Chapter 15

Chapter 15

This…damned Actarachion Jerdin!

Sian drew her brows together and bit her lip, letting silent fury wash over her. She wanted to stamp her foot and scream, but she couldn’t. Even now, the measured footfalls of the killer pursuing her grew clearer with every beat.

Putting aside why he’d made the axe murderer look exactly like her, she wondered why the torture from this so-called High Priest would be so meaningless and atrocious.

At the very least, shouldn’t his trials demand outward piety or some show of devotion?

Thunk, skrrk, skk. The heavy sound of the axe dragged closer. Goosebumps ran along her arms. The blade was rusty and blunt. If it hit, it wouldn’t cut cleanly. She’d be hacked repeatedly; it would snag on bone.

This was wrong.

It would be better to overpower the killer. Better to fight back than to be slowly hacked apart and wake up in a nightmare. Even though the figure swung the axe without hesitation, seemingly stronger than she, she considered it.

Facing the slow, deliberate killer as it crept into the parlor, the sight of a mirror image of herself sent a nameless unease through her.

Could she win? She edged closer, looking for anything to throw, but there was nothing to use. She couldn’t heave the sofa at it.

She knew how dangerous it was to rush an armed opponent empty handed. But she had no other plan. The killer seemed slower; tire it out and then strike was her thought.

She stepped half a pace forward. Suddenly the killer sprang off the floor and ran far faster than before.

Sian spun and fled. Luckily the axe swept through empty air and slammed into the wall.

She understood at once: she could not fight.

The killer’s pace had only seemed slow; once close, it lunged without hesitation and struck. It could batter a wall and keep its breath steady. It didn’t tire. It wasn’t human after all, this was a hallucination, a nightmare.

Still, she had entertained the absurd idea of subduing it. Even if it was only for a moment, she couldn’t believe how ridiculous it was. 

Realizing she had no chance, Sian bolted for the escape route she’d kept in reserve. The killer’s pursuit remained sluggish enough for her to gain ground.

Where could she go? Climb high and try to drop a stone on it? But the temple was all single-story buildings; there were no ladders she could find. Maybe there was no avoiding a slow, dreadful death at the hands of the killer…

The maddening thing was how slowly this would end, given the killer’s plodding pace. If she was going to die, she wanted it to be quick. At least then it would be over in one hit.

While lost in her despair, Sian remembered that Actarachion was also in this hallucination. He had created this. He’d given it to her as a “trial.” If so, he was the one who could end it completely.

She could ask him for help.

She knew he wouldn’t hand help over easily. Still, being carved up by a killer that looked like her was too much to bear. She could at least cling to his trousers and beg for mercy.

She ran the familiar temple corridors toward his parlor, panting and crossing the broken wooden doorframe while shaking off the noises behind her. 

“High Priest Jerdin.”

He looked the same as she last saw him, his eyes lifted from the book and his head slightly lowered. He turned the page, still staring at her as his gaze slowly swept over Sian from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

“You didn’t die?” he said.

“Not yet,” she shot back, more flippantly than she felt.

His expression shifted for a moment, annoyed at her impertinence cunning, and then smoothed out.

“Why come back here? To show me how you’ll get killed?” he asked.

“Help me.”

“You have to endure the trials first if you want help. Last forty-five days, then come tell me.”

“I know. But this isn’t right. I don’t want to die at the hands of a murderer who looks like me. Did you see that axe? The blade is all chipped and rusty… I doubt it’d be a clean death.”

“And…?” He lowered his eyes again; pages turned.

Someone’s life was at stake, but he was so peaceful. It made her angry.

Sian strode forward and reached for the book.

Before her fingers closed, he snapped the book shut and pinned it down. The cover held no title, just a dark brown leather.

“What are you reading that for?” she shouted, trying to break through his indifference.

He merely leaned back with an expression that showed his annoyance. Behind her, the ominous scrape of the axe drew near

Her temporary composure vanished.

“Please! Help me!”

Sian dropped to her knees, humbling herself, trying to pull whatever sympathy she could from a man who’d once shown her pity. She would swallow her pride if it meant she could escape this hallucination.

“You always ask me for help,” he said.

“That’s….” she began.

“Try doing it yourself for once.”

He spoke as if dispensing a lesson: he’d given the pain and then the medicine while acting like he was showing mercy. It infuriated her, and yet there was a bitter logic to it. 

The greater the reward, the greater the cost. Helping her break an engagement against the Emperor’s favor was no small thing. If he would be the one to help, there would be consequences for him as well, despite his status.

Still.

“Can’t you at least give me advice?” she pleaded.

Something long and metallic clattered to her knees and rolled: clang, clank. A black, thin cylindrical shaft with a silvery, gleaming, diamond-shaped silver blade.

“A spear?” she whispered.

“Pick it up, then,” he said, smiling as if she were a bullfighter going into the ring. The smirk carried mockery and a small, amused blessing.

His arrogance and condescension flared her temper. How is he a steward of the temple? she thought, ire rising.

“You….” she began.

At the sound of the axe dragging behind her, she reflexively snatched up the spear.

She stood, jaw clenched. At least now she had a weapon. She braced herself to face her fear, suppressing the anger, and aimed the bright spear at the killer who looked exactly like her. Her hands shook; her breath hitched. 

Could she win? The thought that she had to kill a being with her own face burned cold in her mind.

Why this madness?

The killer charged, stepping over the ruined doorway. Her spear was clumsy in her hands; it didn’t hold. The killer’s axe hooked the spear’s shaft and, with a heaving pull, yanked her forward. She was flung and thrown along with the weapon.

Stunned, defeated in one motion. She’d never trained for anything like this; of course she was bested.

She skidded across the floor and hit the sofa with a sickening thud. Pain flared in her back.

Clang!

The spear flew from her hand, slamming into the upper wall, then clattering down to the floor. It rolled across to the killer’s feet and nudged back to her.

The killer planted its axe vertically and closed in.

The pain and shock faded quickly. Sian scrambled up and lunged for the spear, grasping it and setting it upright. The killer swung in a powerful, horizontal motion. She hit her backside on the floor and slammed into the wall and its weapon swept the air where she had been. The momentum briefly unbalanced the killer. For one instant its weight faltered and it toppled.

Ding ding ding.

The spear, held upright, plunged into the killer’s solar plexus. Unlike the dull axe, the spear’s sharpened blade slipped home. The killer’s body slid down the shaft and went limp.

The axe dropped with a dull thud.

A miracle.

Sian trembled, still clinging to the spear. There, before her, lay a woman with her exact face, pierced through and dead. The same long silver hair flopped limply to the floor.

She saw the dead woman’s unfocused red eyes. Her pallid face made Sian’s hands shake with revulsion.

Blood ran down the spear and smeared her hands sticky and warm. The reality of having stabbed a person, someone who looked exactly like her, settled in like lead.

“Ugh—” 

Her stomach turned itself inside out.

Even telling herself it was only an illusion, the weight in her hands and the vividness of the act were overpowering.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let go. The bloodied spear and the corpse collapsed to the side with a wet plop. The scent of iron filled the air.

Her palms were hot from the dried blood; bile rose up in her throat and made her gag repeatedly. When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she spat the stomach acid. The foul odor mixed with the coppery stench overwhelmed her senses as it dripped down her chin and chest.

This was her worst nightmare. 

Being buried under crawling insects had been easier.

A trial that forced her to stab her own double? What purpose did it serve beyond torment? It didn’t strengthen faith; it just bred hatred.

She could not believe the temple’s High Priest had devised such torment. It felt more fitting for demon’s design, built to torture and corrupt.

This experience will haunt me until the day I die, she thought, biting her lip until it stung. Tears leaked out despite herself.

Footsteps approached at a steady pace. A shadow passed over her as someone bent and looked down.

Actarachion Jerdin. That wretched, malicious bastard.