The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [145]
"But are you afraid?" she asked an emerging version of herself.
"No," she replied ― but, in actual fact, she was.
There was a bad rain blowing in the faces of the Sisters of No Mercy. Their vision was blurred. Their long hair swept dark and lank across their faces. The Wilden Howe was a dismal place. But the Sisters didn't mind. It was an ideal place for killing an enemy, which is why they were there.
The Wilden Howe was a small peninsula that jutted into the Sea of Absences off the headland of Noth. It was a barren shaft of land that degenerated into cliffs along its coasts, with occasional lagoons and shingle beaches offering treacherous points of access from the broiling sea.
The currents around the Wilden Howe were a distortion of the Laws of Nature. On the northeast side, a gigantic maelstrom presented a terrifying hazard to ships and skiffs, many of which had been swallowed up in its liquid maw.
The Howe itself was a harsh domain of haggard grasses and windswept moss, with stagnant pools and peat-bogs in the lower reaches, and broad summits of granite that rose like warped skulls through skins of vegetation.
It was a perfect place for smuggling cartels to ply their trade, which is why Whorefrost was there. Whorefrost was posing as a Harbour Lord from the Isle of Balloch who specialised in trafficking sex slaves from the mainland to a wide variety of island groups. It was a position that afforded him a reasonable degree of power and influence, which he was able to use for the more pressing business of destroying his foes.
"Not a bad racket," admitted Little Sister, as if being forced to swallow a live insect.
"No," said Big Sister, "not bad at all."
"But not," said Little Sister, watching the lone figure of Whorefrost approaching through the mist, "that good."
"No," agreed Big Sister, "not fucking good at all."
Whorefrost was up against a dangerous adversary. Perhaps it was the extent of their erotic appeal that was making him lose his concentration. But Whorefrost knew that he didn't require any concentration when it came to a fight.
The smooth strokes of his baton were deftly applied but, oddly enough for a weapon forged in the shape of a penis, lacking penetration. His every move was blocked, his every subtlety anticipated.
The Sisters were good ― too fucking good.
As his frustration increased, he began to lose his balance; and, finally, he overreached with a blow that was aimed at the little one's head. She whirled her body out of his range while the other, the big one, swung her sword upwards in a gentle arc.
In a sense, he was lucky that it struck him directly on the point of his elbow, or else it might have lopped off his lower arm. The pain, however, was outrageous. But what alarmed him most was the sight of his baton flying out of his hand and landing well beyond his immediate reach.
In the meantime, the little one had recovered her poise. She smacked him across the back of his head with the flat of her blade and sent him sprawling forward onto the wet grass, face-first.
And vulnerable.
"Well, fuck me," said the little one behind him. "I bet you were thinking you were lucky you didn't lose your lower arm."
Fuck her, she was right.
The next thing he knew there was a muffled thud that sounded like a spade being driven into wet soil. It wasn't. It was Little Sister's long sword hacking into his lower arm which, this time, was removed within two or three fleeting strokes.
Everything after that was a blur.
First: the big one started to hack off his other arm so that he was left completely helpless. But alive.
Second: the little one was doing something he couldn't work out, untying his pantaloons and dragging them down around his ankles, but leaving