The Name of Death

by Joshua Robertson

  Chapter 3

  Drada had to trust Wrylyc when he woke her to say morning had come. She had not slept well, finding herself waking regularly to keep a watchful eye on her new companions. Siegfeld and Farthr, however, had taken the chance to sleep when they could apart from when they had taken the night watch.

  For the course of the morning, mists in the Dyndaer swirled through the tall woods, speaking of impending misfortune. The three of them had little choice but to rely on Wrylyc in guiding them to Shayol Domier.

  “Not that way!” Wrylyc squealed, grabbing Drada’s right leg and pulling her back. “That will lead you straight into the bog. Only death that way.”

  Drada ogled at the moss and grime swirling inches from her feet and stretching into the darkness. The swamp held as many concentrated trees as the solid ground. “Wrylyc,” Drada slurred in the thick air, pushing him away. “If this is where death resides, then here I must go. I am looking for death, remember?”

  Wrylyc shook his head, “Not this death. You would sink to the depths without a chance to swallow your coin.” The Kras tugged at her hand, his usual smile faded. “Come. We are almost to the ruins. Only a bit further.”

  Drada studied the half-sized man, who took the hint and let go of her fingers. Spinning away, he milled onward through the vines that clouded the forest ahead. He weaved in and out of the close-knit brush like they had been carved for his passing. Seigfeld trailed immediately behind, hacking at the plants with his sword.

  Drada watched the human with distrust. Seigfeld had been exceptionally quiet this morning, barely looking in her direction—at least, when he knew she was aware of him. As of now, she could not help but notice the human’s blue eyes widening with awe of the Kras.

  Yet he still said nothing.

  Farthr sidestepped from his place in line and waylaid her. His large eyes rested on the bog that gurgled behind her. “I will follow you,” the centaur said.

  Drada nodded. She had come to realize last night she trusted the centaur more than the human, and had no concern having the beast guard her back. She moved onto the makeshift path behind Seigfeld.

  After only a few steps, she heard a gelatinous slosh and splash from the swamp.

  She spun on her heel to see a beast the size of Wrylyc abruptly draped over the Svet’s back as though it meant to ride the centaur. Time stopped for a moment as the thing stirred awkwardly on the Farthr’s posterior.

  The creature’s body was yellowish and molded with wide pinkish eyes. Its ears were floppy and leathery on either side of its bald head, hanging just below its cheeks. Unexpectedly, screeching and hissing, the monstrosity raised two hands full of clawed fingernails, sharper than knives, and jammed them through the hide of the Svet.

  As the nails pierced into Farthr’s flesh, he roared, swinging back with his crossbow and striking the beast across its gruesome face. The creature gurgled but hung on tightly in the eddying mane of the centaur’s dark locks. Farthr stomped around in circles reaching for the small beast, finding no way to loosen it from his back.

  “Farthr,” Drada cried, unfastening her hooked blade from her belt. Moving within distance, she swung her blade, cutting open the creature’s back. Blood seeped, but the blade seemed to have no effect on its grip on Farthr. She swung again to slice open its arm, and again, the monster did not loosen its grip.

  Fathr suddenly lurched toward the bog.

  “What is it?” she screamed.

  “You mustn’t go forward,” Wrylyc squawked from behind Seigfeld, rocking his head back and forth to catch sight of the scene, “The myling aims to drown you in the swamp!”

  Seigfeld pushed pass Drada, jerking his sovnya free. “Step aside.” Using the weapon as a polearm, he stabbed the curved blade into the meaty tissue of the myling. Seigfeld groaned as he tried to pry the monster off his friend.

  The myling screeched, wrestling against the strength of the human. Farthr had stopped spinning, strained by the myling’s grip, its claws deep within his muscles. His hindquarters stumbled into the soggy, blackened waters of the bog. Drada knew if Farthr lost his balance they would lose him to the yellowish beast.

  The Svet desperately swung at the monster, hitting it in the head. The myling rocked sideways with the impact, but held firm.

  In haste, Drada took the opportunity sliding across the muck to attack again. She hacked her blade through the spindly arm of the beast in a single blow, cleaving the limb just above the elbow. The myling’s screech echoed through the tall woods, finally releasing its grasp and falling to the murky flooring.

  Siegfeld jerked the monster from Farthr’s back with his long weapon, gripping the wooden shaft. His muscles quaked under the surprising, but evident, weight. Unable to keep the beast suspended in the air, he slammed the myling to the ground and pushed the blade the rest of the way through its molded bulk.

  The myling twisted against the sovnya, blood flowing over its skin. Yellow chunks of flesh drooped from the myling’s body beneath the crimson flow.

  “Kill it!” Wrylyc bounced, watching the myling twitch in the muck.

  Drada smashed the myling’s head with her sword, ending the struggle.

  “Lucky to have found company on your journey, Drada,” Seigfeld frowned, jerking his weapon free from the carcass. “I suspect you would already be dead without the Kras’s guidance, my blade, or Farthr’s ass.”

  “Excuse me?” Drada’s jaw fell from behind her veil. The confrontation came unaware to her. Though she suspected the human bid to insult her for her weighted words last night. “You underestimate me.”

  “I think not.” Seigfeld twitched his nose like he was ridding it of a foul smell. “In a single day, you have lost your war-brother, have been saved from the simargl’s bite, and now, a myling’s embrace. I can see why you were sent to find the name of death.”

  Drada tensed, her eyes locking on the blood dripping from the edge of her sword. The drops fell to the pool of blood flooding from the myling’s body, mixing with the grime and mud of the forest flooring.

  Seigfeld wiped his blade clean. “You appear to have an unsettled pact with death.”

  Farthr grated his teeth. “Leave her alone, Seigfeld. We have our duty and she has hers.”

  “Hold your tongue, Farthr,” Seigfeld barked through thin lips. “You have been mangled, and the blame can only fall to this ungainly woman. You will not find glory dying for the cursed.”

  “I will live,” Farthr said. The blood oozing from his punctured flesh slowed from the gaping holes.

  Drada spoke over him, determined to keep her honor and not cut the human down where he stood. “I am not cursed.”

  “Bah! Yet you search for the name of death.” The human clutched his sovnya, and hung over Drada with a fierce gaze. “We will find out soon enough. I trust if the gloom hanging over Shayol Domier is true, we will know your nature soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?” Drada paused, looking at Seigfeld and then Farthr. “I thought you sought demons. What exactly do you expect to find at the ruins?”

  “More than demons really. We also seek death,” Farthr answered.

  “Farthr,” Seigfeld warned, casting a wary eye on his companion.

  The Svet did not heed the warning. “Ivarr Gauthus, the master of the Crimson Sun, acts on the order of Patrician Falmagon Sej of the Kadari, and we do as we are bid.” Farthr winced, his ears twitching beneath his mane. “We suspect the old-dark is seeping into the world of the living.”

  Drada hooked her sword on her belt. “I don’t know what the old-dark means.”

  Wrylyc’s hands were shaking while he offered his wisdom. “Old gods before time was recorded. The ancient gods supposedly know us better than we know ourselves, and were said to be death themselves. Some stories have referred to the eight of them as the Likhyi. Their names cannot be pronounced in any modern tongue, but when translated they mirror the eight elements of this world: stone, sky, fire, sea, void, primal, profane, and sac
red.”

  Drada’s heart thudded in her chest. “Is this the name of death? The Likhyi?” The answer to her question had been sitting in the minds of her companions all this time, and yet they had said nothing.

  Seigfeld snorted. “One way to find out.”

  Wrylyc waggled his head, and suddenly grinned. “I agree. If the two of you aren’t going to kill each other, we should make haste. Shayol Domier is near.”