Page 3 of The Merciless Ones
The Oyomosin thrusts above me, a stark temple carved into the cliff, moonlight outlining its harsh, forbidding edges. Usually, there’s only one way to enter, the creaky wooden drawbridge just a short drop below us, but the priests always draw it up at night to prevent assailants from gaining entry.
As Belcalis and I pull ourselves over the ledge and head for the sparse patch of grass that marks the edge of the Oyomosin’s grounds, Britta’s aggravated voice rises along with the wind. “Ye know,” she huffs, lifting herself up behind us, “it’s rude to leave yer comrades behind during a raid.”
“Or,” Belcalis replies, her lithe, copper-skinned form already slipping past the pitiful copse of trees surrounding the temple, “that comrade could just forge ahead like all the rest are doing.”
She gestures with her chin to Asha and Adwapa, who are swiftly entering the temple’s grounds alongside the deathshrieks, silent shadows in the darkness.
Asha and Adwapa are twins, both midnight dark and so gracefully muscled, they seem almost a sliver against the night. The only thing that differentiates the two is their hair – or lack thereof: Adwapa is perfectly bald, her head gleaming under the moonlight, but her sister’s black hair shimmers an eerie green. The scouts who plotted our path for this mission braided the Oyomosin’s map into Asha’s hair with glowing lunar ferns so that we could see it easily as we climbed in the dark. They would have braided them into mine, but I’ve just cut my hair again, enjoying the freedom the short, cropped style provides.
Britta turns back to Belcalis and sniffs. “I’m on me menses, and ye know it.”
“So are the twins, but you don’t see them complaining,” Belcalis replies.
Indeed, both Asha and Adwapa are now walking over to the large window that’s our entryway into the temple. Hurry it up, Adwapa signs to us with battle language – a reminder. From here on out, we move in silence.
I nod as I swiftly approach the window. It’s eerily dark inside, not even a single candle to light the way, and it’s the same for all the other windows, even though I know the Oyomosin is fully occupied. The low hum of prayers has been steadily rising into the air all this while, and now, it’s accompanied by another, more worrying sound: screams. They echo from the depths of the temple, carried by waves of smoke tinged with the distinct odour of burning flesh.
A tremor begins in my muscles. The cellar… Gold streaming across the floor like rivers. The priests dragging me out to a remote field. The pyre, firewood already piled around it. Flesh splitting, burning. Pain…so much pain.
A warm hand presses my shoulder. “Should I go in first, Deka? Scout the area?”
I glance up to find Britta staring at me, her blue eyes filled with concern. “Yes,” I whisper, shame curling white-hot in my belly.
It’s been over a year and a half since I was in that cellar. A year and a half during which I uncovered my nature as the Nuru, became a warrior, defeated countless jatu… Unlike my alaki sisters, I’m a true immortal. I don’t have a final death and can recover from any injury, no matter how severe.
Why, then, am I still afflicted by this human weakness?
So much depends on me. My bloodsisters back in Hemaira, my sisters in blood and battle, all of them waiting to be rescued. All the women across Otera who are being punished for my actions… I can’t wallow in my feelings; I have to be strong. Have to prove that I am worthy of the task set before me, that I am worthy of being the only daughter the mothers chose to carry the fullness of their divine heritage.
I lift my shoulders, trying to embody this worth, but as I slip inside the Oyomosin, I feel a sudden, unnerving sensation: the tingling of my blood rushing up just under my skin, a reaction to the presence of divine blood. I’m being watched.
I whirl, trying to find the watcher, but the hallway is completely empty except for my companions. There’s no one else there. And yet the tingling is now being joined by another, more worrying sensation: a crushing heaviness, as if the weight of the watcher’s eyes has settled on my shoulders. My shoulders twitch. Whoever this watcher is, they’re not friendly – that much I know for certain.
It has to be a jatu. They’re the only other people with divine blood in Otera, apart from the alaki and deathshrieks. Any new deathshriek or alaki would have shown themself already, compelled, as they always are, by the subtle power pulsing from my body.
I glance back out the window, trying to find any hint of the telltale red armour jatu always wear. Do you see anyone? I ask the others, using battle language.
My friends immediately fan out across the hall, gazes sharp. But nothing moves.
No, Adwapa signs. There’s nothing there.
I frown, glancing around again. Perhaps it was just a figment of my imagination. This wouldn’t be the first time my senses have played tricks on me. My mind is forever latching on to inconsequential things to distract itself from painful memories. Even so, I remain alert as I make my way down the hall. There’s always the slightest chance I may be wrong.
The further I go, the darker and more oppressive the temple becomes. Flickering torches create eerie shadows on the stones, hidden passages curve into the unknown, and geometric wall carvings form dizzying shapes that merge into each other. Oyomo may be primarily revered in Otera as the god of the sun, but he is also the god of mathematics, which means all his temples are built using sacred geometry. The Oyomosin is no exception. Every stone and beam around us is a prayer, like those the priests are now calling out.
They’re coming, Katya signs when their footsteps approach.
I swiftly press myself against the wall, remaining so still, even my heartbeat slows. It’s the only precaution I take, the only one necessary, given that priests of the Oyomosin are blind. They pluck out their eyes and offer them in reverence to Oyomo when they enter the priesthood. That’s why the temple lies in darkness, why the priests wear masks of roughly beaten gold, the eyeholes welded shut, over their faces.
Thankfully, they don’t seem to notice us as they continue down the hall, intoning a hymn to the glory of Oyomo and his light upon the world.
Once they’re all gone, I motion to the others. Quickly now, my hands sign.
Everyone follows me, and we continue on swiftly through the dark, endless passages of the Oyomosin, Asha’s map leading us. We finally stop just in front of a massive door at the very centre of the temple. The screams are coming from inside, blasting through the halls, a symphony of pain and anger. I turn to the others, and they nod, not even needing me to say it.
There, just beyond the door. That’s where she’s being held.
Melanis. The Light of the Alaki.