Silver Blades: Dread Handed

Part 3, Section 2 - Palmed

Pertuli.

"You have two drips," Elethon said, "say farewell quickly."

I fell to my knees before the low table where Riposte's body lay, torso torn open and limbs partially flayed. Strangely, the body was warm, though that may have had something to do with the pulsing veins of black goo running through his system. Even now, the curse fought to take hold of his body. It was surrounded by silver instruments and shallow dishes, all stained by blood or holding bits that had been removed.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked into Rip's lifeless eyes. It was more than I could bear to find them entirely black, as if his bright irises had been pierced and filled with putrefying ink. I shuddered as the tears fell; I was beyond caring who saw them.

I ran my fingers clumsily, bound as I was, down Riposte's face to close his eyes and found a heavy silver Symbol of One resting on his flesh, just under his slack chin. I dashed it to the ground with a snarl. Rip's body belongs to Terrok, not this human god.

"Harbor not feelings of vengeance," Elathon quoted from scripture, "for hatred slays the soul and only One is just." His words weren't unkind, but I disagreed wholeheartedly.

"Pain is the only language understood," I argued, quoting another passage from the same book, "by the evil and senselessly violent."

As if summoned, a man walked in.

"Your Reverence!" Elathon exclaimed behind me.

"What is the meaning of this?" the newcomer demanded. I ignored him, darkly mesmerized as I was by the obscene strands moving under Rip's skin.

"Friend of Clasicant's, Lord Perinor," Elathon explained. My ears perked up. This, then, was the Commander of The Hand in Dragoskala, the man responsible for Rip's demise. "Came to plead Clasicant's case ... until he heard of his demise."

"Do you intend to give all visitors a personal tour of our interrogation chambers, Elathon," the merciless voice growled, "or is that reserved for days when I've closed St. Zane's and given you three days worth of expense reports to cross-check with specific orders not to come to the dungeons?"

"It seems to have calmed him, my lord," Elathon reasoned, not denying his superior's clear condemnation. "He became violent when he heard of Clasicant's fate, so I'm taking him to a cell to cool off until we can release him to the ward magistr—"

His words were cut off by his superior's sudden gasp of alarm.

"Why is this on the ground?" Perinor barked. "Are you insane? Silver is the only thing keeping this creature at bay!" He scooped up the silver icon and replaced it on Riposte's chest. "You have no idea of the damage you might have caused—either of you! Elathon, get this tilwenor out of my sight!"

Though used correctly, his emphasis on 'tilwenor' made it sound fouler than a racial slur.

I stood slowly and turned to face the commander. He was a tall man (though dwarfed by Elathon) in his later years. His body was healthy and robust and his short-cropped head of hair was full despite a predominance of gray. He wore a scarlet cape over his white tabard that was clearly not part of the uniform.

Slave to fashion, Perinor?

The Commander was glaring daggers at his aide, and as he turned to cross the room neither noticed me palm the silver holy symbol. Lock me in a cell if you must, but I will have the last word.

It was barely accomplished before Elathon seized me by the scruff, his giant hand nearly circling my neck, and hauled me toward the door. We were about to depart when when Perinor preempted us, his voice steeped in conspiratorial menace.