Dark Rot

by Simon McHardy

  More hands appeared. Goron removed them from their arms. The hands stayed suction capped to the wall—a grisly decoration. He continued adorning the ramparts with toadoks’ body parts, but the demand for his services was too great. Soon dozens of toadoks had gained a foothold on the wall.

  Goron was surrounded, his retreat down the stairs blocked. The toadoks, their numbers growing by the moment, taunted him. They brandished their crude wooden swords and spears and mocked him in their guttural language.

  Enraged, Goron scratched at the ground like a bull. A low growl rumbled in his throat, and his eyes blazed like stars. He wasn’t going to die like this, not from a few tadpoles. Goron charged, three hundred pounds of fury kitted out in chainmail with an axe so sharp it could split a pubic hair—he’d tried and been successful.

  A spear, no more than a sharpened stick, thudded into his chest but did not penetrate the links. Another clanged into his helmet with a loud ding that made his teeth rattle.

  He did not falter when he reached the jeering mass but ploughed through them as if they weren’t there. Most of them he trampled underfoot, and the others he sent somersaulting off the wall and into the darkness. He emerged on the other side of the amphibious gathering cut and bloody—he didn’t recall the blows—but the cuts burned red-hot. The path to the stairs and escape was no longer barred.

  Goron leapt down the steps two at a time, marvelling he was still alive. The toadoks rallied and gave chase, their angry croaks like firecrackers.

  Halfway down the descent, Goron’s vision blurred and his head swam. He stumbled and was forced to steady himself on the rough stone walls. Sweat like a heavy rain poured from him, and he shivered.

  He’d felt the aftereffects of battle before—tremors and an uneasiness that could be quietened only with beer and a good woman. This was different, though, he’d never experienced this. Something else coursed through his veins.

  Poison! How could he have been so reckless? He’d forgotten the poison the toadoks smeared on their weapons. Poison that seeped from the glands on their backs. He’d seen its effects on his guards when one had been too slow to dodge a toadok’s weapon. Within minutes he’d become temporarily paralysed, entertainment for the fellow guards, but an extremely unpleasant experience for the sufferer.

  He was covered in grazes from his encounter on the wall. It would be a miracle if he escaped the toxin. By the time he reached the last stair, Goron’s legs felt as if they were struggling through wet sand. His axe, too heavy for his numb fingers, dropped from his hands. Unsure if he had the strength even to lift it, he left it where it lay and stumbled on.

  The bailey stretched before him. A vast stone courtyard, broken only by an ancient ruinwood tree sacred to Murdus, Father of Forest and Stone, which ended at the keep. The castle’s inhabitants still trickled in through the keep’s two doors. Time was running out.

  Goron gritted his teeth and pushed on, but each step was increasingly difficult. The wet sand he felt as if he were struggling against before, now felt like mortar. Fifty feet from the keep, the mortar turned to stone.

  With a groan, Goron dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl. Soon that became too difficult, and he was reduced to sliding along the ground on his belly. His body was so numb he could not feel the stone beneath him.

  The last of the castle’s inhabitants crowded through the keep’s doors. One of the guards, he could not tell which one, paused and looked out at the bailey to see if there were any more latecomers.

  Goron opened his mouth, or at least he thought it opened, and tried to shout. All that came out was a strangled gasp.

  Not seeing anybody in the heavy darkness, the guards grasped a door each and pulled them shut with a bang.

  Goron was alone, in the grips of paralysis with hundreds of toadoks chasing him.

  He dragged himself along for another foot. His body’s instinct for survival hadn’t given up, even if his mind had. His fingers fastened around something that wasn’t stone. A metal grate. It took a moment for his addled brain to understand what it was—a grill into the sewer beneath the castle.

  Murdus, hadn’t forgotten him. The god had given him one last chance to survive.

  The flap of the toadoks’ feet echoed from behind.

  Goron hooked his fingers around the metal and pulled. The grate rose six inches before it slipped from his numb fingers and clanked back into place. If the toadoks couldn’t see in the darkness, they would know where he was now.

  Goron tried the grate again. As he lifted it up, he managed to manoeuvre his foot beneath the edge to prevent it slipping back. He needn’t have worried. This time his fingers did not betray him.

  His head swam over the dark hole. Below, he could hear the trickle of water and smell the stench of human waste. The fall might kill him, and if it didn’t, would he have the strength or the control to stay afloat in the stream of sewage?

  He had no choice. He tumbled into the hole headfirst, righting his position to something less suicidal as he fell. The best he could do was a belly flop into Wichsault’s waste. He didn’t have the sense to close his mouth, and it filled with the castle’s filth.

  The water wasn’t deep, only four feet, and his face touched the bottom. He pushed up to the surface, twisting onto his back with the last of his strength. Then he was floating—caught in a faecal current. The grey world around him was lit up by other grates and latrines.

  If someone had told him, before he opened his eyes in the morning, that by day’s end he would be caught in bed with a repulsive demon, then float like a turd through Wichsault’s sewer, he would have thought them insane.

  Goron guided himself through the narrow tunnels with the push of a foot or poke of a finger. But with each passing second, control of his body slipped from him. If he continued at the mercy of the water’s current, soon he wouldn’t have the power to stay afloat.

  If he wanted to live, he needed to find the strength to clamber up onto the walkway that ran parallel to the stream. He tried to stand, but his legs no longer supported him, and his head sank under the sewage a second time. Gagging, he surfaced and clung to the stone wall. His legs drifted under him as he fought for breath. His arms were too weak to hold on much longer let alone pull him to safety.

  This was an even worse death than dying from a tadpole invasion, hardly the stuff of legends. With a soundless battle cry, he hitched up his leg and pushed himself over.

  Exhausted, Goron lay in the gloom listening to the drip of water. He didn’t know how long he remained like that but when he tried to stir, he found not even his eyes would move.

  Another sound came out of the shadows, the scurry of feet—too faint to be the leathery pads of the toadoks. It grew closer. Out the corner of his eye, Goron spotted a rat stealing towards him. He wanted to shout at it, kick it away, but his body refused to work.

  The rat, eyes nervously darting, nose twitching, approached the exposed flesh of his forearm, between his chainmail shirt and bracer, and began to chew. Others, embolden by their comrade’s success, scurried from the shadows eager to share the meal. One chose Goron’s ear and began to gnaw on the cartilage. It was painless but the sound deafening. Another tore at the flesh of his cheek. That didn’t concern him as much as the rat that climbed onto his crotch and started to gnaw at his leather leggings. Oh well, I doubt I was ever going to use that again anyway.

  “This is horrible,” Morwen said looking around at all the people huddled together in the keep’s small hall. She’d spent her whole life living within, and never venturing beyond, the castle walls. When she wanted to be alone, though, there was always somewhere to hide. Little nooks in rooms, forgotten corridors, and abandoned halls provided ideal spots for her escape.

  “It’s ghastly,” Szat agreed. “There isn’t a bite to be found anywhere. You’d think someone would have had the sense to hide a few snacks at least.” Szat scum-
green eyes widened. “You don’t suppose I could starve to death do you?” The demon grabbed a handful of fat from his round belly and cried in anguish, “I’m wasting away.”

  Morwen shook her head in exasperation. It was always about food with him. It got tiresome.

  An infant’s screams echoed through the hall. Szat sat up straight and searched for the child in the crowd. A bundle of plump flesh and brown curls squirmed in her mother’s arms.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Morwen warned.

  “I’d never,” the demon huffed.

  Morwen wasn’t convinced and decided to put as much distance between the baby and Szat as possible. The crowd parted to give the black-robed warlock space. Morwen found a small alcove that was occupied only by an elderly couple who didn’t look gastronomically tempting. She sat on the cold stone floor and closed her eyes. The thud of toadoks’ fists and weapons upon the heavy, wooden doors reverberated around her. The toadoks wouldn’t get inside that way, but how long would it be until they had the sense to fashion a battering ram?

  She closed her mind to the commotion. The first twinges of a headache were starting behind her eyes. She dug her fingers into her scalp trying to massage the pain away. Szat sucked on her hair.

  “Morwen.” Someone kicked her leg.

  Morwen’s eyes flashed open. It was Jasin; she should have guessed. No one else would treat the high exarch with such disrespect. “Careful, Sergeant,” Morwen warned.

  “The justiciar wants to talk to you,” Jasin said, her face indifferent to the threat.

  Morwen ought to have known the old man wouldn’t be able to sort this mess out by himself. It was the perfect opportunity to put a plan she’d been formulating into action.

  The justiciar looked awful. His skin was as grey as the pillar he was leaning against, and the black bags under his eyes were so plump they looked ready to burst. He smiled weakly at Morwen. “I need your help. It seems Wichsault is in serious trouble.”

  “You haven’t found any food either,” Szat exclaimed. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I spotted a big, fat, juicy baby before, and if you distract the mother, I’ll let you have a leg.” Yeston cringed in disgust.

  “Ha! I knew it,” Morwen snorted. “I’ve already told you, babies aren’t for eating.”

  “I don’t see why not. They look perfectly delicious,” Szat said sulkily and returned to chewing on Morwen’s hair.

  “What do you want with me, Yeston? You made me the castle physician…”

  “The castle executioner, more like it,” Jasin scoffed.

  Morwen ignored the jibe and continued. “…and the high exarch. I’m no soldier. That’s Goron’s area of expertise.”

  “He’s dead,” Jasin said shrugging her shoulders.

  “Something good’s come of this then. What about Jasin here? She looks stupid enough to take his place,” Morwen replied.

  Jasin growled and gave Morwen a hefty shove.

  Szat was dislodged from Morwen’s shoulder. The demon dangled from her hair with his face twisted in rage and flames spluttering from his hands until he regained purchase.

  Jasin’s hand went to her sword.

  “I wouldn’t. He doesn’t need much of an excuse to barbeque some meat at present,” Morwen warned patting her smouldering hair.

  “Will you two cut it out. We’re trapped, no food or water, not enough guards to fight our way out, and you’re bickering like children.” Yeston rested the back of his head against the pillar. “We need your magic.”

  There, he’d said it. Morwen’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “You won’t like my suggestion.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Yeston said. As if to emphasise his point, there was a loud thud at the door. The keep shuddered, and a cloud of plaster billowed into the air. The toadoks had found a suitable battering ram.

  There was no stage or pulpit for Morwen’s rousing speech. She delivered it from where she stood amongst the crowd. “As you are all aware,” Morwen said. Her voice failed to rise above the din.

  “Quiet! The witch speaks,” Jasin boomed. The keep fell silent momentarily. Everyone’s attention was turned to the warlock whose face was hidden by the shadow of her black cowl.

  Morwen decided to get straight to the point, “You’re all going to die.”

  Panic swept through the room like a tidal wave. People clung to one other and began to wail. Maybe the forward approach wasn’t the way to go in this instance. “I mean if we don’t make a sacrifice.”

  “What sort of sacrifice?” a woman said. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Morwen doubted her answer would be any better received no matter how she delivered it, so she blurted out, “A blood sacrifice.” The night mother would grant requests for multiple demons in times of crises, but the sacrifices had to match the number required.

  The audience gasped collectively.

  “No one needs to die. I need only a little flesh to summon a demon army to fight the toadoks. Say, a hundred pieces, that would be enough.”

  She was right. The audience didn’t like her proposal at all. Insults were hurled at her, and fists were shaken. A man, Morwen recognised from the kitchen, shouted, “She’s still got a few bits and pieces left. Let’s start with her.” He grasped Morwen’s robe and yanked her to him.

  Morwen tried to pull away but was dragged closer to his knotted fist and the slobber spraying from his mouth.

  Szat ejected a jet of flame into the man’s face and singed his hair and eyebrows. While his hands frantically patted at the blaze, Morwen kicked him between the legs. The man dropped to the ground and curled into a groaning ball. Morwen put the boot in a couple more times as a show of authority.

  The display of violence had the effect of quieting the crowd. Morwen continued. “I need a hundred toes, ears, fingers, noses, or any other appendage you’re willing to part with. Any volunteers?” She scanned the fearful faces finding Anwen’s among them. It was red and spotty, eyes shining with tears. She must have been told about Goron and was either distraught at his demise, or his quick escape from his curse. Knowing Anwen, it was the latter.

  A frail, old woman was the first to volunteer. “I have a couple of spare toes you could have.” She slipped off a shoe and wiggled gnarled toes topped with talon-like, yellow nails.”

  “Ew,” Szat said.

  “Anybody else?” Morwen asked.

  The woman’s husband, not to be outdone by his wife, matched her offer. This shamed two young men into advancing an ear each. Emmely, a prodigious breeder with three snotty-nosed brats in tow and others no doubt scattered throughout the castle, pushed two of the oldest children forward and said, “There’s twenty more for you.”

  Morwen greedily accepted, and Justiciar Yeston was forced to intercede stating all donations must come from persons over sixteen years of age.

  Hers was the last offer.

  Morwen glared at the gathering hoping to guilt a few into donating an unwanted toe or finger. No one would meet her eye, finding the details of their feet or the architecture of the ceiling suddenly extremely fascinating.

  “It’s not enough,” Morwen announced.

  “We will need to draw straws,” Yeston interjected.

  Morwen stared at the bloody pile of flesh, seventy-seven toes, sixteen fingers, six ears, one slab of dimpled buttock—the owner said she had ample to spare—and not a single nose. Most willingly paid the price, but there were some that needed Jasin and her guards to assist them. The soldiers took an extra toe for their trouble.

  The warlock ordered a space cleared around the heap, enough for a hundred demons. The crowd shuffled to the hall’s perimeters. Now there was standing room only in the keep’s cramped hall.

  Morwen’s dagger scratched spidery symbols on the ground to contain the horde she was about to conjure.

  �
��Light it up,” Morwen said upon finishing.

  Szat hurled a fireball at the bleeding pile.

  The air filled with smoke and the sweet aroma of roasting meat. Szat’s mouth drooled, and he jumped from Morwen’s shoulder. Morwen grabbed him and bundled him up. “Just one, just a little toe, anything,” he sobbed as he thrashed helplessly in her arms.

  “Kaexo kl’t grotl aerb aerb larau dv v’tl. Maexo Gauar ag Saerkvaab’t raqo r’go ae kadobv ag ouuaut aerb vae’r,” Morwen chanted. Shadowy figures snatched up their offerings and disappeared.

  The only movement was the trembling of the audience. Then flesh slowly bubbled from the stone floor and formed into grotesque and horrifying demons. The shadowlands had sent their mongrels, their expendables, wastrel demons fit only for slaughter and to be slaughtered. Even Morwen gulped at their monstrousness. Perfect, she thought.

  The demons paced the circle, like wild beasts, eying the crowd hungrily. People scrambled over one another to get as far away as they could.

  “Open the door,” Morwen yelled. She didn’t know how long the circle would hold the monsters from their butchery.

  Two guards lifted the bolt. The door burst open, and the toadoks spilled inside. They croaked in excitement and lurched at choice victims for their pot. Their eagerness was extinguished when they saw the horde of baying demons.

  “Kill them,” Morwen commanded pointing at the toadoks.

  The demons surged forward. The toadoks fled before them in terror. Szat hitched a ride with a horror that stood over seven feet tall. Five of those feet were massive, muscled legs capable of kicking down a house. The demon whooped as he flung fireballs at any toadoks in range.

  Morwen followed them outside and waited in the bailey. The stones were lit gold and jasper by the glow of Szat’s victims. Jasin joined her and together they waited in silence for the demons to return.