Nemesis

by Kat Ross

  I don’t want to go out there again, he thought. Bloody hell, I don’t.

  But if he stayed much longer, they would find him—whoever they were.

  He cursed his own blindness and crept out from under the table toward what he hoped was one of the exits. The smell of blood filled his nose. It slicked the floor beneath his palms, warm and sticky.

  No one tried to stop him. They were too busy getting killed.

  Culach fully expected to join their ranks. To feel the bite of iron as an invisible foe finished what his executioner failed to accomplish. He remembered striding across the Great Hall a thousand times. It took perhaps a minute to get from one side to the other. Yet the journey on hands and knees, amid the moans of the fallen and other sounds he didn’t wish to examine too closely, seemed to take years.

  And then his fingertips brushed the far wall. Culach followed it until he reached an opening to the corridor beyond. Bodies clogged the doorway where they’d been trapped trying to escape. He clambered over them, gaining his feet and running for the staircase that led down to the cold cells. Whatever had come to Val Moraine, he had to find Mina.

  The sounds of battle faded as he descended, keeping a map of the keep fixed in his mind. The staircase wound around on itself in a tight spiral, the steps worn smooth from centuries of use. His thundering heartbeat began to slow. Not far now.

  Culach thought of that harsh laughter. It couldn’t have been Gerda. He’d felt her body stiffening when he laid it in the crypts with Halldóra. Shock, that was all. He’d been seconds from death and his mind had conjured things out of whole cloth. But what, then, had come to the Great Hall? What had frightened Runar, who once held the pass to Val Petros alone for three days with a gut wound you could fit a fist into?

  Mina. Just find Mina.

  Culach wasn’t sure how he’d get them both out of the keep, but he’d find a way. He descended six more turnings until he was nearly at the level of the cold cells. He paused to listen.

  And heard a soft rustle from the stairway above, just beyond the next curve.

  He licked dry lips, straining in the darkness.

  Long seconds ticked by. It came again, closer now. A sibilant whisper, like the scales of a snake. Or leather skirts dragging on the floor.

  He smelled a trace of sour wine. The hair on his arms tingled.

  “Culach No-Name.”

  The voice was familiar, yet not. It sounded like it came from the depths of a pit.

  “Your father wants to see you, boy. He says you’ve been naughty again.”

  The breath froze in his lungs. “Grandmother?” he croaked.

  A sucking sound. It took little imagination to picture a black tongue running over teeth.

  “You stole Ygraine’s sword. Gave it to a mortal, wicked boy.”

  Feet shuffled forward. Culach edged down the stairs, his manacled hands trailing the wall.

  “But you’re dead,” he objected, part of him wondering if his mind hadn’t finally snapped.

  Gerda laughed, gristle falling into a meat grinder. He heard sudden movement, a rush of air against his skin, and feinted to the side, slamming into the wall.

  “I was called back.” The voice took on a wheedling tone. “I’m cold, boy. Come warm these old bones.”

  Culach shrank away. A foot kicked out and knocked him off-balance. He tumbled down the steps, landing hard on his back. The dragging sounds came closer. He smelled Gerda standing over him. Dried blood and a whiff of decay.

  “I laid you to rest in the crypts—”

  Bony hands closed around his throat, squeezing with inhuman strength. He remembered carrying her down to the catacombs. She’d been frail and light as a child. He was easily three times her size. Yet when Culach tried to break her grip, he found he couldn’t. Her fingers were like iron bands. He bucked in desperation and she squeezed harder, dragging him toward a well of blackness.

  “There’s a place waiting for you, boy,” Gerda whispered.

  He fought for breath.

  “In the deep and the dark….”

  Culach heard a thump and Gerda collapsed across his chest. He shoved her away, choking in revulsion as his fingers brushed frozen flesh and the stump of a neck.

  “Revenants. They won’t admit they’re dead until you cut their heads off.”

  Culach scrabbled backwards. He could still feel those claws around his throat.

  “What the bloody hell is going on, Dessarian?” he growled.

  “There was a horn. A talisman. I found it down in the crypts.” Victor paused. “I didn’t know what it did, I swear. I just wanted to get out of here.”

  A strong hand gripped Culach’s arm, pulling him to his feet. The manacles around his wrists tumbled open and clattered to the floor. Earth power. Culach had always disdained it, but now he felt a new appreciation.

  “I blew it. And the dead answered.” Victor’s voice sounded distant, a mystic pondering some existential riddle. “I always wondered where they came from. The revenants. Neblis learned how to call them too, but she used necromancer chains.” He sighed. “I saw empty shelves in the crypts. Now I understand why.”

  “Revenants,” Culach said flatly. “My dead kin, you mean.” He steadied himself against the wall. “I can’t believe it really exists. And that it fell into your grubby hands.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Of all people.”

  “You know of this talisman?”

  “It was just another crazy legend. One of my distant ancestors, Magnus the Merciless, supposedly had a number of dangerous talismans. He hid them in various parts of the keep.”

  Like countless other Valkirin children, Culach had spent many idle afternoons with his friend Petur hunting for Magnus’s treasure trove. They never found anything but dust and spiderwebs.

  “It’s called the Horn of Helheim,” he said. “You found it in the crypts?”

  “A secret chamber. It was in the hands of a frozen corpse. One brown eye, one blue eye.”

  “That’s Magnus. My father stumbled over some of the talismans, including that diamond you were so fond of, but he never did find the body—”

  A distant sound jerked Culach’s head toward the stairs spiraling down. Victor had saved his life, had killed Gerda twice, yet he couldn’t quite thank him for it. “How many revenants are out there?”

  “I don’t know. A lot.”

  Culach swore softly. “We have to get to the cells.”

  Victor didn’t reply. Culach groped around until he found the man’s coat and gave him a shake.

  “Are you listening? I need your help!”

  “What? Yes. The cells. I was on my way there when I found you.”

  They hurried down the stairs until they reached the level just above the catacombs, where the dungeons began. Culach smelled the revenant before it lurched around the corner. He called out a warning and Victor dispatched it. Culach imagined Mina trapped in her cell, those things getting in.

  “Hurry,” he snapped.

  The temperature dropped as they reached the first row of iron doors. Victor’s footsteps slowed. Culach imagined him peering through each of the small grills set at eye level.

  “Do you see her?”

  “Not yet. I have to find Mithre too, if he’s down here.”

  They moved on, turning a corner. Despite the aching cold, sweat trickled down Culach’s spine. He smelled nothing but stone. Heard only the wind. Then Victor stopped. When he spoke, his voice was a groan.

  “The cell door’s been torn from its hinges.”

  Culach couldn’t breathe.

  “What do you see?”

  “No blood. No bodies.” Victor’s voice moved inside the cell. “I think it was blown outward.”

  A muffled cry came from somewhere up ahead. Culach ran toward it and smelled her familiar scent, wool and a flowery soap.

  “Mina!”

  Victor’s broad-shouldered bulk pushed past and air sang against the edge of a blade, followed by the now familiar thump of a hea
d tumbling across the ground. Fingers twined with Culach’s. He pulled Mina to his chest, burying his face in her hair. She was shivering through a fur-lined coat.

  “What is that?” she demanded. “It looks like….” Mina swallowed hard. “It looks dead.”

  “That’s because it is dead,” Culach replied.

  “What dark magic did this?”

  He gave her a grim smile. “Ask Victor.”

  “Gods, never mind. I don’t want to know. Is the keep overrun?”

  “Pretty much.” Culach winced. “I ran into Gerda. Death did not improve her temperament.”

  “Oh no.” Mina’s thumb stroked the stubble on his jaw. “Runar said they were going to kill you. I managed to break the door down just before that thing came around the corner.”

  “We’re getting out of here,” Culach said. “I have to find Nazafareen. There’s something she needs to know—”

  Metal groaned as a cell door scraped open.

  “Victor,” Mithre rasped from inside. “Kind of you to show up.”

  “Forgive me, old friend. You were right. About everything.”

  Mithre grunted. “Where the hell did the revenants come from?” A pause. “You didn’t.” Another, longer pause. “Did you?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Victor snapped, some of his old arrogance returning. “But right now we need to get moving. Revenants are drawn to living flesh. Most will have gone to the upper levels, but there could be a few more stragglers.”

  Mithre barked a harsh laugh. “I don’t believe this. The hero who defeated Neblis’s undead armies actually summoned—”

  “We’ll make for the stables,” Victor interrupted. “Fight our way out. You can take that revenant’s blade.”

  Mithre snorted. “My arm’s broken. The Valkirins weren’t gentle when they threw me down here.”

  “I’ve got it.” Mina dropped Culach’s hand. He heard her grunt as she hefted the broadsword.

  “Have you ever fought with one of those?” Mithre asked.

  Mina sniffed. “How hard can it be?”

  “Cut their heads off,” Victor advised. “Otherwise they’ll just keep coming.”

  “Understood. Stand behind me, Culach.”

  He swallowed his pride and did as ordered. They crept from floor to floor, Victor and Mina in the lead, carving a path through knots of revenants on the stairs. Culach’s acute sense of smell alerted them to the dead before they drew close. He was almost glad he couldn’t see their faces. No doubt he’d recognize many of them.

  “Where will you go from here?” he asked Victor as they strode down one of the keep’s endless corridors, circling the sounds of skirmishes with the undead.

  “To Delilah.” Victor’s voice was taut with regret. “I should have done it a long time ago.”

  That was Victor’s wife, Culach remembered. The one who’d been there when he stormed Val Moraine.

  “Nazafareen went after her,” he said. “The Oracle of Delphi is a Vatra. The Danai meant to free the daēvas she captured, but they didn’t know what they were facing.”

  Victor grabbed him. “And Delilah was with them?”

  “She was leading the force with Tethys. We were supposed to leave with Nazafareen,” Mithre said in acid tones. “But you disappeared.”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple of days ago.”

  “I’ll find her,” Victor said stubbornly. “It’s not too late.”

  “Let’s pray you’re right,” Mithre muttered.

  “I would go with them,” Culach said quietly to Mina. “I had a dream about the Viper just before the Valkirins came for me, but this one was different. I fear Nazafareen is right. He does live on somehow. And there’s a connection to Gaius. She needs to know about it.” He hesitated. “Will you come too?”

  “I’m not abandoning you now, foolish man. Of course I will. And you say the Pythia is one of these Vatras. I’m not sure how to fight her, but I won’t let her have my son.”

  “Then we’ll head into the Umbra,” Mithre said. “With any luck, Nazafareen and Darius will be with Delilah and the others.” His voice softened. “They may have already rescued Galen. If not, we’ll find a way.”

  Icy wind struck Culach’s face. It carried the pungent smell of dung. They’d made it to the stables. He heard movement ahead, and the rasp of a sword being drawn.

  “Get out of the way,” Victor growled.

  “You did this.” Rage choked Stefán’s normally smooth voice. “I don’t know how, but you’ll pay, Dessarian.”

  Iron blades rang together like the tolling of a great bell.

  “Go,” Victor grated. “I’ll hold them here.”

  Mithre spoke at Culach’s shoulder. “But—”

  “Just go! I’ll follow.”

  Mina sighed heavily. She pressed the cold hilt of the broadsword into Culach’s palm. He felt her tense, then give a soft moan as her bones flexed to the edge of breaking. She was using earth power, the heaviest and most painful element to work.

  An instant later, Valkirin voices cried out in alarm. The ice shelf supporting the stables shifted and cracked. Culach heard running feet and the scream of an abbadax.

  “Ragnhildur!”

  He stepped forward and met empty air. Culach flailed, overbalanced by the heavy broadsword. He dropped it into the chasm below, teetering on the edge, when a hand jerked him backwards.

  “Idiot,” Mina muttered. “Oh gods, here it comes.”

  Hot breath blasted his face. Culach reached out, his finger brushing a hooked beak. It nuzzled his hand.

  “I assume you know this beast,” Mina said warily.

  “She’s mine.” Tears froze to his lashes. “Does she have a saddle?”

  “No.”

  “Do you see any spares?”

  Mina hesitated. “Hanging against the wall. But the revenants are at the door. Stefán and a few others are trying to hold them, but there’s too many. They’ll break through any moment.”

  He could hear the harsh shouts from Stefán’s men, the crunch of bone and crash of metal. Culach climbed onto Ragnhildur’s back, hauling Mina up behind him. He slipped his fingers into the barbs of her neck feathers, gripping them tight. He’d only ridden once without a saddle and harness, on a dare from Petur. It was dangerous and stupid but it could be done.

  “Dessarian!” he bellowed.

  “Over here,” Victor answered from somewhere off to the left. “I found Njala.”

  Mina’s arms clamped around Culach’s waist. She uttered a string of curses. Now that Ragnhildur had her beloved master on her back, there was no stopping her. She lumbered for the edge of the stables and dove into the abyss. The shouts at the door turned to screams and Culach pitied his clansmen, even if they had tried to murder him. But there was nothing he could do to help them now.

  He leaned forward, whispering a brief command into Ragnhildur’s ear. Vestr. Mot Sol.

  Fly west. Toward the sun.

  The sounds of fighting faded, replaced by the low shriek of the wind. If other abbadax had escaped with riders, Culach heard no sign of them. He wondered what the revenants would do when they’d slaughtered the last of the living. Would they return to their crypts, or would they seek out fresh prey?

  Either way, Val Moraine belonged to the dead and Culach knew he would never return there.

  The hours passed and the air grew warmer, carrying briny hints of the sea. Then Victor called out to them that he saw something ahead.

  “Elda,” Culach murmured, asking Ragnhildur to land. She gave a breathy snort that sounded grateful. He knew she must be exhausted from the long flight.

  “What’s down there?” he asked Mina.

  “Looks like bodies,” she said tightly. “Hundreds of them.”

  Culach fell silent. He could smell it now, a smoky, charnel house stench, but not fresh. No, he guessed this battle had happened a day or two before.

  Mina leaned against his chest. “Oh gods,” she whispered. “I
see part of a green cloak.”

  She said nothing more until Ragnhildur alit on the plain and Culach helped her dismount, then slid down himself, his fingers stiff from holding on for so many hours.

  “Any survivors?” he asked.

  “They’re all gone,” Mina said in a shocked voice. “The Matrium….”

  “What about Nazafareen? Darius? They were going after the Danai.”

  “I don’t know. It’s impossible to tell, the bodies are too charred.” Mina’s voice rose, cracked and harsh. “What if Galen’s here? I’ve got to find him!”

  Culach despised his own helplessness. He should be sparing her the task of searching through the bodies for her only son.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said softly.

  He heard her sniffle and wipe her face. When she spoke again, there was steel in her voice.

  “I’ll see if any of them wear a collar,” she said. “It would have survived the fire.” She touched his cheek and moved away, skirts swishing.

  That was the Mina who had survived years of captivity among her enemies, who had shamed him into getting out of bed when he wanted only to die.

  He waited as she walked among the bodies. Victor ranted in the distance, something about a small silver ring his wife used to wear. Someone retched, Culach wasn’t certain who. Then a terrible scream pierced the air. He could hear Victor sobbing and Mithre trying vainly to calm him down.

  “They found Delilah,” Mina said in a voice that trembled with rage. “And Victor’s mother Tethys. But Galen isn’t here. The Pythia must have taken him.”

  Once, Culach wouldn’t have given a damn about the Danai. They’d been a thorn in the holdfasts’ side for centuries. But the thought of the slaughter made him sick. The burn scars on his chest tingled as he tried to focus his thoughts, to piece together what had happened here.

  “If Nazafareen had caught up with the Danai, she would have stopped it,” he said slowly. “So I think she must live too.”

  “Perhaps.” Mina didn’t sound convinced. “What do we do now?”

  “We go to Delphi,” Victor roared. “We hunt the Pythia down and kill her.”