"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
Priscilla was grunting and gasping as she ran up the stairs, taking two at a time if she could manage it without tripping on the worn stones. Of all the places Osric Ead could have decided to hide himself away, he had to choose the tallest tower in the entire city, so tall that it would be a wonder if she had any breath left in her by the time she made it to the top. She pushed herself upward, narrow staircase after staircase, floor after deserted floor, determined to claim her prize before the Northmen came hunting for it.
She supposed that she should have been grateful the vault had so easily lured Erik away. No doubt the Vikings would be crawling all over the tower already, searching for any loot they could get their hands on and clamoring for Osric's head, but the allure of greater riches had been too much for their barbaric natures to resist. Their abrupt departure from the alcove had allowed her to slip away unnoticed, a stroke of good luck that she refused to let go to waste as her target remained momentarily forgotten to the horde. So far, she hadn't seen anyone on her way up through the strangely empty tower, the silence of the ascending stairwell eerie and foreboding after all the fiery chaos of the battle to claim the city.
Forcing herself up another flight of curving steps, Priscilla came to an abrupt halt on a floor occupied by what remained of the Divine Pyre, but to say the sight of them wasn't what she had been expecting was an understatement for an already shocking day.
Two Knights of the defeated cult seemed to be guarding nothing more than an empty room filled with long rows of desks, each cluttered with parchment, scattered bottles of colorful ink, and quills made from feathers of such colors and sizes that Priscilla could not even imagine what sort of exotic birds they came from. She could see dark words stretching across the abandoned parchment in neat lines, the tools and rulers used to make such elegant scripts scattered all about the floor among overturned stools as whoever had been working there made a quick departure. As for the Knights themselves, well, they seemed hardly as interested in her as the bounty of discarded literature around them.
Priscilla grabbed her blades free with a hiss of metal, but neither the Lawbringer, draped sadly in his purple cape, nor the Warden, who stared out an open window nearby with their back turned to her, seemed to register her sudden appearance at all. The Lawbringer sat hunched over on a short stool; empty helmet left forgotten between his feet as he cradled his head in gauntleted hands. His poleaxe lay discarded nearby but was still well within arm's reach if he wished to make a grab for it. Priscilla took a hesitant step forward and kicked the weapon further away with the tip of her boot, making the heavy weapon scrape noisily across the floor. The Lawbringer looked up in surprise, but where she had expected to see anger burning bright in his eyes, there was only a deep, crushing sadness.
He had been crying and was still crying, with shining tears streaming down his red cheeks as he blubbered like a child. He still held his hands up in front of him where his face had been buried, only now it looked as if he were trying to appease her as she stood with her weapons drawn, like a pauper forced to live out their days in the gutters and slums while the rich passed him by without a care. It was unlike anything Priscilla had seen the Pyre do before. Whatever fight she thought might have broken out between them slipped away into an awkward silence as the broken Lawbringer lowered his head and picked up his bawling with gusto.
"Th-the… The volcano," he whimpered, armor rattling now as his entire body shook with despair. "He… He-he-he didn't save us… God was silent… He has abandoned us! It's… It's all over! The Lord has a-bandond hi-his children…"
Movement from the window made Priscilla step back with a start and raise her weapons, but to her utter surprise, the Warden stepped onto the windowsill and then took another bold step out of it. She just caught sight of their purple tabard billowing up around their black helmet before they dropped without a sound. Then they were gone.
"God has abandoned his ch-hildren…" the Lawbringer continued to wail.
Priscilla was too stunned to move. Her sword and dagger hung limp at her sides, just weights in her hands now. She feared no trick or sudden attack from the weeping man before her, but she could not bring herself to simply kill him. He was completely and utterly pathetic in his defeat. After all the Divine Pyre had done, all of the damage, all of the pain they had caused with their false words and their blind, violent faith, despair was its final reward. It made no sense to her how people could have been caught up in such a blatant lie and still expected salvation in the end. The only thing that she knew for sure was that she wanted nothing to do with them. She sheathed her blades and stepped right up to the weeping man, grabbing him by one metal shoulder and forcing him to sit up.
"Where is the High Priest?" she demanded.
The man tried to fight against her, but it was the fumbling tantrum of a crying child trying to fight off the retribution of an angry mother, metal fists slapping weakly against Priscilla's shoulders until he ultimately gave in. "Up… Up the stairs. With the rest of the fork-tongued bastards…"
He dropped again when she released him, crumbling off the stool and down to the floor, weeping away the freshly broken remnants of his hollow world. Priscilla didn't give him a second glance as she turned back to the stairs to head up the tower again. Her legs were burning after just a few steps, but she gritted her teeth and reminded herself that she still had a reason to keep fighting, something to live for beyond the validation of her beliefs. Not everyone left alive was so fortunate.
At the next landing, she barely got a glimpse into the open room from the stairs when a large book came hurtling at her through the air. It crashed against the wall in a spray of fluttering pages as she ducked back, all bright ink in colors of emerald, shining gold, illustrious purple, and stark black. When she looked in again, a thin priest dressed in robes of purple and black was standing behind a row of overturned desks stretched out like a makeshift fortress. He snarled at her; mad eyes narrowed as he held up yet another heavy tome to launch in her direction while all around him, more priests either cowered behind the tables or were pulling down more books off of shelves to stockpile for ammunition.
"Get back, you devil!" shouted the priest, chucking the book he held before being handed another.
Priscilla pressed herself against the doorway and called out to the priests inside. "Osric Ead!?"
"Fuck that insufferable prick!" snapped the book-hurling offender. Another gilded cover flew out into the hall, striking the wall and falling bent and broken to the floor. "Curse that lying shit and his broken promises! He said we would be rich and powerful men! He said we would be safe beneath the mountain!"
"And you actually believed him?"
"I believed he wouldn't lock himself in his room like a coward and leave us to the fucking wolves!"
Priscilla slipped around the corner and ducked under a thrown stool as she rushed into the room. She caught sight of the priest and some others ready to launch a bunch of feathered quills at her like throwing knives, but it only took the hiss of metal sliding free of her scabbards to make the would-be assailants think better of it.
"Mercy! Please, mercy!" shrieked the priest, all courage fleeing him as she came on with her sword raised and dagger in hand. The others fell over themselves to get away, shrinking back to the bookshelves and whimpering like scared children facing down a monster from their nightmares. Priscilla barely stood any taller than most of them and was undoubtedly outnumbered if they all decided to attack her at once, but a length of sharp steel and the complete dissolution of power over their holy city had rendered these men impotent before her.
She stepped in close to the priest, who remained frozen in fear, sword tip resting in the hollow of his neck just above his purple vestments. "Mercy? Is that what you and your kind gave my countrymen when they refused to bow down to your false idol?" The priest's eyes screwed up tight, his hands shaking as he held them up in surrender. "Is mercy what you offered devout followers of the Lord when you allowed your wicked army to ravage our homeland for your own benefit? Was it mercy you offered them when you strung up their corpses on the road to Cinder Mill, and the streets of Eitrivatnen were lost to lawlessness and fear?"
"P-please…" the man whimpered, the lump in his throat sliding against the tip of her sword as he swallowed. "For the love of God, don't kill me…"
A crimson dot formed at the end of her sword, and a sharp whine of the most delicate pain filled the air as the priest grimaced. Then Priscilla lowered her sword, and the man fell to his knees, muttering his desperate prayers of thanks. "God would demand that I show you mercy, and so I will," she said, thoughtfully tapping her dagger against her thigh, "but I doubt the heathen gods of the Vikings will be so generous." The priest's eyes shot open as he looked up at her, tears streaming down gaunt cheeks as he continued to tremble. She took satisfaction in that, if only because he could not see her smile beneath her dark iron helmet. "They are coming. Hunting for a way into the vault and anything else they can steal away back to their ships. Or anyone they can get their hands on to simply kill. I hear that they take a particular delight in carving the skin off captured priests. They enjoy doing it slowly." Fearful cries rose around her as she turned and began to walk back across the room. "It is a long way to the city gate, and the barbarians are swarming all over the city. Time is growing short if you wish to run."
"W-wait! I beg of you!" cried the priest, glancing around at his stack of books as if wondering how they would fare as projectiles against a horde of bloodthirsty Northmen. He quickly scrambled up and over the wall of desks after Priscilla, crawling on his hands and knees, clutching at her skirt. "Please! Protect us, I beg you! Get us out of the city, and we will pay you whatever you want! Anything! Mercy, please!"
"Mercy, mercy, mercy…" Priscilla said over her shoulder as she left the room of broken men behind. She cuffed the man on the head to be rid of him, no longer interested in his pathetic tears. "Did you not know? That word no longer holds any meaning in these lands. Now, I wonder who we have to blame for that?"
"Please… Wait!" But Priscilla did not wait. She had delayed enough already, and someone of much greater importance than these underlings was waiting for her at the top of the tower. The priests were dependent on God's mercy now, and she had seen scant evidence of that in her time.
When she finally reached the top of the tower, her brow was sticky with sweat beneath her hood and helmet, and the great oak door that stood before her was already swung ajar. Pausing momentarily on the stairs, she considered who might be waiting for her inside and how many there might be, for there were no guards outside the door now. What was left of them was surely a few floors below, still curled up into a ball and weeping like a baby over their unforgivable deeds or splattered against the mountainside after a long drop from a tower window. Still, it was better to act with caution. She was a Peacekeeper, after all, not some savage Berserker or Raider. Taking a silent step closer and peering into the room beyond, she tipped her head slowly inside, and her jaw fell at what she saw as the blood boiled in her veins.
Gold. Gilded gold on nearly every object in the room, from the framework of the grand four-post bed down to the tassels of patterned rugs covering the floor. Ornate armchairs with plush cushions that would put grand thrones to shame were placed neatly before an ornate hearth of carved marble and magnificent candelabras still dazzling with tall wax candles dripping like slow rain. There was a darkly polished round table adorned with jeweled goblets, decanters of wine and spirits, silver plates piled high with fresh fruit and delicacies from lands near and far, and paintings, so many paintings, hanging on the walls that one might think this was a school for the masters to teach and display their work to the world.
Priscilla blinked and wondered if she had somehow found her way into the city vault by mistake rather than the living quarters of the High Priest. She had never seen so much wealth, comfort, and splendor dazzle and glitter before her eyes. It was here, all here, a singular paradise kept hidden away high up in this tower, all for one man while the little people led astray by the Pyre's lies had been left to suffer in squalor down below in a wretched city succumbed to hunger, fire, and war.
Such a display of greed was audacious to behold, and it only made what she had to do all the easier. She could already imagine what she would do to the High Priest, or what she would like to do to him, but for now, she would not let her emotions control her. The mission came first. A Peacekeeper was the master of her fate, and she had been fighting for too long to lose control now.
Then, movement on the far side of the room caught her eye, and she looked over to see a figure shuffling frantically in front of a wide desk, shoving anything that shined from silver-tipped quills to little golden paperweights shaped like grinning dragons into an open sack. To her disappointment, the panicking figure was not the Osric Ead but was, in fact, another Peacekeeper, dressed head to toe in the black armor and purple tabard of the Divine Pyre. A deserter of the Sisterhood, no better than a scared thief as they rushed to pilfer whatever they could before trying to escape. Maybe she had been a thief before she ever joined their order; plenty had before finding a greater purpose serving Ashfeld from the shadows. Priscilla had been, too, for a while. Even more of a coincidence was that she was also a traitor in her way. The only real difference between them now was which side Priscilla planned to end up on once this war was over, and it certainly wasn't on the side of the damned fire worshipers.
The Peacekeeper fretted over what to take off the desk and, in the end, settled on sliding her forearm over everything and scooping it into her sack, like table scraps for the refuse pile, scroll-work and all. She snatched up a large statue of a screaming phoenix, wings spread wide with flames and smoke curling about its long tail, and stuffed it so hard into the sack that the fibers nearly ripped apart from all the metal feathers, stretching it tight. Then, the hooded woman stepped over to the walls and began to knock the paintings off their hooks one by one. They fell and clattered with chipped frames as they hit the floor, one after another, all while the Peacekeeper showed not a hint of interest in the masterful brushwork or the oily blend of colors into storms of emotion. Then, her hand hit a small painting that did not fall but remained firmly fixed to the wall.
The painting displayed a bright figure wearing both the armor of a Warden and the robes of a priest, holding their longsword high and leading an army of devout followers in uncontested victory against the fleeing hordes of northern barbarians. A warrior priest bathed in the golden light of God while dark clouds rolled over the defeated demons of Hell. It was a hopeful illusion meant to encourage the hearts of true believers as they looked upon the majestic swirls of thick paint layered upon the canvas to tell such a righteous story of good versus evil. If only it had been placed where such people could view it, say, in some gallery down in the city. Here up in the tower, it did little good hung up for one man to enjoy alone. Too bad the painting didn't seem to want to move at all.
"There we go," hissed the woman as she gave the painting another tug and found it fixed firmly to the wall. She pulled out her dagger and wedged it under the gilt frame, muttering to herself in a sharp accent that marked her out clearly as coming from the slums of Beaufort far to the south as she tried to work the painting free; an accent that brought back both warm and bitter memories from Priscilla's past when she heard it. "Come on… Open up, you fucking piece of-"
"I have it on good authority that painting requires a certain combination to open," Priscilla said as she moved into the room, watching the Peacekeeper jump and spin around, their dagger held out in front of them. "I could share it with you if you wish to know what is hidden inside?"
"Fuck off, bitch! This is my take!" snapped the Peacekeeper, sticking out one boot to slide the sack of stolen booty behind her. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I am here for the priest. Where is he?"
"Cowering beneath the bed like a child that's pissed the sheets," said the woman. Priscilla looked at the bed and spotted a pale hand slipping out of sight beneath the bed frame. She heard the shuffling of knees on stone and the pathetic whimper of a man who knew he was caught. It was perhaps the most pathetic letdown Priscilla had ever witnessed, so much that she couldn't even bring herself to laugh as the other Peacekeeper snarled her scorn. "Been there since I came in. I'd have killed him already, but I figured I could at least toss him to the heathens while I make my escape. Lying bastard deserves a lot worse than that, though, bringing me here just to get trapped like a rat. I'd cut him slow if I had the time. You hear me, you old fucker? I'd cut you real slow if I only had the chance…"
"I suppose many people would like to take their revenge on his flesh if given the chance," Priscilla said. She wondered what might happen if Osric was given over to his abandoned congregation, let alone the Vikings. She could make it happen, but then, she could always do the deed herself…
"What's the combination?"
"Hm?" Priscilla hummed, knowing what had been asked but was playing for time. It had been a long climb up the tower, and she took a moment to catch her breath while the other woman seemed more interested in what she had to offer rather than why she was there.
The Peacekeeper took a step closer, dagger still raised. "You said you knew the combination to the painting! Where'd you learn it?"
"The Legion Council provided it to me," Priscilla answered truthfully. If there was anyone in the defeated city that she could share her secrets with, it might as well be another Sister and another traitor at that. "I am still in contact with Sister Elise."
The Peacekeeper scoffed. "Like hell you still have contact with the Silent Blade. None of us have any business with the Sisterhood since we split with…" Her voice trailed away as she gave Priscilla a slow look up and down, taking in her red battle dress and the white lion etched into her vest. "Oh… You're one of them, aren't you? One of those Knights fighting with the fucking heathens."
"They were not my first choice of ally, I admit, but Beaufort was a long way from being any help at the time, and the thought of joining ranks with the likes of you was… Well, let us say that black was never my color."
"Oh, you're a funny one. I bet all the girls had a ball with that sharp tongue of yours back in the dorms. The question still stands, though. What business does an apostate like you have scheming with that slant-eyed bitch?"
Priscilla shrugged. "Revenge? A second chance at fulfilling my duty, perhaps? We used to be close friends when we were younger. Elise was very dear to my heart, but now I fear that I am being used to suit her own designs. It should really come as no surprise to me now, but I must admit it still hurt when I began to catch on."
"Friends with the Silent Blade?" muttered the Peacekeeper suspiciously. Then she tipped her head back, her blade lowering just a fraction as she questioned, "What Mother did you train under?"
"Mother Beatrix, just before she stepped down from the position," Priscilla answered honestly. "You?"
"I don't envy you. I heard she was a real nasty bitch with the lash," laughed the Peacekeeper. "I was under Mother Ida and can say she wasn't much better."
"Nothing like shared childhood trauma to bring us together during these times of trial and tribulation."
"Guess you could say that, but you're forgetting one very important difference between us." Priscilla cocked her head in question, waiting for the Peacekeeper to reveal the trail's end as if she hadn't been led along with breadcrumbs the entire way. "You're Priscilla Arentii, that girl who got fucked over by Elise for the entire court of Beaufort to see. Is it true the whole Trial was rigged to go to whoever sucked the Lord-Warden's cock the best? I bet I could've won if it had been me up against that little Myre rat," she laughed. "Or maybe he's just one of those weird bastards who only likes foreign girls. Hardly seems fair to the likes of good women like us, doesn't it? Seems like you were fighting at a disadvantage, from what I heard."
"I seem to recall the whole affair happening over very different circumstances," Priscilla said as she took a few tentative steps closer, "but it does seem that Elise and the Lord-Warden have paired to make quite the team of incompetence since her victory. Just look at what has happened since she came to power. Civil war and religious unrest, barbarians running rampant through our lands, apostates, and villains winning the day in the face of God's virtue. If only the aristocracy had remained pure, perhaps none of this would have ever happened?"
"You trying to scare me?" quipped the woman. She stepped back and circled around the desk as Priscilla moved opposite her. "You think I'll just turn tail and run because you almost became the Silent Blade?"
"I had hoped that it might deter you from trying anything foolish, yes," Priscilla said, coming to stand on one side of the long desk while the Peacekeeper held their dagger out over the polished surface on the other.
"You think you're better than me? You? Out here fighting with these savages? Just because I joined up with the fire worshipers doesn't mean I actually believed any of that shit!" snarled the Peacekeeper, her hips bumping up against the edge of the desk as if she meant to reach out and stab Priscilla. "After everything we suffered growing up in that torturer's dungeon they called a Sisterhood? I deserved more than being brushed off into the shadows and getting shit on by high-born cunts, and that's what I got here! What makes you think you have any right to look down on me?"
"Well," Priscilla said calmly, holding her hands loose and easy down by her dagger and sword hanging on her belt, "how close did you ever get to becoming the Silent Blade?"
"Oh, go fuck yourself, you sour bit-"
Priscilla's hand darted behind her back and shot out again, quick as a viper. Her small knife flew across the desk and thudded into the Peacekeeper's shoulder, making the woman scream. Then Priscilla was up on the desk, grabbing hold of the Peacekeeper's wrist and giving it a sharp twist to make the dagger drop. Snatching it up, Priscilla hauled the stunned Sister off their feet and onto the desk with her, moving so fast that not a sound was made between either of them before she was pinning the Peacekeeper beneath her and angling the dagger for her neck. Priscilla thrust down at her foe with their own blade, but they managed to get an arm up to stop her, the scuffle now turning into a battle of wills as each tried to outmatch the other's strength. Priscilla growled, and the Peacekeeper huffed and whined as their eyes narrowed on that sharp metal point bearing down on them. They were strong, Priscilla had to admit it, but they hadn't been the one to land the first hit, and sometimes that was all that mattered. Elise had taught her that lesson a long time ago during the Trial.
"Fucking, shit… Wait! Please!" cried the woman, her arm beginning to tremble as Priscilla bore down on the dagger with all her weight.
"Sorry…" Priscilla gasped, finding the murder of another Sister an easy thing to do now that it came down to it. Maybe she had learned something from her past mistakes after all, "...but I never liked it when girls called my friend such horrid names." Then she slammed her knee into the woman's groin, sapping what strength they had left to fight with as she forced the dagger down. The Peacekeeper gave a pained grunt just before the blade stabbed into her neck. Any resistance died instantly, but the Peacekeeper less so as they began to choke and gurgle on blood. Priscilla fell hard on top of the body, feeling the woman's boot give one last kick before finally going still.
She lay there, panting hard over the body, ignoring the warm trickle of blood that bubbled up around her fist that was still gripping the dagger. At some point years ago, she and this woman might have crossed paths back in the Sisterhood. Perhaps they had even spoken briefly, sat together in silence at one of the long tables in the feasting hall, or beaten each other bloody in the training circle as classes were pitted against each other and scrutinized for weakness by the ever-present Mothers. Had Priscilla even known her name? She probably should have asked before she killed her. It would have been polite, at the very least. Too bad their little civil war had ruined any chance at that.
Not wanting to look at the bloody dagger stuck in the Sister's neck, Priscilla turned her head and spotted two eyes staring back at her from across the room. Wide, fearful eyes that shimmered wetly in the darkness beneath the large bed decorated in gold and soft blankets. It had all been for show, it seemed. None of the splendor and majesty meant anything now that the priest had no more of his flock left to throw to wolves in a vain attempt to keep them at bay.
"Oh, I have not forgotten about you," she said slowly, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over her as the thrill of the fight faded away. The priest recoiled at her words and whimpered pathetically as he shuffled back beneath the bed like a beaten pup hiding from its master. "You stay right where you are, and we will have a very important talk shortly, just the two of us."
Rising from the body, Priscilla drew the dagger free with a sharp tug and slid down from the desk. She wiped the blade clean on the woman's skirt and slipped it into her belt next to her own before grabbing the small knife next. Once the edge was clean and back in its sheath, she groaned softly and stepped over to the painting of the warrior priest that remained fastened to the wall. Perhaps if the other Peacekeeper had not been in such a rush to claim her bounty, they might have noticed the faint outlines of fingertips worn by the repeated touch on ten of the bricks surrounding the painting. A clear sign of a combination to open the locked compartment that the image hid if one knew the proper sequence to get inside. An old secret, known not only to those who resided in the tower but also to those important enough to consider the secrets of each and every city in Ashfeld their own.
Taking a breath, Priscilla held onto the belief that she did indeed know the combination. She clung to the hope that the treacherous bitch, whom she had just defended before robbing a fellow Sister of their life, had, in fact, given her the proper combination and not simply fed her another lie as a means to lead her along like a puppet on strings. The prize hidden behind the painting needed to be a real step forward in her mission, but Elise had already lied to her about Chaldeon bringing Apollyon's armor to the vault, so there was no telling what other false promises she had made. To find out that all her hopes were for nothing would not have surprised Priscilla now, but it would have still hurt, just like always.
"Do not fuck me, Elise," she whispered to herself, staring at each brick in the proper order before ever touching them. "Do not fuck me again."
She reached out for the bricks in quick succession, applying enough pressure that each slid into the wall with a dull click. Lower left, upper right, top, left, right, lower right, bottom, upper left, top again, then finishing with left. The edge of the painting popped open so slightly that Priscilla almost missed it. Her heart felt like it would jump up in her throat and escape out her mouth as she clutched at the hidden door to pull it open. It was heavier than she would have thought, the painting simply a disguise for a thick plate of steel that swung slowly forward on its hinges. The interior of the compartment was small, stuffed full of old scrolls sealed with wax sigils that were cracked and bent with age. She had not the faintest idea what secret knowledge from forgotten ages and ancient legions the scrolls might contain, but they were not her concern. The only other object kept safe within was a small chest, which she quickly pulled out and dropped onto the desk next to the cold body. Throwing open the lid, Priscilla's stomach did somersaults at what she found. Inside the chest were six neat stacks of golden coins and a handful of assorted jewels of all sizes and colors, but it might as well have been a pile of dirt for all she cared as she stared down at the real treasure she had come to claim.
Sitting there, on top of the gold and jewels, was a dark iron key. It had been promised to her by Elise and the Legion Council as a means of stopping the Vikings from claiming their prize and departing for their ships, a way to keep them stuck within the city long after the Divine Pyre was defeated. With this, the next part of her mission was nearly complete, and she would be one step closer to claiming absolution for her legion for the role they played in this heathen raid. Combined with the brittle pages of Li Qiang's formulae tucked away in her pouch, she would buy their way back into the society where they belonged. Surely not to be welcomed back as heroes or great warriors worthy of adoration, but at least tolerated and allowed to live as they once had on the frigid surf-blown edge of society before the war ruined everything. The cost for redemption was a high price, but doing the Council's bidding had to be enough.
She wasn't sure there was anything more she could give if they demanded it. Not now. Not when everything between her and Gunnar had changed.
Snatching up the key, she held it before her for a moment, noting how plain the dull metal looked to keep something so valuable and magnificent locked away in the city vault. She squeezed it tight in her fist, then pressed it to her chest. "Thank you," she whispered, although she was not entirely sure to whom. It just seemed like the right thing to do. "Thank you..."
"The savages..." came a voice so small and weak that Priscilla was shocked to think that it in any way might have carried over the city from the balcony outside the room. "The savages, they're coming for me..."
Priscilla looked beneath the bed where Osric Ead had appeared again, his wide eyes darting about like a rabbit checking for any sign of a predator lurking outside its hole. "Yes, the Vikings are coming for you," she said. "And when they catch you, they will cut the eagle into your back and let you bleed for hours. They will kill you for standing against them. Have you made your peace with God yet?"
"Fuck God!" snapped the High Priest, showing his more familiar false piety with a snarl of white teeth as his anger flared. "This city is mine! I am the only god here!"
He crawled forward just a bit more, enough to stick his head out and glare at her as if she hadn't just killed the only other person in the room while he hid like a scared child. Priscilla didn't like the feeling of his frantic, wet eyes on her, like a sewer rat ready to attack when it knew it could no longer flee. He had a long, thin nose, no chin, and a balding head, with his golden vestments hanging off of him like he had been born bone thin and stayed that way no matter how many delicacies he gorged himself on while others starved. The wicked glint in his blue eyes gave insight to someone who thought himself better than men far younger and far more handsome and had spent his entire life getting others to do his bidding. He looked like someone who delighted in his crippling lack of strength and absence of a proper background, for he wielded his misery as an excuse as to why he had never been allowed to achieve true greatness.
He was a pathetic bully, plain and simple, a fact made all the more evident as he bared his teeth and snarled again with spittle flying from his accursed mouth. "You will see me safely out of the city! Is it gold you want? Take it! I don't give a flying fuck! You've proven yourself more useful than that dead cunt. I am God made flesh upon this earth, and I command you to obey me!"
"A tempting offer, Father," Priscilla answered. Pocketing the key, she slammed the chest closed and drew her dagger. "I, however, have a different proposition in mind." Osric gave a sharp yelp and tried to scurry back beneath the bed again, but she dashed across the room and grabbed hold of his wrist before he could slip away. She pulled hard, drawing him out again while he screamed and cried like a man gone mad. "Come here, you fucking- Ah!"
Pain laced up her arm as a flash of metal sliced against the sleeve beneath her pauldron. She sprang back from the bed, glancing down at the bloody cut dripping red down her arm, then gave a start as Osric sprang forth from beneath the bed like a demon out of a child's nightmare, his red knife no longer concealed as he held it high to strike her down.
"I am almighty God, holy and omnipotent, and you will obey- Oof!"
She dropped him with a swift kick between the legs, watching as he went cross-eyed and let the knife clatter to the floor. Kicking it away, she grabbed Osric by the collar of his vestments and slammed him back against the bed. "That is enough!" she snarled, pressing her dagger under his jaw and along his throat. "It is over! You lost!"
The once defiant and insurmountable priest now lay weak and deflated in her grasp, wet tears rolling down his cheeks as he began to shudder and plead. "Mercy-!" Her hand came over his mouth, clamping down tight and robbing him of his greatest weapon.
"Do not say it!" she shouted in his face. With her dagger pressed tight against his skin, Priscilla loomed over the cowering priest and spoke again, softer and more slowly, "Do… not… say it... No one on this earth deserves to say it less than you." Osric whimpered and swallowed hard, grimacing at the weapon at his throat, but she did not have it in her to pull the dagger away, not yet. "You do not get to say that word, not after everything you have taken from me. Everything I knew is now shattered or burned because of the lies you spoke. The lies you used to seduce fools and fanatics into obeying you." She angled his head to look at the Peacekeeper dead on the desk before bringing him back to face her. "My home is gone, my legion left in tatters, and my faith..." Her voice broke at that last word, her dagger pressing so hard now that a thin line of red spread across his pale flesh and began to drip down and stain the embroidered gold cloth draped around him. "I want to take so much from you in return. So... much... but I will settle for only what will keep you from telling the Northmen what happened here. I will take what is most dear to you, snake. I will take what is more precious to you than all the treasures of this Earth and Heaven combined."
Sliding on top of him, she straddled his weaker body and pinned him down to the bed as she removed her hand from his mouth and replaced it with the bloody point of her dagger. Osric whimpered and screeched in terror. He kicked his legs frantically to try and throw her off, but it did him no good. He was a priest left godless by his vanity, and she was a warrior holding sharp steel and possessed the strength to use it. No majestic painting was needed to know who would win.
"I am all out of mercy, Father," Priscilla snarled as she squeezed her hand tight around his jaw to force open his mouth. He let loose a guttural scream of panic, her dagger sliding in against his tongue, scraping against his teeth, finding the right angle to cut deep and slice through wiggling muscle. "So I think I will take my pound of flesh now while I have the chance..."
"Who says it's yours to claim?"
Priscilla whipped around and jumped off the bed at the voice behind her, hardly missing the thick northern accent. She yanked Osric off the mattress with her, shoving him onto his knees and pressing her dagger against his throat again. He spat and coughed, bloody drool pouring down his chin as he swayed. He was pale and sweating, sure to fall flat on his face if Priscilla wasn't holding him by the collar. Priscilla glared her wrath at the door, about to snap her obscenities at the hulking figure standing there before her, a great axe clutched in their hands. However, the words disappeared in her mouth, thinking that it had been Gunnar come to follow her like always, only to go cold when she realized it was not.
The hollow eyes of a pale skull stared back at her, sitting on top of the mailed helmet of Ivar's second-in-command, Njáll. He squinted at her through the thin eye slits in his helmet, the bare muscles of his scarred arms flexing tight as he gripped the shaft of his axe, knuckles showing white on his hands. Taking a moment to glance about the room, he looked over at the body of the Peacekeeper still laid out on the desk, then down at Osric's wretched and bloody form, then back up to her. "What are you doing here, woman? This is no concern of yours."
"All of this is my concern," Priscilla found herself saying more sharply than what was good for her. She yanked on Osric's vestment, causing the man to gurgle and spit blood from his lips, and despite knowing better, she felt a certain dark satisfaction in making him suffer. "If you have come here looking for treasure, there is a chest on the desk filled with gold and jewels. Take it, and leave me to my business. Then perhaps you, Gunnar, and I can share a drink together when this is all done..."
Njáll slowly looked over to the offered chest guarded only by a dead woman but did not move from where he stood in front of the door. Slowly, he turned his head back, not taking his eyes or the eyes of that skull he wore off of her again. "I will take the priest. He will be our sacrifice to the gods now that the battle is won." He took a step forward but stopped as Priscilla moved the dagger across Osric's throat by a hair.
"You can have the priest," she said through gritted teeth, knowing that she had to silence Osric before he gave up any secrets about the key, but she also knew that keeping him alive was the only thing stopping the Raider from attacking. "You can have him after I have taken suitable payment for what he has done to my homeland. Now take your treasure, and I will bring him to you shortly."
There was another long pause as Njáll stared her down. For a warrior who fought so ferociously on the battlefield, his calm silence was incredibly unnerving in the room's stillness as he took his time to speak. "What are you hiding, sneak thief? Up to more of your tricks with Bjǫrnsson and his scum-sucking brother?"
"They have nothing to do with this," Priscilla answered quickly, suddenly frightened that Gunnar might get caught up in the Viking's retribution if anything was found out. "Herleif and Gunnar have no part in what-"
"Huurhg! Thh-th keeyh!" Osric gave a sudden lurch as he spat blood all down the front of his robes but still managed to shout at the top of his lungs, his voice booming in the room even with his half-severed tongue fumbling about in his bloody mouth. "Sshe ha-sh th vau-lt keeeyh! Thh keeyh in er poc-et- Uughk!"
Priscilla's blade stabbed down into the High Priest's neck and, without a single word from her or Njáll, cut a gaping wound across Osric's throat from ear to ear, spilling his wicked blood in a wave of shimmering red. The ruler of the Walled City and Holy Father of the Divine Pyre spewed a last gout of blood from his blubbering lips, tottered on his knees as she held him by the collar, eyes rolling white in his head, and then he fell to the floor in a wet splatter of gore as she let him go.
"Forgive me," Priscilla said, her voice going soft as a whisper, the priest's blood dripping from the tip of her dagger. Hot tears stung at the corners of her eyes as she kept them fixed on Njáll. Happy tears, ones she had held back for far, far too long and could finally set free. "I know it was a long way up the tower, but I guess I just wanted the pleasure of doing that myself."
Njáll stared down at the dead priest lying bright and regal on the floor, robes of gold spread wide in a growing pool of dark blood. Then he shifted his grip on his cruel-looking axe and readied himself for a fight. "You will regret doing that, tin."
"Oh, no," Priscilla said quietly, taking hold of her sword and slowly sliding it from the sheath with the smooth hiss of metal. "Of all my many regrets in life, I hardly think this will be one of them."