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Harrow remembered having signed the order to remove the double handed sword from Drearburh's stock, so it could be given to Gideon Nav, per Aiglamene’s request.
It had been the same sword that had given her nightmares upon seeing it for the first time.
She had been put in charge of the stock from a very early age, so, on top of her prayers, her studying, the tests and the Masses, she had to keep it orderly and know what happened in her House, what went missing, what was added, what was stolen.
By then she and the only other child of the Ninth had been fighting for four years, a never-ending war that had not started right away when they met, but had just happened progressively, had been encouraged by almost every adult around them and had quickly become their only source of human contact, feeling and relief from the lives they lead.
The Reverend Daughter had not been ignorant about how Gideon would try to fight her with the sword the moment she learned how to use it; she was also aware that her position as the Reverend Daughter gave her the privilege to deny that request from the Captain of the Guard without any explanation. But still she had signed it and the sword had been granted to Gideon Nav.
Maybe it was due to some stupid idea that lingered in the Ninth’s heir’s mind, she was getting so tired lately, so very tired of everything. The only thing she had to look forward to was fighting with the other child, never caring whether she won or lost, the outcome of the fight was inconsequential, the fighting itself was what gave her a feeling of being alive even if just for a few moments, along with a feeling of redemption, redemption from the abhorrent sin of being alive and, on top of it, not being enough for her House. No matter how hard she tried, Harrowhark Nonagesimus was yet to surpass her father, the cost of her life had been too high as for her to fail in such uncouth ways.
Now, perhaps with that sword Gideon would be able to fight her better, maybe even defeat her... perhaps even kill her, and cut her into two hundred pieces one day; two hundred pieces that would fit the two hundred graves that her great-aunts had made her enunciate in her prayers every day, ever since she was able to speak.
Also, she knew she wasn’t fighting fair, as she grew older her necromancy improved, Gideon's wooden sword was starting to prove itself useless against her constructs. Very well, she’d give her opponent a weapon then, a true one, a worthy one. Never let it be said that Harrowhark Nonagesimus didn’t fight with honor.
Now, looking at the soldiers in front of her, with her body blocking the exit where Judith Deuteros had escaped to, Harrowhark remembered those fights, that sword, she remembered the few times Gideon had managed to hit her with flat of her blade, the pain she had managed to swallow in order not to give her enemy any satisfaction.
She couldn’t take them, not without any thanergy, not while the shuttle descended into another planet and while her fellow necromancer retreated.
… but she could hold them off, for as long as she could. She had done this before; she could do it again.
Their batons were at the ready, those without batons had assumed a fighting position.
The Reverend Daughter stood as proud and tall as she hadn’t done in years, her eyes seemed to blaze in the dim light. She extended her arms at her sides, in the threatening pose of a necromancer about to attack, she took a deep breath and, remembering her cavalier’s battle cry, trying to embrace it and make it her own, she roared:
“COME AT ME MOTHERFUCKERS!!!”
As one, they closed on her, she had no weapons but a single knucklebone in her pocket, at first, she managed to evade some of the hits, using her own petite body to avoid their rage filled charges, it lasted for about two minutes before a baton contacted her abdomen and made her wheeze, another soldier contacted his fist to her cheek and she felt her teeth clattering as everything became dark, white and red.
She would not shout.
In all her time there she had not screamed, no matter what they did to her, and she would not do so now.
Another hit, a baton smashing into her back, she groaned and tried to focus on the pain, on the deafening sounds of the beating, on the damage, on the knucklebone in her pocket and the descending shuttle, the approaching atmosphere.
CRACK!!
A broken rib, the tenth one, thankfully it had not moved from its place.
BASH!!
Dislocated left shoulder, the scapula was undamaged though.
BWAK!!
A soldier’s boot contacted her face. She spit out a tooth and clenched her jaw shut again, not wanting to bite off her own tongue.
WHACK!! CRASH!!
That one was strong enough to make her fall on her back, probable concussion, the cranium didn’t feel broken. She tried to roll herself away.
Someone hauled her up and spat at her before kneeling her on the stomach, no inner damage done. She could still take it.
They had paused, and she could not allow that to happen, not yet, not while Judith was still vulnerable, not while the shuttle was still descending.
“Is that all you’ve got?” She grunted out through wheezes. “I’ll take you down, you bunch of dickless, worthless swines…”
As expected, the beating resumed with a vengeance.
Her skin bruised and cracked, she bled, her bones gave, she bent over herself, protecting her right hand.
Tibia, radius, metacarpals, phalanges, clavicle; broken. She felt herself losing air, holding into consciousness only by sheer will when the emotionless voice of the ship announced:
ENTERING ORBIT. 5…
She forced her arm to move.
4…
Grabbed the knuckle bone with cold and unfeeling fingers.
3…
Her hand was out, they had not noticed her movement.
2…
She threw the small bone to the floor.
1…
Her right hand extended towards it.
0…
It hit her like a tidal wave, the sudden surge of thanergy that a planet could wield, even an unturned one gave her the chance to take her revenge.
A second later, the soldiers stopped and Harrowhark let herself fall onto the floor, the small knucklebone was now a magnificent explosion of spikes outstretched in every possible angle, impaling the BoE soldiers, marking her with yet another murder, many, in fact.
Then again, what was some more when she already had so many to pay for?
Darkness came, she welcomed it.
.
The orders given to the BoE had been to keep the two necromancers alive. Sadly, whoever had issued them had not known the importance of specific orders being given.
Then again, they had not been Harrowhark Nonagesimus, dealing with Gideon Nav for ten years, with her stealing from the cargo shuttle because “You said not to steal from the Ninth, the shuttle isn’t the Ninth”. They had not dealt with a determined rebel looking for every available loophole in every order and rule handed down.
Whoever gave that order had not taken into consideration the hatred and bloodlust that the BoE soldiers, fresh from bloody battles against bone magicians who had ripped their comrades to pieces (in the most merciful of cases), held for anyone born with the curse of the so-called 'King Undying'. That person had also forgotten just how unspecific the term 'alive' was.
When the shuttle landed on the planet (one of the millions outside of the emperor’s rule), the necromancers Judith Deuteros and Harrowhark Nonagesimus, were both, technically speaking, alive.
Mission accomplished.