Chapter Text
They called her ‘Hand’o’Mercy’ and it was almost a joke.
Almost.
Oh, she could be merciful. She certainly thought of herself as merciful, though not in the sense that many would agree. No one except, perhaps, the sort who had seen the grim old death of certain battlefields and knew that mercy could look like a knife.
Her real name was Daria, and ‘mercy’ was her patron, her creed, her epithet, and her business. Some people called her Doctor, but only because she was schooled in the sawbones’ trade as well as the miracles of healing. There were no schools of medicine in the borderlands following the Avalonian Crusade. Three hundred years of on-again-off-again war had destroyed so much that might never be regained, leaving behind villages of huddled masses still reeling and traumatized from the conflict.
Daria traveled between these villages, bringing mercy of one sort or another where it was needed. She was not dressed like a healer, but rather more like a warrior, clad in a light breastplate over good leather, with a morningstar at her belt, and, on her back, a curious weapon that might have been mistaken for a crossbow at a distance and if one were very drunk.
It was the tail end of autumn, and a chill was in the air as Daria arrived in the village of Delamshire just south of the Gloaming verge, following rumors of something monstrous having taken up residence in the nearby forest. Pennydrifters who had passed through Delamshire on their way to towns large enough for a chapter house carried rumors and stories. Over the past month, beasts both predator and prey were found dead and devoured, their carcasses hung from tree branches like a warning.
The running theory, near as Daria had been able to tell, was that one of the more intelligent and potentially sadistic beasties that made the great forest of the Gloaming its home had wandered south. It happened sometimes, not unlike a longtooth wolf ending up close to civilization after separating from its pack. A pair of Pennydrifters who made their coin hunting such monsters had already gone in after it, only to fail to return over the next several days.
They were found a week later, hanging from the trees just like everything else, mostly-devoured and identifiable only by the gear that skill clung to their bodies.
That meant this had officially become Daria’s business.
“Listen, miss, don’t get me wrong, we ‘ppreciate that folks’re still willin’ to take the contract, but…” The older shopkeeper on the edge of town eyed her up and down, clearly not impressed by what he saw. “Davem and Sloan got theyselves kill’t, and ain’t no one questionin’ whether or not it were a bad death. S’was bad as they come, I’d wager.”
Daria put a pair of silver stars down; coinage from the clanlands tended to be better received than Dominion tender in the Borderlands. “Iron nails. Hammered, not fired,” she said flatly. “As many as this will buy.”
Her glare dared him to try and cheat her. He looked old enough to have seen seasoned ‘drifters before, and she hoped that would be enough to buy a modicum of respect. Tight-knit little towns like Delamshire weren’t friendly to troublesome outsiders. Even ones that came at the request of an official contract.
Honestly, it wasn’t even worth it.
The payout was lousy, the job was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and the people weren’t even friendly.
At least the barmaid had a nice rump.
She watched the shopkeep count out a dozen nails, which was actually more than she’d expected. Good metal was hard to get a hold of in places like this. Then again, so was silver. Maybe he was just hoping she’d stay a decent customer, assuming she lived. Or maybe he was just assuming he’d get the nails back when they hauled her carcass from the treeline.
She smiled thinly as she tried to assume the best of the man.
“Tellin’ ya, miss. S’fer your own good,” he continued.
“Thanks for the concern,” Daria replied as she swept the nails up and began tucking them into her belt. “But this is my business. Just like this, here”—she tapped the shop counter—“is yours.”
He sighed. “Right. Well. ‘Ppreciate the patronage, miss. Good luck t’ya.”
The way he said it suggested both that she would need it and that he didn’t expect much to come of the wish. Still, it was polite, and he was being nice, so she gave him something approaching a friendly nod before finishing securing the nails and stepping out of the shop.
It had been pissing rain about two days ago, so the streets were still grimy slogs of mud. Nothing dried out quickly this close to the old dark forest. Her boots sank a quarter-inch into the slop as she started toward the verge, morningstar at her belt, her pack slung her over her shoulder, and her ‘tool of the trade’ fastened grimly to her back.
“Mercy bless me, keep my soul,” Daria chanted the sing-song verse under her breath, “from King’a’shadows deathly toll.” Her fingers drifted to the icon hanging from her neck. “Powder black and silver shot, Miss’a Mercy loves ye not.”
She turned the silver, prayer-engraved little cylinder strung from stout cord ‘round her neck between her fingers. Her gloves meant she couldn’t feel the engravings themselves particularly well, but she’d been the one to carve them, and knew them by the faintest divots in the metal.
It was a long walk to the verge. A solid couple of hours spent on a road that barely warranted being called a game trail if she were being honest. It was probably only used by one or two woodsman and a handful of children set on playing where they ought not. It was worn down enough for travel, though, and better than a kick in the teeth, so Daria opted not to complain too much about it.
At least, not out loud.
By the time she reached the verge, it was edging into the afternoon. Odds were good that whatever this thing was, it would hunt at night, but that was the next best thing to a guess. It was a guess she was going to go with, though, since she still had to set up camp and maybe take a moment to consult her sources to figure out what the bloody fuck she was actually trying to dole out some mercy to out there.
Fortunately, the approach to the forest verge was up an incline, and the thick canopy of even the scattered trees had offered significant cover from the rain. She found a nice, mostly-dry spot to set up camp with a good vantage over a part of the forest where the villagers had reported finding the last couple of animal carcasses.
She spent the rest of the daylight gathering wood and kindling, and checking over the area. Sure enough, she found what looked like blood claw marks scored into some of the trees. A clear sign of someone or something marking its territory. Splaying her fingers, Daria laid them over marks, then grimaced.
There was a…troubling match to the size and arrangement of the claws. For one, whatever this thing was? It had a fucking thumb. That was definitely not good. The list of things that hunted man, beast, and monster alike, strung them up from trees, ate them all equally, had thumbs, and were actually natural was very, very short.
“Therianthrope, maybe?” Daria muttered to herself as she dropped her hand, then scoffed. “If I’m lucky, maybe.”
She had silver. Not a lot of it, but she had it. She’d run out of cold iron on her last job, hence the nails. They weren’t great but again, better than a kick in the teeth. She had arrows carved from rowan and bolts carved from blessed ash. She also had a half-dozen different types of smoke dart seeded with incenses that very specific things found unpleasant in the extreme. Whatever this thing was, at least one of those ought to work, and if she ran out, she could always retreat and refill. For now, though, she would fall back to camp and wait. Either night would answer a lot of questions, no questions, or, if she were unlucky, make this whole business no longer her problem in the messiest way possible.
As Daria lit her fire, she murmured prayers of warning over it until she felt the area suffuse with a sense of calm. If anything tried to jump her at night, that spell would at least give her a chance to fight back. So far, though, she didn’t feel any particular evil hanging about the forest, which was a good sign.
At the very least, it meant that whatever was in there probably hadn’t crawled out of the crusty asshole of non-existence to devour souls. It didn’t help narrow things down much, though.
Setting up a small bowl, Daria filled it partway with water and set it over the fire, then trickled a special mixture into it before settling down beside the flame and leaning over it.
She stared down into the water as it stilled, meeting the crystal blue eyes of her own reflection. They were set into a face that tanned faintly by the sun and wind, and framed by a few flyaway strands of deep black that was tied loosely back, covering the slight taper of her ears which, if she were careful, she could pass off as being the product of half-elven heritage.
Her too-sharp teeth, notsomuch.
Folding her fingers together into an unwholesome shape, Daria murmured an incantation that would open the pathways between here and ‘there’. A place she would never go back to if she could help it, but which was, occasionally, useful to touch now and again.
The water rippled, then her reflection blinked, and instead of crystal blue looking back at her, the eyes had turned a venomous, balefire green. Her reflection warped further until the face looking back wasn’t her at all. It narrowed, becoming sharp and perhaps more appealing to people who preferred to be stepped on rather than addressed fondly, and the loose black hair turned to bouncy curls.
“Evening, cousin,” the woman on the other side said with a vulpine smile. “What warrants the call, hm? Homesick?”
Daria rolled her eyes. “Sick of home, same as ever, Harrie. And I need you to ask your imps if they’ve seen anything around the Gloaming verge north of Delamshire in the Borderlands. I’d prefer to know what exactly I’m giving mercy to if I can help it.”
Harriette Fleck stuck her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “You never just want to talk, do you? You’re so serious, Darie. Ever consider taking that cold iron rod out of your ass and putting it somewhere more fun? Or maybe that’s just your thing, hm?”
Sighing, Daria massaged the bridge of her nose. “I’ve got your usual payment, just tell me what I’m fucking dealing with, you gingham whore.”
“Considering I’m the reason your sister isn’t using your ribcage as boudoir decor, you’d think you’d be a little nicer to me.”
“Harriette…”
“Fi~ne.” She made a grabby gesture. “Money, please.”
Rolling her eyes, Daria held a hand out over the bowl, took out a skinning knife, and pricked the heel of her palm. A single scarlet droplet fell and struck the surface of the water, which bubbled violently for a moment before going clear again.
“There,” Daria said as she pulled her hand back. “One drop of Heir’s Blood, freely given, for one question answered. Now, what am I dealing with?”
“Patience, sweetie,” Harriette replied with a smirk, then she vanished from the surface of the water, leaving it disturbingly without a reflection looking back at all.
As much as Daria hated her family, the old tricks she’d been forced to learn from her mother and father had proved to be obnoxiously useful for her new job. Turns out being raised in a house full of psychotic, cannibalistic diabolists resulted in at least a handful of usable skills, one of which was contacting her black sheep of a cousin for information.
Harriette Fleck was a lot of things, and foremost among them was Hell's most incorrigible gossip. It helped that Harriette hated her sister almost as much as Daria did. Maybe more, actually. Probably depended on the day.
Finally, Harrie returned, tiptoeing back into view with that sharp-tooth smile of hers wide on her face. “Alrighty, cous’, looks like the autumn court lost track of one of their little doggies a couple full moons ago near there, so odds are good that’s what’s been chewing up the local mud farmers.”
“Fuck.” Good thing she’d grabbed some cold iron.
“Mm, probably, yeah,” Harrie mused. “A little out of your wheelhouse, isn’t it? Want me to pester one of my contacts over there for this instead? It’ll only cost you another blood drop. Family rate and all that.”
Daria shook her head. “No, I’ll handle it. I’ve got what I need. Hopefully, it’s just a hound and not one of the bigger dogs.”
“Alrighty, well, stay safe, babycakes!” Harriette wiggled her fingers at Daria. “Ciao!”
The water burst into steam, evaporating all at once and leaving behind the smell of sulfur and jellied meats. Daria replaced the bowl with another and started making some stew for her dinner. This was going to be a little harder than she’d hoped. The Court of Fear and Endings was not to be trifled with, and if one of their hunting hounds had gone rogue, it was going to be a dicey proposition.
Did she hunt the thing down and kill it? Put it down?
Would that piss off the court’s kennelkeeper?
Maybe it would be considered a favor. Technically, this wasn’t court grounds, so they didn’t exactly have jurisdiction, but fey could hold a grudge like nobody’s business, whether or not it was warranted.
Then again, there was also the outside possibility that this hound was just trying to get free. The Wild Hunt was a monstrous fate. Maybe they had escaped. There was more than one kind of mercy, after all.
Burying her face in her hands, Daria let out a low groan.
She hated when shit got complicated.
Its nose twitched. It smelled something cooking. Meat and water. Broth. Soup. Stew. It knew these words once. Before the pack, before the Hunt. Before the collar.
Digging claws deep into the hard bark of the tree, It climbed up and up and up, until It reached the canopy, and then clambered over the thick old branches. It peered out through the leaves toward the edge of the forest where the smell was coming from, and spied the glimmer of flame.
Another fire. Another sack of wet meat come to tread on Its trod.
Its lips curled back, baring savage fangs as it tasted the air.
The moonlight glinted off of Its eyes, illuminating the stretch of land around it in a wash of whites, blacks, and deep, dark red as It took a long, deep breath through Its nose. Another hunter. Only one, though, It thought. It could smell them. Smell her. Definitely a ‘Her’. It smelled like steel and silver and bane. It smelled of sulfur and something else. Something unnatural. Saltpeter and something else.
It took another deep breath, then scowled.
She wasn’t alone anymore.
Another scent had suddenly joined the interloper’s, and it had a rancid, scorched quality to it. It was a scent that sat heavy in the back of Its throat and made Its gorge rise, and a wet, reflexive growl started up in Its chest as It receded back into the forest, back hunched and hackles up.
Another predator, yes. But it was a predator hunting a different prey. Not Its business. Not unless the new one brought the stink of poison flame into Its forest. Then, yes, but for now…
‘Coward!’
It flinched, then looked back.
‘You swore to defend your children!’
Memories bit like blowflies, and It clutched Its head, letting out a low moan as painful images and words and smells came filtering back in.
‘I will not serve an absent father! I will not abandon our people!’
Its eyes snapped open as green flame burst in the distance, devouring the tall tree that stood at the summit of the hillock beyond the verge, and something in Its heart stirred.
Daria jolted upright, eyes wide, and heart beating fast in her chest as her warning spell ignited, sending warning bells through her skull.
Snatching up her morningstar, she rolled off her bedroll and into the lee of the tree she’d huddled against for the evening. Her plan had been to get a few hours of sleep, then skirt along the edge of the forest to see if she could draw out the hound. It wasn’t terribly likely, but fighting a creature of the feywild in the open was a damn sight better than the tighter quarters of the deeper verge.
She hadn’t honestly expected it to come for her.
Brushing her fingers over the nails she’d tucked into her belt, she mentally counted them down, then reached for Mercymaker. Her truest weapon. She needed to save it for dire straits, though. It only had a couple of uses, and only refilled on the new moon, meaning if she fucked up, she’d have to wait another week and a half before she had her trump card again.
“Where are you…?” Daria murmured, scanning the dark. The embers of her campfire were casting a wan light over the hillock she’d camped out on.
Then she heard it.
The crunch of boots striking the earth.
Daria’s heart sank as a shudder ran down her spine as she recognized the grind of metal on metal. Autumn’s hound hadn’t come after her. No, something far, far worse had come instead. She picked out the fire-blackened cuirass, the sloped and bladed metal helm, and the long, jagged, heavy blade that was held out and ready.
“Shit…” Daria hissed.
A low chuckle answered her. “Shit indeed,” came the answering drawl. “Yaz really thought ya could run from the blood? Though, gotta hand t’ya. Tearin’ out ya own eyes to throw us off was mighty clever.”
Daria rose and began backing away, scowling as she recognized the husky voice. “Esmée? That you? Since when did you take the King’s Vow? Last I heard, you were trying to get into the main house.”
“And once I drag ya sorry ass back ta ya sister,” Esmée Fleck replied, her voice echoing faintly under her full helm, “I’ll be a shoe-in.”
Daria bared her teeth. “Poppy doesn’t take failures, Essie. If you took the Vow, you’re never getting into her graces. But if you shake it for old Morty, then maybe you can climb that ladder instead.”
Balefire green eyes flashed in the shadows of the helm from the woman’s green irises, and she let out a roar of rage as she charged across the campfire, crushing it beneath her blackened plate boots as sickly green flames erupted along the edge of her blade.
Swearing loudly, Daria threw herself into a roll as the blade clipped the tree and blew it apart. Balefire raced along the trunk and over the branches, the necrotic flames reducing it to a black husk in seconds. Burning tree bathed the hillock in venomous green light as Daria extended a hand, barked out a prayer, and curled her fingers around a spectral stock, completing the spell with a somatic pull of the finger around the trigger.
There was a flash of light, and a bolt of gold and silver erupted the barrel before the manifestation of her patron’s will vanished. The bolt struck Esmée clean in the chest, scarring her cuirass and sending her reeling as motes of light clung to her, outlining her for Daria’s next shot.
“Sucklin’ at the teat of the gods, now?!” Esmée snarled as she barreled forward. “For shame! Yaz’a Fleck! They’s only one lord you oughta bend the knee to!”
“Fuck you and your fucking rustbucket of a dying god, Esmée!” Daria ducked under a swing and slammed the spiked head of her morningstar against her cousin’s (third-cousin twice removed, actually, but who was counting?) side, folding her over it and sending her staggering away.
Black blood leaked from the punctures, but Esmée just grinned through blood-stained teeth as she clapped a hand over the wound. Green light flared between her fingers, followed by a sizzling sound and the smell of cooking flesh, then she pulled her hand away, and the wound was gone.
“The King’a Feasts favors me,” Esmée hissed. “Just like he favored me with good fortune to be watchin’ in the right place when yo dipped a toe back into the Palace. Mind you, ‘fore I drag ya back, best believe I’m gonna take the name’a whoever’s helpin’ ya outta yo hide!”
“You can certainly try,” Daria spat through her teeth as she reached over her shoulder and gripped the stock of Mercymaker. She only had one decent shot if she were being honest. Both barrels, right to the chest.
If she fucked that up, she was as good as dead. Esmée might be a piece of shit, but she was a strong, fast, and evil piece of shit. Toe-to-toe, Daria didn’t fancy her chances against any Knight of the King that was strong enough to cross the Wall of Sleep after her, but Esmée was definitely not a favorable match-up on any day of the week.
One chance.
Just one.
Then Esmée moved, and Daria swore again. Fast! Too fast! She was too fucking fast under all that armor. Daria pulled Mercymaker from its holster, but she already knew it was going to be too late. That blade was ignited and coming for her, and all it had to do was tap her, and she was on a one-way trip back to the Palace Insensate.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
WHAM!
“Th’FUCK!?” Esmée screamed as something hit her like a thunderbolt out of nowhere, sending her reeling. Her blade went spinning out of her hand to strike the ground, blowing a crater in the earth not two feet from where Daria had thrown herself backward.
Something was clinging to Esmée’s back. Something stout and broad and utterly feral. Esmée swore up and down in family patois as she snapped a punch-dagger out of her vambrace and started slamming it over and over again into her attacker’s side and chest.
The burning tree illuminated the thing attacking Esmée, but barely. It was hunched and thick with heavy muscle corded around a short but powerful frame. A mane of tangled brown hair was matted around its head and down its naked back, while gory antlers sprouted from its—no, her—brow. And her fingers…they weren’t fingers, they were thickly muscled and heavy-knuckled claws.
Claws that got under Esmée’s helm and ripped it from her head.
Just as that happened, though, Daria saw her cousin’s plan. Her other hand was thrown back and swirling with dark light and noxious green flame.
“Oh, Fuck you,” Daria hissed.
Esmée seized her attacker by the throat with that searing touch, and it let out a shrieking howl as balefire conjured from the heart of the Palace ripped through her, blackening flesh and cooking bone. Esmée let out a whoop of victory that abruptly died in her throat as Daria slammed the double barrels of Mercymaker snug against the base of her spine.
“Ah, shit,” Esmée muttered.
Daria pulled the trigger, and her weapon barked, blowing the contents of Esmée’s abdomen across the hill. Daria stepped away as her hunter folded in half backward with a deafening crash of metal-on-metal.
Holstering her patron’s favor for another week and a half, Daria kicked Esmée’s miserable carcass around until she managed to get her perhaps unintentional savior free of the blackguard’s grip. She pulled them away from the dead knight just before her body ignited in balefire as it was dragged back to the hellscape it had come from, then knelt to assess the damage.
Things looked…bad.
Balefire had scorched away the mud and filth that caked the poor thing, and Daria brushed some of it clear before taking out a cloth, wetting it from her canteen, and cleaning the woman’s face enough to realize that her eyes were still open.
Open and aware.
“You still alive?” Daria asked.
Her only answer was a ragged, wet burst of air that speckled blood onto her lips, which Daria roughly translated as ‘not really’. A quick check confirmed that. It also showed Daria signs of the woman’s feytouched nature. Just being near the nails on her belt was making them start to grow warm. This was her quarry. The target of the contract.
And she had just saved Daria’s life.
Eyes that glinted sharply flicked over to stare up at her, and Daria sighed as she adjusted herself to let the woman’s head lie in her lap. No healing spell in the ‘verse could save the woman; she was just…on her way out.
“Hey, uhm, thanks,” Daria said quietly. “You saved my ass. I…funny thing, I’m pretty sure I was here to kill you.”
The woman blinked, then made a quiet hacking noise, and at first Daria thought they were death-rattles until she realized the truth. The woman was laughing.
“Do you have a name?” Daria asked, leaning in so the woman wouldn’t have to try to raise her voice. Assuming she even could.
Her chest hitched, then shuddered, then she said, “Don’t…remember…”
“Ah.” Daria pulled back. “Yeah, that uhm. That happens when you get tangled with the courts. Can’t say I recommend it. Messy end, though. Sorry about that.”
The woman shook her head. “F-Fine…”
“You’re really fine going out like this? Saving me?” Daria smirked, and the woman’s eyes widened slightly.
Then, to Daria’s surprise, the woman raised a single, shaky hand that now looked normal, if a bit dirty, and touched Daria’s face. Her eyes were glazing over in death, but her mouth had curved to a surprisingly soft smile as she said, “You’re…beautiful…”
Daria’s throat clenched as the hand fell away and the last glimmer of life left the wild woman who had just hurled herself onto a Knight of the Deus Machina. The woman who had sacrificed herself for no fucking reason as far as Daria could tell. This wasn’t even the hound’s territory! It was outside the verge!
Why?!
“Ah…FUCK!” Daria plunged a hand into her vest and pulled out her last ditch. Something she had been saving for a real fucking emergency. This did not count. It really fucking didn’t.
But fuck it.
Time to show some mercy.
Daria tightened a grip around the small, beautifully cut diamond, pressed her knuckles to her forehead, and prayed.
She prayed for one more chance. One more chance for this miserable hound. Just one more chance.
Daria Fleck prayed for life.