by Ember Lane
“Who are you?” Merl asked, but he received no reply.
Cold bit at him, his sailcloth garb sodden. Merl equipped his armor and was instantly dried off. He searched his inventory for something useful—something he could make light or heat with—but came up empty and cursed his stupidity.
Merl reached out, touching his savior, feeling a featureless face and breathing a huge sigh of relief.
“Quaiyl! Why the heck can’t you talk? Can you make light? A fire?”
Gloomy Joe shook his soaked coat out, spraying Merl. If Quaiyl said anything, it was lost to the roar of the waterfall, but Merl doubted there had been any response anyway. He was no longer in immediate danger, so why should the construct help?
“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered, disappointed, anyhow, and slumped, his shoulders nearly sagging to the floor. “I hate this land,” he growled. “Frank!” he screamed, but it was lost to the waterfall’s roar.
He smashed the flat of his fist onto the rock.
“Okay.” Merl decided that feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to cut it. He reached around, touching a rock and running his hands over it, then turning and sitting. “Okay. Old Merl would panic here. New Merl is also panicking, but let’s think this through. We got us absolutely nothing in my copper band apart from two swords, a cleaver, and my sailcloth clothes. Quaiyl, you appear unable or unwilling to produce a light; therefore, we walk in the dark. Only thing fer it. Were gonna have t’make some leashes.”
Merl took his sailcloth pants from his inventory and equipped his wakizashi. Fumbling in the dark, he made the best job possible of shredding a pant leg into two long cloth strands. He formed a simple noose with ease, well used to tying the knot, and slipped it over Gloomy Joe’s soaked head. Repeating the same with his strand, he looped it over his wrist and handed its end to the construct.
Quaiyl tugged, and Merl rose. “Right, Gloomy, Quaiyl, let’s see if we can get out of here.”
The darkness was complete. Merl stumbled and staggered, waiting for his eyes to pick up a hint of color, a trace of shading, but could make out nothing. For a while, Merl had the rush of the waterfall to keep him sane, but as that receded a new noise came, and that noise was as terrifying as the endless black. It was the sound of silence. Merl closed his eyes, opened them, closed them again, but it made no difference. He found that if he slammed his eyelids shut hard enough, stars would pop on his lids. He yearned for just a sliver of magic, a hint, enough to snap his fingers and create a meager spark.
“It’s okay, Gloomy, Quaiyl will get us out of it.”
He blindly fumbled around to pat Gloomy’s head, following the leash and realizing he was comforting himself rather than the dune dog. They walked slowly upward. Merl imagined horrors on either side—great drops, pits filled with sharp stalagmites waiting to spear them, and huge spiders lurking in the shadows, talons primed and ready. His stomach filled with fear. His resolve was held in place only by clenched teeth and a closed throat. He wanted to vomit, to throw up all the water he’d swallowed. More than anything, he wanted to weep.
But he thought of his mother, of Soorafell, who had fought for his bastard father against the damnable Daemon Mercer. Where would she have found the courage when all seemed black? He imagined her face looking down at him, not as he thought he remembered it from his birth, but as was on the carving on her sarcophagus, now fleshed and beautiful. How did she shine when night was all about and evil was abroad?
He imagined her clad in shining steel, standing upon a ridge and battling Daemon Mercer’s army. He pictured her slaughtering ranks of them before succumbing after a glorious battle. But even as she knelt, the life seeping from her, Merl understood there was nothing glorious about battle—about what she did. Wherever Soorafell had died, she’d fallen alone, without him, without the damnable Arthur14579. Then a thought came to him. A bolt of lightning, a flash within dark thoughts, and he gasped with sudden realization. The seer had forfeited his eyes for her body. That had been Daemon Mercer’s price for letting him have her body. How he knew it, he had no clue, but he knew it as fact and was as sure of it as he was of his own truths.
For the first time, he pictured Daemon Mercer. He saw a powerful man. His skin was pocked like the stonecutter’s wall. Black hair, flecked gray, gray beard, flecked black. His cold blue eyes stared out from under heavy brows, furrowed by anger. Daemon Mercer, Merl’s enemy, a stranger in a strange new world. Whether or not it was truly Daemon Mercer’s likeness, it didn’t matter. Merl had something to focus on. He had a reason to crawl from the black.
Quaiyl stopped. A distant sound broke the silence. It was the clink of metal, not the groan of some primeval demon. Merl started to shout out, but before even the hint of his call had reached his lips, Quaiyl’s hand slapped across his face. The construct then tugged Merl to one side, guiding his head down and forcing him back. Merl had the feeling of rock surrounding him, its damp closeness hinted at through smell alone. The construct grabbed his sword hand, squeezing it.
“I understand,” Merl whispered, and drew it away. He equipped his katana.
In that moment, his fear suddenly fled to the edges of his consciousness, and his calm took over. The meditations he enjoyed with Frank poured to the forefront of his mind, and a serene feeling of competence filled him.
Merl understood he was ready.
The very slightest hint of gold licked distant rock. Its tongue then grew, reaching up before receding back, only to grow bigger the next time. The mutters of discontent came to him in much the same way, loud, then not so, then loud again. The sudden surge in stimuli buffeted his starving senses and they eagerly sought out more. Merl had to shy away from the soft light of the distant torch as it stung his eyes. But he yearned for light, like a starving man forcing his first hard bite down. The bitter stench of old sweat teased his nostrils at first, but then grew heavy. Merl stretched his neck. Quaiyl held him back, pressing the flat of his katana’s blade and pushing it down. Sooty light surrounded them, and a path was revealed, spreading away to either side of Merl and Gloomy’s refuge. Quaiyl pointed over it.
The torch’s glow grew brighter in jerking steps, lighting up a chamber packed with strewn rock that had fallen from its crazed and domed ceiling. As quick as a flash, Quaiyl leapt up and crossed the small path, then crouched behind a mound of rubble.
“You see summit?” a man’s voice broke the thin silence.
“I see everythin’ in this damnable pit, Henric, an’ yet I see nothin’ but damnable shadows. This ain’t soldierin’, I’m tellin’ you. What that bloody freak expects us t’find down ‘ere other than some bastard monster, I’ll never know.”
“Mind yer mouth, Coric. That bloody freak, as you call ‘im, can read yer bonce.” Henric rolled a great gob of saliva from the pit of his stomach spat it on the rock.
“Well if he can see inside my noggin, I’m doomed anyhow, coz I just see my blade sliding across his mangy neck an’ I watch the bastard’s black blood spewing out down his raggedy robes. Why don’t he send the others down ‘ere, eh? Answer me that.” Henric then rolled his own phlegm and spewed it out.
“Styxriders? Down ‘ere? Never fit a jessop down ‘ere and them pomped up sods won’y walk nowhere. Always the same. Dreadnail, dreadnaught, dormerbeast or styxrider. When tha work gets messy, they turn to Daemon Mercer’s finest through an’ through.”
“Aye,” said Henric. “Aye. But tell me what the point of patrollin’ the land’s guts is? Tell me that, why don’t you?”
Merl snatched a peek. The two soldiers were ambling toward them in no particular hurry. He rested his head back against cold rock. The simplest thing to do would be to conjure some guardians and take Daemon Mercer’s men out. He glanced at the ever impassive Quaiyl, barely lit by borrowed flame, and wondered what Frank would do. If Frank used his magic, would the dreadnail feel it, or whatever this dormerbeast was? Could the beast read his mind? Merl nodded to Quaiyl, and for an instant, thought The Origin had no
dded back.
They waited. Merl’s gut knotted. His breaths came hard as he lost its simple rhythm. Pulling his feet in, he slid up the rock and came to a crouch. The dull chink of rusted chainmail told of Henric and Coric’s close approach. The stench of their cold sweat grew headier. Merl mouthed a couple of words of vengeance, and then sprang out.
Henric screamed, and his eyes widened in panic. Coric jumped back, fumbling at his sword and dropping his torch. Merl hesitated for a tap, expecting a battle but finding two terrified men. His katana swept its deadly arc without Merl even asking and thumped into Henric’s neck, but Daemon Mercer’s man’s chainmail absorbed the blow. Stunned by the blow, Henric’s legs wobbled and he stumbled aside. The soldier reached out and leant on a boulder. The stench of his evacuated guts filled the air. Quaiyl leapt past them both, diving at Coric and taking the still-fumbling soldier in the stomach. A sickening crunch, like stamping on a lettuce cobb, signaled Coric’s twisted neck and his end. A dazed and confused Henric dropped his torch and finally tried to draw his sword. Merl pulled his katana back and stabbed it forward on instinct. It breached Henric’s mail without so much as a jerk, the curve of its blade guiding its journey up into Henric’s lungs. With his surprise complete, Henric belched dark blood and his knees final gave way. Merl pulled his katana out as the shocked soldier knelt, then pitched forward and ate rock.
Quaiyl handed Merl one of the flaming torches, but the truth of it was, he didn’t want to see the corpses. Vengeance, it seemed, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. These weren’t zombays being put out of their misery. These were men. Daemon Mercer’s men, he reminded himself, but it helped little. He scrambled after Quaiyl, who was headed along the path, and stepped over Coric, whose eyes were wide and lifeless. Daemon Mercer’s finest, alright.
Curiously, now Merl had a torch, now he had light he’d previously yearned for, he felt more exposed than ever. Fresh horrors lurked behind boulders, up in the cavern’s roof, and farther along the path where it passed into another hewn tunnel. He closed on Quaiyl, handed him the ends of the sailcloth leash, grabbed Gloomy Joe, and reluctantly doused the flame. His eyelids glowed pink as he blinked and squeezed them, rinsing the memory of light away along with Henric’s surprise and Coric’s eyes. Merl only felt safe when all returned to black. Quaiyl immediately tugged at the leash, and they continued their slow and laborious trek.
It was black, but it was now a safe black.
Merl unequipped his katana and trailed his hand along the pocked wall, seeking some comfort from its sturdy presence. He wondered where the wisp was, his wisp, the one Frank had promised would come if he was ever lost. He’d never been more lost than he was now. The silence of their passage was soon broken again, though this time it was the gentle sound of folding water that told Merl it was a deeper channel than before. They slowed, edging forward before stopping.
Telltale gold brushed the edges of the tunnel. Quaiyl pressed himself against one wall. Merl followed suit, pulling Gloomy in with his leg. They crept forward, the light growing ever brighter, which signaled livelier flames and not the lonesome light of a single torch. The chink of a spoon on a tin bowl, the slurp of gulped water, and the moaning of Daemon Mercer’s finest.
“Where’s Coric?”
“Bastards ‘ave probably got lost.”
“Go call ‘em. Tell ‘em the slop’s done. Can’t be far, can they?”
“Shout? What about the bastard prince?”
“Prince? Pa!” A spit and a hiss. “Ya think they’ll be a bloody prince down ‘ere?”
Quaiyl waited. Beyond him, a small group of men huddled around a fire. Merl spied two but suspected there were more. A third revealed himself, sitting up. Quaiyl shifted his feet, readying himself to spring out. Not for the first time, Merl wished Quaiyl would say something, direct him, order him about, give him a clue of any sort--anything.
He equipped his katana as Quaiyl rushed out. Merl pelted forward, bringing his sword back and readying his swing. He wanted to shout, to scream his charge, but Quaiyl’s silent efficiency culled the bellow in Merl’s throat. Tin bowls clattered to the rock. Mugs hissed and steamed in the fire. Quaiyl barged into a soldier, the scabby bastard barely managed to stand. Another rose, sword glinting in the firelight. A third rolled over onto his knees, knife in hand. Merl brought his katana down on the one wielding the sword.
The man had set his feet well and he blocked the strike, which sent shivers up Merl’s sword arm. Drawing the katana back again, Merl dropped his elbow, took a step back, and used his katana as a guard. The soldier growled, spittle flying into Merl’s face.
“Why, you scrawny bastard, you’ll get yours now!” He charged Merl, shoving him, pressing the flat of the katana harmlessly between them and then shoving a stunned Merl away. The soldier swung his sword hand up with a vicious blow. A spray of blood and spit flew from Merl’s mouth as his head snapped backwards. Stunned, Merl staggered away, leaning forward and breathing heavily. The soldier grinned.
“Keep away, Fallstaff, this bastard’s mine.”
But Fallstaff was busy already. Quaiyl had dispatched one soldier and was now circling around the knifeman. Merl wiped his face on his sleeve and flicked his hair out of his eyes, hoping to clear the stars too. He waited, letting the bastard soldier come to him. The man’s face was ruddy with drink, his grin was filled with menace, but not teeth. Sweat plastered his long hair to his stubble-strewn cheeks.
“Prince are ya?” he said with a gout of rotten breath, then lurched forward.
Merl’s calm came then. He watched for his opening, drawing the lunging soldier on, skipping aside, and then bringing a sidestroke down. This time, he angled the attack slightly higher to avoid the man’s mail and caught him across his ear and cheek. It chopped off a great clump of greasy hair, the top of the bastard’s ear, and leaving his cheek hanging open. The man howled in rage rather than pain, and turned on the spot, holding his face together with one hand and bringing a great strike down with the other. Rather than block it, Merl steered the desperate hit to one side, equipped his wakizashi, and stabbed at the soldier’s exposed side. The spiteful little sword punctured the man’s chainmail with ease, piercing his liver and sliding into his gut.
“You’re dead!” the soldier growled, heaved a gut full of blood up, and backed away. “I’ll ‘ave you fer that,” he said, his stubble now dripping red and his eyes too wide for their sockets. He lunged again, but Merl just sidestepped and the soldier fell. He made to push himself up, but black blood had started pooling around his gut. The man smashed his hand against the rock floor in anger, shoving himself over and gasping for breath.
“Guess I’ll ‘ave t’give you that one,” he choked, then spewed a stream of blood. “Prince ya might be, but king you’ll never make.”
“I ain’t no prince,” Merl said, a mix of fire and horror filling his gut.
“Well, whatever, now, yer highness, do a soldier a solid an’ finish me. ‘Ave the bloody decency ta finish me.”
Merl glance at Quaiyl, who was standing between two broken soldiers.
The prone soldier belched another load of black blood. “Finish me, ya bastard. Don’t let that beast get in ma head and plant tha disease in me.”
“What disease?” Merl asked, but his voice sounded strange, cracked, like it wasn’t his.
“Jus’…”
A great groan erupted from downriver. Merl spun to look for its source.
“Finish me, boy. It comes.” There was true terror in the man’s eyes, but Merl couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to strike the defenceless man Quaiyl slid past him, grabbing the man’s head and twisting it, snapping his neck, and finally shoving his head away. Quaiyl tugged at Merl and pulled him toward he fire as the groaning noise died off and silence returned. Gloomy Joe licked at a discarded tin bowl, helping himself to leftover broth.
True battle wasn’t the glory Merl had pictured. No glory. No glistening armor. Just blood and an absence of hope.
Merl dithered. He desperately wanted Quaiyl’s advice, any advice at all. A boat was tethered to a rock and had two oars laying in its keel. It offered a way out but without a shadow of a doubt led to more of Daemon Mercer’s men. If he was reading their route correctly then this was where Quaiyl had been headed all along. The boat was the end of their path, and unless he took it they had nowhere else to go.
“The boat?” Merl asked again, though it wasn’t really a question. It was the only answer. He led Gloomy toward it, lifting him and throwing him in. “Take me to safety,” he commanded Quaiyl, as always, uncertain whether he could or not. Quaiyl untied the mooring rope, jumped in the boat and grabbed the oars. He turned the boat around and fought the flow to slow their speed and, Merl guessed, stop any nasty surprises hurtling toward them.
They left the slaughter behind, entering another subterranean tunnel that was so low they had to duck down to avoid scraping their heads on its roof. As soon as they were away from the cavern, the black of the underground returned. Merl had stowed three torches in his inventory, along with a strike he’d looted from the soldiers’ fire. He’d decided that darkness had served him well so far, especially since surprise had played a good part in each of their two victories.
Battle was gruesome. He had no other word for it. He’d always seen Daemon Mercer’s men as silent opponents, not folk that would spill part of their lives before they spilt their guts, and definitely not as folk who would talk to him as they lay bleeding out. The zombays had been easy—lifeless shells and nothing more. No, true battle was grizzly gore, and that was just something more he was going to have to get used to. Along with the title, Prince, it seemed, but he had no idea why they were calling him that, so he couldn’t dwell on it.
