would come creeping back and that remembering would reveal the truth he yearned for – that he belonged with the Shining Ones.

‘It’s not real,’ Agnieszka muttered beside him. Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed her joining him. ‘A dream,’ she assured herself dully. She was a bitter, narrow-minded crone, but shock had drawn her poison. ‘Only a dream.’

Turning, the boy saw the others had emerged from the pit, even Padraig. They stood staring at the massacre in slack-jawed shock.

You’re afraid of me, the boy thought, but you followed anyway. Because I’m all you’ve got left.

Unexpectedly his contempt faded. These folk had no answer to this nightmare – no strength or cunning or secret gift to shield them, only a small measure of faith and a wealth of ignorance. Little wonder they were drawn to his power now. Did that make them fools? Worthless?

‘We burn bright so others may live,’ the boy whispered. It was the credo of the Shining Ones, taught to every child of the Hinterwylds and carved beneath the holy aquila in the village temple. It felt good to say the words aloud. Even better to feel their truth.

‘You said we should… leave,’ Agnieszka said hesitantly.

‘It’s near on two days to Vartan,’ Jaktens estimated, pointing at the treeline beyond the mill. The stocky woodsman knew the forest paths better than anyone else among them. ‘More if the snow keeps up.’

‘I won’t make that,’ Tivoli protested, shivering.

‘Follow me,’ the boy said, coming to a decision. ‘Stay quiet,’ he called over his shoulder as he crept away.

‘Wait, lad,’ Jaktens cautioned. ‘That way’s back into town.’

Yes, it is, but you’ll follow me anyway.

There’s no choice, the boy told himself yet again, but with every step he took the argument felt weaker and the urge to turn and run stronger. The ravaged dwellings and corpse-strewn roads of the village mocked his decision. What he’d seen at the mill hadn’t fully prepared him for the carnage that lay ahead.

Everyone’s gone, he judged. The beast got them all.

It looked like the destroyer had swept from house to house, battering down doors or entire walls, then hurled its victims outside, as if to desecrate the streets. The cobblestones were threaded with frozen blood and more of it covered the buildings, mostly in frenzied splatters, but occasionally worked into symbols or fragments of what might have been words, their characters daubed with startling finesse. It confirmed what he’d sensed all along – despite its savagery the beast was more than an animal.

You can think, but you’re forgetting how, he guessed, brushing against the killer’s dreams. It hurts you to remember.

Yet despite his connection to the beast he still had no idea what it actually was. None of the survivors had even glimpsed it. They’d all been on the other side of the village when the screaming started. Moments later a torrent of raw impressions had rushed over the boy – jagged white teeth gnarled and snarling and framed with flames that scorched black to red then back to blacker rage roaring soaring falling feeding falling further faster brighter darker…

The hellish tide had felt physical in its force. Screaming, he’d buckled under its weight and dropped to his knees, clutching his head as it tried to wrench itself from its own neck and hurl itself into the storm. Through the pain he’d glimpsed that it was actually his soul that was being torn away and drawn into the destroyer’s madness. That insight had saved him.

Falling back on the discipline of the cold command, he’d reined in his gift and muted the clamour of impressions to a murmur. Then he’d hauled himself to his feet and begun yelling at the gawping folk around him, urging them to run. Run!

Perhaps it was the terror in his voice or the chorus of screams – still distant, but getting closer – or perhaps he’d unknowingly thrown his gift behind the warning, but a pitiful, random few had heeded him. They were all he could save from the foe.

The foe? He wasn’t sure when he’d started thinking of their tormentor that way. Not so long ago it had simply been a force of nature to hide or flee from. Maybe the change had come when he’d realised both those courses would end badly. The creature had their scent. If they hid it would find them. If they fled it would run them down. That left just one choice – to act as the Shining Ones would and face their foe.

My foe. The clarity felt good. It gave him strength.

‘You’re sure about this?’ Jaktens whispered.

‘Yes,’ the boy replied, tightening his grip on the Blade. He’d told the others to scavenge weapons along the way and they’d obeyed with the same dull hope that compelled them to follow him. Now they brandished scythes, hoes or spades like holy relics. Jaktens had recovered his crossbow and Agnieszka was clutching the wooden darning needles she’d been carrying in her bag. They were nothing like the dashing Imperial soldiers who marched beside the Shining Ones in the stories, but he was proud of them.

I’ll make them heroes, he vowed, channelling his foe’s fury into something pure. The beast was very close now, but his fear was gone. I’ll make them Astra Militarum!

He waved his party to a halt as they entered the village square. There were surprisingly few human bodies here, though scores of animal carcasses were scattered among the overturned stalls and