“What? I …” Hirka didn’t know what to say. What to think. She understood every word, but even so, he wasn’t making sense. Did he think she wanted to be here? Kuro had shown her the way through the stones. To an unknown place she’d hoped to call home. Because ravens always know.
“I followed you!” she replied.
“Hmm. Yes. People do have a tendency to do that, don’t they?” He smiled, flashing his canines. She suppressed the urge to shield her throat.
“You’re here, Sulni, because someone out there wants you to be. You’re a stone wanderer, made to break down doors that were never meant to be opened. Is he a friend of yours?”
“What? Who?”
“The man sneaking around outside.”
Stefan!
Hirka got up, making a concentrated effort so as not to fall again. What could she do? What could she say? Stefan would never understand. And the blindling … He’d … She looked at him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know whether he’s a friend or not. He might be. What should we do?”
“We can kill him or we can invite him in. What do you think would be best, Sulni?”
“I think … my name’s not Sulni. It’s Hirka.”
“I’m Naiell. And I know who you are. Shall we invite him in, do you think?” He seemed amused, though he wasn’t laughing.
Naiell. The Seer’s name is Naiell.
The name made her hair stand on end. It was strange yet familiar all at once. Like something she’d heard before, even though she knew she hadn’t. Hirka walked through the greenhouse to the door. She opened it but couldn’t see anyone.
“Stefan?”
Stefan was suddenly right in front of her, cheeks flushed.
“He says I should invite you in.”
“He?”
Hirka went back in and heard Stefan follow. “Just to warn you,” she whispered. “He’s naked. And he’s a bit … much.”
Stefan followed her through the greenhouse to where Naiell was waiting. He drew his gun the moment he laid eyes on him. Hirka shouted, but it was too late. Naiell was on him. Hirka heard a snap, and the weapon fell to the ground. Stefan screamed. He collapsed against the wall, cradling his elbow. Hirka darted over to him.
Stefan looked at her. Confused and disappointed in equal measure. “And to think I spared you the worst of it! I didn’t think telling you would do any good, and now … Christ! If I’d known …”
He stared at Naiell. “There’s a scourge out there. A man who can bind people to him. Kill and heal all at once. I’ve been hunting him for fifteen fucking years and I’ve often doubted his existence. But it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the source.”
Stefan glanced at the gun on the ground. Hirka picked it up so he wouldn’t do anything stupid. “I promise you, he’s not the one you’re looking for,” she said. “Naiell came here with me. Not even a year ago. We’re both new to this world.”
“Naiell?” Stefan repeated the name as if he couldn’t believe he had one. Hirka knew how he felt.
“Like that matters,” Stefan said. “I don’t know what the fuck they are, but they’re the same.” Stefan tried to bend his elbow and grimaced.
Naiell looked at her. “What’s he saying?”
He hadn’t understood a word of their conversation. Hirka took a moment to enjoy the feeling of having the upper hand before translating what Stefan had said into ymish.
Naiell snarled. “The embling is mistaken. We’re nothing alike.”
Hirka translated what he’d said for Stefan. “He says they’re nothing alike. Him and the man you’re looking for.”
“How the hell does he know that if he’s only just arrived?”
She looked at Naiell again. “How do you know?”
Naiell bared his teeth. “Sí wai umkhadari dósal.”
Hirka and Stefan looked at each other. The words belonged to a language neither of them understood. Naiell looked at Hirka and repeated what he’d said in ymish:
“He’s my brother.”
FAREWELL
Hospitals. The last bastion of humankind. A gateway to death, veiled in just enough superstition that people weren’t afraid to go there. A practical place. A technical place. But to the dying, a temple. All reason was abandoned at the door. And once inside, all that was left was prayer. A futile hope that someone in a white coat might be able to offer salvation.
As Graal walked through the corridors, he took in the smell of life coming to an end. Even the healthy ones were dying. Humans were all dying, though they denied it with a vehemence that bordered on the comical. Had they known who he was and the power he had in his blood, they’d have trampled each other to death to get to him. No price was too high when time was running out.
He walked into what they called an isolation ward. An optimistic name for an area that, at best, closed its doors a little more frequently. No one made any attempt to stop him or ask him what he was doing there. Not that he’d expected anyone to.
Isac lay in a drab room surrounded by machines and tubes. Technology that told the humans what they couldn’t see for themselves. His head was wrapped in bandages, and from the smell of him, Graal knew they’d gone to great lengths to save him. Such a shame. He didn’t like effort going to waste. Hard work should pay off.
He shut the door and went over to the bed. Isac turned his head. Slowly, like a marionette. It seemed to cause him great pain. His eyes lit up when he saw Graal. It would have been touching, had his love not been tainted by desperation.
“Graal …” Isac fumbled for his hand. “You came.”
“Yes, I came, Isac.”
Then, the inevitable excuses. The stories about everything that had gone wrong. Everything that wasn’t Isac’s fault. Details. A study in human weakness. A plea to the most forgiving god of all: the god of unpredictability.
Isac had never understood the importance of his assignment. That was all too clear now. But it was a problem lacking a solution. How could anyone with a mere eighty years to live ever understand what was important?
The strange part was it was becoming more and more difficult. For the first couple of centuries, explaining to people what was important had been easier. Despite the fact that their lives were only half as long back then.
Graal tuned out Isac’s voice. He sat down on a chair by the bed and switched on the TV using a greasy remote. A distressingly overlooked source of infection. He flicked through the channels until he found the news. A woman with a microphone stood outside a church. Blue lights were flashing in the background. He put it on mute. Couldn’t bear to listen.
Isac stopped talking. He knew what was coming. His blond hair was plastered to his temple. He had green circles under his eyes.
“Isac, what was the last thing I said to you before you left?”
“I tried to stop him, but it was—”
“The one word I used, Isac? What was it?
Isac swallowed. “Discreet.”
Graal closed his eyes. Listened to the beeping of the machines. The wheezing of Isac’s lungs. The stench of damaged flesh and disinfectant was unrelenting.
“I tried, Graal. I tried to stop him, but it was too late! Mickey was a rotten choice.” He huffed out the sentences. “We never meant—it wasn’t supp—”
Graal brought a finger to Isac’s lips. Isac grabbed his hand and breathed in his smell as though he would get more benefit from that than from the drip hanging by the bed. Which he would, to be fair.
“Discreet, Isac. Discreet!” Graal stood up. He rarely got angry. He’d been around far too long for that. But he was furious now. He pointed at the TV. “Discreet! A priest! A priest, a mother, and her two daughters! A small child! Left bleeding in a church, in the middle of town! A massacre! A midwinter sacrifice!”
“There … there’s still time, we can …”
Graal sat back down. He stared at the floor. Smooth, lime-green linoleum. “I like children. Have I ever mentioned that, Isac? Children are the future, as
they like to say here. But they don’t understand what that means. I understand. And I like them. Should I have mentioned that, Isac?”
Isac flinched every time he heard his name. Graal squeezed the arm of the chair. The wood splintered. “I like children. And you don’t have the girl. You don’t know where she is. That upsets me, Isac.”
“A drop, Graal. A single drop and you’ll have her in no time, I promise!” Isac strained toward him. The tube going into his hand pulled taut, and that was enough to make him give up. Graal took off his gloves and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. He unfolded it.
“Sometimes I write to myself,” he said. “On good days. So that on not so good days, I remember that everything is not as bad as it feels. Do you know what I wrote here? I wrote that it’s human nature to fail. That I have to forgive and be patient.”
Isac grimaced. Graal recognized it as an attempt at his usual charm offensive. Considering he was lying there, pale and thin in a hospital gown, it was a horribly misplaced effort. At least they’d gotten rid of that god-awful shirt.
“I wrote that on a good day,” Graal said, returning the piece of paper to his inside pocket. “Today is not a good day.”
Isac’s hand was shaking at his side. Graal fiddled with the machines. They’d be of no help to him.
“Say what you like about humans, but at least they’re able to extract bullets, I see. You’ve had a long life, Isac. You’re over eighty years old now, but you don’t look a day over fifty. You’ve had more than most.”
“Graal, don’t—”
“You’ve nothing to fear. Nobody here knows who you are. And the doctors have no idea what’s wrong with you, so I expect you’ll be here for some time. At least until they’ve run every test in the book. It’s just as well, under the circumstances. Their ignorance will keep the police away.”
Isac’s eyes glistened. No trace of his arrogance remained. He was no longer Vardar. All that was left was a shell. A human.
Graal went over to Isac’s jacket, which was hanging from a hook on the wall. He tucked a letter into one of the pockets. “Everything you need to know is written on that. Where to collect your things. Where to withdraw money. You’ll not want for anything. Not until the pain sets in. Try to get them to prescribe hydromorphone. It’s a morphine derivative. It will help.”
He walked back toward the door. Isac began to sob quietly, like a little boy. It was annoying to listen to, but there was nothing more Graal could do. He’d already extended this man’s life by half. From now on Isac would have to manage on his own. Some managed for a century, maybe longer, surviving on secondary blood. Not Isac. He was too dependent. Five years, if Graal had to guess. No more.
“Graal … I love you.”
Graal looked at the human in the bed. “No, Isac, you love what I do for you,” he said, and left the room.
Isac’s scream was lost in a gurgling cough.
DEATH BY BLINDLING
Rime followed the twalif through the throng of exhausted men. It wasn’t a high rank, being a twalif, with eleven soldiers to command, but there was no one with a higher rank left alive.
The last of the soldiers had returned home to Mannfalla after the attack on Ravnhov. Back after months of making and breaking camp. Marching through ash and snow. And through contradictory orders from a council in two minds, until Rime had stepped in and put an end to it.
But they were far from jubilant. They were subdued and tired. Worn down by toil and illness, but also by the knowledge that the war had been for nothing. The Seer was gone. Ravnhov remained free. On Rime’s orders.
He wouldn’t blame them if they hated him.
The soldiers bowed as he passed. Mumbled “Rime-fadri” and threw stolen glances after him. The rumors of his spectacle in the Rite Hall had spread far and wide. But the fear in their eyes had nothing to do with him.
“Here they are, Rime-fadri.”
The twalif stopped in front of a small group of men resting on stretchers. The soldiers around him were taking off leather and steel, but these men were covered by nothing more than their shirts and blankets. The wounded.
Rime had seen more than enough wounded men in his life. These would pull through—all apart from one. The only one no longer shivering.
He was lying on his back, his eyes half-open, but he said nothing. Reacted to no one. Sweat had frozen in his hairline. His lips had lost all color. He wouldn’t survive the night.
“That’s Karn,” the twalif said, nodding at the man, who wasn’t much older than Rime. Barely twenty winters. Rime pulled the blanket back and lifted the boy’s bloodied shirt. His chest had been torn open. Three deep cuts, but not made by steel. These were claw marks. A single swipe, with bear-like strength. Stretching from one shoulder toward his armpit on the opposite side. The wounds were starting to fester. The smell of death hung in the air.
“The men were calling him Klawn Karn, but … they’ve stopped now,” the twalif said, taking his helmet off.
Rime gritted his teeth. “Why hasn’t anyone seen to his wounds? Dressed them?”
“We’re out of supplies, Rime-fadri. We could have sent for more, but by the time the message got there, we’d have been halfway home.”
“Mannfalla’s not without its means, twalif. There’s enough armor for everyone! No man should die because he’s ill-equipped.”
The twalif dropped his helmet and opened a supply basket nearby. He pulled out a set of leather armor and held it up in front of Rime. “I can promise you, Rime-fadri, no man goes naked here.”
The leather he was holding up was hanging together by a thread. Torn to shreds across the chest. Rime grabbed the armor and threw it back in the basket. But he knew the others had seen it. And probably long before he arrived. There was no point trying to hide it from them.
Rime stepped closer to the twalif. “Did you see them?”
“No, Rime-fadri, a party of twelve went out alone. Karn here was the only one who came back.”
“Where? Where did this happen?” Rime tried to keep his voice steady. The men glanced at them. They were slow to take off their armor, hoping to catch some of what was being said. Some had found other excuses to listen in. Sorting tent poles, blankets, and pots into piles.
What was he to tell them? That this wasn’t what they thought? That everything would be okay?
Give them strength. That’s your job. Give them hope.
“Twalif, where? Give me a location!”
“Two days north of here, on the eastern side of Lake Stilla.”
Rime closed his eyes. Two days. The blind, two days from Mannfalla.
“Get your men home, twalif. I’ll take Kolkagga and set out at once. And get someone to see to Karn.”
“Yes, Rime-fadri.”
Rime left them. Men whispered as he went, and he found himself wishing it were about women and ale, not him.
Nine black shadows ran silently through the forest. They kept to the outskirts of Blindból, where the wind blew in from Midtyms. They ran without stopping, until darkness fell. Then they slept in shifts for a short while before continuing. They made do without fire, using the Might to keep warm instead.
Rime’s feet felt heavy. Fear of what they might find was holding him back. His instincts told him it was the deadborn, but he hoped he was wrong. Hirka had left Ym because of the blind. Because both she and Hlosnian believed she was the reason the blind were there. And they’d been right. The dead stones bore witness to that.
Perhaps these were just stragglers. Deadborn who had been trapped here. But it seemed unlikely that they’d have kept to themselves for six months only to start killing again.
No. If they were here, they had to have come through the stones recently. Meaning Hirka had left for no reason. The thought was like poison in Rime’s veins, impairing his judgement. At least he could see Svarteld from the corner of his eye. Having the master along increased the odds of everyone coming back from Lake Stilla alive.
They sta
yed together the entire way, approaching the area from the south. The view was the same in every direction, with silver birch trees sticking straight up out of the snow. It made it seem like they weren’t making any progress whatsoever.
Up ahead, Rime saw one of the others raise his hand. He’d spotted something.
They all dropped down and crawled across the snow between the trees, heading for a ledge jutting out over the water. The lake lay black beneath them, sickle-shaped and covered with a thin layer of ice. Eleven bodies lay lifeless nearby. The wind swept snow over them, across the ice, and between the trees, where it settled in drifts.
The bodies were out in the open. Exposed. The other soldiers hadn’t even looked for them. They’d taken one look at Karn and gotten out of there. No army wanted to fight the blind.
Svarteld signaled that they should spread out. They swept the area. But there was no one else there. They were alone with the dead. Rime got up and made his way down the slope. A line of silent shadows followed him.
He pulled down his mask and stopped next to the body of a thickset man lying on his side. His hair had frozen in waves down his chest. Rime turned him onto his back. He was cold, but not frozen solid. None of the others were either. There were no traces of blood on the ground. And none of them seemed to have sustained mortal wounds. What had happened here?
Two of them were women. Archers. They still had their bows on their backs. Only one of the dead had drawn his sword. Rime felt the cold seep under his skin. Whatever had happened, these soldiers had been taken completely by surprise.
He heard someone whisper behind him. “What killed them?”
“Fear,” another said.
Rime turned toward them. “Fear doesn’t kill anyone.”
The others didn’t reply. Rime looked at the dead. They’d had no idea what they were up against. They might as well have been fighting with their eyes closed. Was that the fate of Mannfalla? To die in ignorance? Laboring under a delusion?
The Rot Page 10
