Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

Envy rushed her, knife upraised.

Atran’s hand was a flash, catching the girl’s wrist and snapping it clean. She then picked up the child by the throat and threw her across the room. Envy struck the cutting table, her back arching, folding around the table’s edge — a table that was bolted to the floor.

Shrieking, Spite flung herself forward.

A slap sent her sprawling. Atran turned to see Envy picking herself up from the floor, and that was impossible — the girl’s back should have broken, snapped like a twig. Instead, something dark and vile was bleeding out from the girl, from her limbs, her hands, from her dark eyes. The tendrils of this dread sorcery reached out, curling like talons. The broken wrist was visibly mending, flesh writhing under the red skin.

Spite scrabbled to her feet, and in her Atran saw similar power. ‘You’re nothing!’ the girl hissed. ‘A useless drunk bitch!’

Sorcery lashed out from both of them, the tendrils whipping, scything into Atran. At their touch flesh burst, blood sprayed hot as melted wax. Atran held up her hands, shielding her eyes, and then lunged at Envy. The neth powder was roaring in her body, fuelling a rage that swept away the agony. Her groping hands found Envy’s face, took hold like a raptor’s claws and lifted the girl from her feet. When she threw Envy this time, it was with all her strength. The girl hammered into a wall, the back of her head crunching wetly. The sorcery enveloping her winked out.

Spite’s attack continued, lancing into her back, rending flesh down to the bone. Gasping, Atran wheeled, staggered forward.

The girl suddenly bolted for the doorway, but Atran’s boot caught her in the midriff. Spite skidded and struck the door frame. Her face bulged as she fought for air. Atran advanced, caught a flailing arm, and spun the girl around, into the wall behind her. Bones shattered at the impact, and Spite fell to the floor in a disordered heap.

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Envy rushed her, knife upraised.

Atran’s hand was a flash, catching the girl’s wrist and snapping it clean. She then picked up the child by the throat and threw her across the room. Envy struck the cutting table, her back arching, folding around the table’s edge — a table that was bolted to the floor.

Shrieking, Spite flung herself forward.

A slap sent her sprawling. Atran turned to see Envy picking herself up from the floor, and that was impossible — the girl’s back should have broken, snapped like a twig. Instead, something dark and vile was bleeding out from the girl, from her limbs, her hands, from her dark eyes. The tendrils of this dread sorcery reached out, curling like talons. The broken wrist was visibly mending, flesh writhing under the red skin.

Spite scrabbled to her feet, and in her Atran saw similar power. ‘You’re nothing!’ the girl hissed. ‘A useless drunk bitch!’

Sorcery lashed out from both of them, the tendrils whipping, scything into Atran. At their touch flesh burst, blood sprayed hot as melted wax. Atran held up her hands, shielding her eyes, and then lunged at Envy. The neth powder was roaring in her body, fuelling a rage that swept away the agony. Her groping hands found Envy’s face, took hold like a raptor’s claws and lifted the girl from her feet. When she threw Envy this time, it was with all her strength. The girl hammered into a wall, the back of her head crunching wetly. The sorcery enveloping her winked out.

Spite’s attack continued, lancing into her back, rending flesh down to the bone. Gasping, Atran wheeled, staggered forward.

The girl suddenly bolted for the doorway, but Atran’s boot caught her in the midriff. Spite skidded and struck the door frame. Her face bulged as she fought for air. Atran advanced, caught a flailing arm, and spun the girl around, into the wall behind her. Bones shattered at the impact, and Spite fell to the floor in a disordered heap.

The pain of her wounds tore at Atran’s mind. Moaning, trembling uncontrollably, she reached up and fumbled along a shelf bearing battle medicines. She found a vial of rellit oil, pushed the stopper from the bottle and quickly drank down its contents. The pain vanished like a candle’s flame under a bucket of water. Her clothes were shredded and soaked in burnt blood — but that heat had cauterized the wounds even as they had been delivered. She had no idea what was left of her back, but she knew that it was bad. Still, that would have to wait.

From both girls, there was motion. Bones were knitting before Atran’s eyes.

She had little time. On a peg affixed to one end of the cutting table were her surgeon’s tools. Stumbling over to the leather satchel, she plucked it free and unfolded it on the table. Taking a tendon knife in one hand, she went over to Envy. Picked her up by one limp arm and dragged her over to the table. She lifted the girl’s body and flopped it down on to the tabletop then pinned the girl’s left hand against the wood and drove the knife into the palm with all her strength.

Envy’s body jolted and the eyes fluttered. Atran selected another knife and nailed Envy’s other hand to the table. Then she collected up Spite and flung her down at the table’s opposite end. Two more knives pinned her hands to the table like her sister’s.

A part of Atran, lodged cowering in one corner of her mind, watched and knew that she had snapped inside. Madness had spilled out to fill the room and still it boiled. Those wide eyes staring out from that dark corner looked on in horror and disbelief, even as she stalked over to collect a cloak, pulling it over lacerated shoulders.

The girls wouldn’t stay put for long. Whatever sorcery filled them was too powerful, too eager for freedom. She needed to save as many people as possible. Get them out of the house — and then burn the house down to the ground.

Her strides jerky, wobbly, she made for the doorway.

Malice stepped into it, holding above her head a block of masonry. She threw it as if it were a brick. The massive stone slammed into Atran’s chest, shattering ribs. She fell, hit the floor on her back as if thrown down, her head snapping and crunching hard. Light blinded her. She could not breathe and she felt heat filling her lungs and she knew that she was already dead, her lungs drowning in blood. The light faded suddenly and she looked up to see Malice, her throat swollen black and blue and green, dried blood at the corners of her mouth. She had collected the huge stone and was lifting it again.

The eyes that met Atran’s in the moment before the stone descended on her face were empty of life — a look the surgeon had seen a thousand times before. Impossib -

Atran’s skull squashed flat, with gore spurting out to the sides. Malice stared down at what she had done. On the cutting table, her sisters were thrashing, trying to pull their hands from the knives pinning them to the surface.