The Name of Death

by Joshua Robertson

  Chapter 4

  The timber gates of Shayol Domier were remnants of what they had once been, withered away between the two teetering towers of flat stones. The rotted wood had become discolored and fragmented over time with one door dislodged from the wall, overrun by the forest foliage, and the other hanging ajar. Drada squinted into the heavy vapour coiling through the dilapidated buildings and scattered trees that had grown overtime, running her fingertips along the inner arch.

  The sticky mold was moist and smelled…sick.

  “Be wary of anything lurking about,” Farthr said, checking the bolt on his crossbow. “Far too many places to hide in a place like this.”

  “I will make us a torch for better light,” Seigfeld said. He grabbed a thick branch, and pulled flint and steel from his pocket.

  Drada turned from the human, eyeing the towers on either side of the gate. One had partially caved in on itself with dark green climbers spiralling up and over the top. The walls were six times higher than Drada, and the towers taller yet. “What happened here?”

  “Not far from here, twelve hundred years ago, the Ash Tree was protected by the Kadari from hordes of demonic Bukavac and an Eretik,” Wrylyc said, rocking on the end of his toes. “Shayol Domier was the Kadari’s main stronghold in Maharia.”

  “Eretik?” Drada echoed with wonder.

  “A meddler in dark magic,” Wrylyc explained. “My grandfather had said she had come back from the dead, terrorizing the living with her evil from Kalamaar to Maharia.”

  A wind too cold for summer brushed by them, sending a chill up Drada’s spine. She shivered, holding the veil across her helm so that it would not falter.

  “The battle with demons did take place here, but the rest is hogwash,” Siegfeld said with a snort, seemingly unaware of the breeze. He stood upright with the fiery branch in his hand. In his free hand, he held several more sticks to transfer the light when needed. “As I said, humans had not come to Maharia when this structure was built. Maybe the Uvil or the Stuhia, but not humans. Our kind had not yet ventured as far as the Dyndaer.”

  “You are mistaken,” Wrylyc said, pointing at a pile of collapsed stones across the courtyard. “That building once led to the Kras chambers underground where the slaves were held—where my grandfather was held. And—”

  “You are not convincing anyone with your stories, Kras,” Seigfeld said.

  Farthr grimaced with pain. “You are too closed minded, Seigfeld. The Kras know their history better than any human.”

  Drada rested her hand on her sword, interjecting before Seigfeld silenced the Svet. “Where do we go to find death? The fog only swells in the darkness.”

  Wrylyc scrunched his nose, peering ahead where the others could scarcely see. “Why don’t we go into the keep? It looks to be unbroken.”

  “I sense doom here that I have not felt since the Shade Fells,” Farthr said. His ears twitched, squinting to look through the dusky haze covering the ruin.

  Drada took the first step into the ruin, seeing the outline of the keep in the dim light. She unhooked her weapon from her belt, and pulled the shield from her back. “Be ready for whatever comes.” She advanced to the keep doors.

  Pulling the doors open, Drada was greeted with the sound of growling and gnashing of teeth. Though, she could see little in the darkness. Seigfeld, to her right, backed away several steps, while Farthr fired a bolt into the darkness ahead of them. A screech of pain resounded and then quickened footsteps raced toward them. Farthr bellowed again and fired another bolt. A thump sounded as something connected with the ground in a heap.

  “I thought you could not see in the dark,” Wrylyc said.

  Farthr set another bolt. “I could hear it.”

  “I cannot see anything,” Drada said. “What did you kill?”

  Seigfeld edged into the keep, holding his temporary torch with an outstretched hand. The glow glimmered over the dank earth. Sprawled out with one bolt in the side and another through the eye socket, was what appeared to be—at first glance—an oversized, hairless mutt. Grey wrinkled skin drooped from a thin body to an oversized head, where two goat-like horns cropped out from the skull.

  “A Dreka,” Wrylyc said. “Disgusting creatures. A single bite could take off your arm.”

  Drada peered at the mouth to see rows of teeth on the top and bottom gums. “Died easily enough.”

  “What is this?” Seigfeld asked, whipping the torch around to look at the entryway. A staircase led down with three pale brown columns on either side. At the top of the stairs sat a giant stone statue of a man with a long beard. Each fine hair was carved into the stone, but most impressive was the large hammer held in the sculpture’s hand. “Dahz?”

  A grin split across Wrylyc’s face, and Drada heard him giggle. “Yes. The Lightbringer, who rides across the expanse in his chariot, Mioengi, holding the Hammer of Righteousness, Mulafell.”

  “What is a statue of the White-Clad doing here? In the Dyndaer?” Seigfeld lit another stick to give more light, throwing the first to the ground. “This is a god of men, the Protector of Men.”

  “My people would not have built this,” Drada said.

  “Like I said, Shayol Domier is a stronghold built by men.” Wrylyc grinned. The Kras had difficulty keeping the look of satisfaction from his face.

  Drada watched Seigfeld mull over the magnificent statue, shaking his head with confusion. “It must be true,” he finally said.

  Again, a cold wind chilled Drada beneath her armor. A sense of darkness pulled at her momentarily before letting go, and in moments, the feeling was only a memory. She turned to gaze at the downward staircase. “We should go down there.”

  “I don’t know what we will find,” Wrylyc said. Drada realized his face was suddenly etched with fear. Yet he took the first step near the stairs.

  “Farthr,” Siegfeld ordered, “stay here and keep watch for anymore Dreka.” He glanced at the staircase from the corner of his eye. “You will not be able to squeeze down there anyhow.”

  Farthr hung his crossbow over the quiver of bolts hanging from his side. “I will make a fire. We could possibly camp for the evening.”

  Seigfeld frowned. “Make the fire so you may see better, but we will not stay here any longer than we must.”

  Drada followed Wrylyc and Seigfeld down a flight of stairs to another set of double wooden doors, heavy and well-fitted into their frame. On either side of the entrance hung faded tapestries of what appeared to be similar images of Dahz the Lightbringer.

  Seigfeld pulled open the doors and thrust his burning stick into the opening. A waft of dry air, laden with the smell of death stung Drada’s nostrils.

  “Oh, it stinks,” Wrylyc groaned, covering his hooked nose with both hands. “Something terrible.”

  “I don’t see anything moving,” Seigfeld said, taking a step opposite of the doors. The light flickered, barely illuminating the square room. The human hit his foot against the ground a few times, and concluded, “The ground is different in here.” He scraped his foot across the dusty flooring. “Red rock, by the looks of it. I wonder where they found red stone in the Dyndaer.”

  Drada gripped her sword hesitantly, searching the room with her eyes. She could see little in the darkness.

  Wrylyc said, “I see several doors.”

  Seigfeld pointed at the door across the room. “Follow me. We will start there.”

  A clang, like the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, resounded with Seigfeld’s next step, followed by a cry of pain from the human. He grabbed his leg as the small spear that cut through his thigh clinked against the wall at Drada’s left.

  “Don’t move,” the Kras cried.

  Drada held her breath, watching Seigfeld—already in motion—drop the torch and fall to his knee. The moment his knee struck the ground another clang sounded, and a second spear fired into his chest.

  Drada dropped her shield, snatched a hold of Seigfeld’s leather tunic, and yanked him
back out the doors, while Wrylyc grabbed her waist to hold her back.

  “Careful,” he said.

  “We are under attack,” she shouted. Drada rocked back as the darkness in the room above her rippled. A strange sensation Drada had never felt before trickled into her mind, like the slow drip of a rain drop from a leaf petal.

  Terror.

  She shook the thought away, refocusing on the unmoving shadows.

  “No!” Wrylyc cried in response, hearing Farthr scuffling beyond the stairs. “We triggered a trap. Hurry. Get him up the stairs.”