“It’s safe,” he said. He noticed the blood on the ground from Amyl, but it seemed too much. There was a boot print, one too small for his foot. The tracks went off to the east and Hymen followed them until they disappeared. Mysterious shadow person? But he was here before we climbed the tree. Of course, Hyman was a bit distracted, so the Shadow figure could have driven off the ridge cat. Lured it way, maybe.
“A little help,” Amyl called from the tree, snapping Hyman’s attention back.
“Where did you go?” Hyman asked he empty field, not getting any response, or expecting one, and then returned to the tree to help Amyl.
Going down took longer than going up. Twice Amyl almost slipped on his own blood and would have toppled off if not for Hyman. Amyl stripped off his breeches, hissing at the pain. Four gouges flayed the skin. They found some moss growing on the tree and, following Amyl’s instruction, used it to pack the wound. Hyman tore the legging off and wrapped the wound. Picking up a fallen branch, he broke it, giving to Amyl to use as a crutch.
“Don’t let what happened to Gillard be my fate,” he whispered to Hyman. “Otherwise ‘Mona would kill me twice.” Then he smiled, raising his voice. “It’s only a scratch. I’ll live.”
Frey and Nathanael looked at him, neither saying a word.
“We’ll get you home,” Hyman said, “I’ll do my damnedest to get you there.”
They found Timonen, or what remained of him, less than ten yards into the meadow. Black flies buzzed around the red remains of the corpse, broken bones sticking out of torn flesh. No one said anything. Nathanael made it a couple of steps before vomiting. Hyman felt numb. In the end, they would all end up lumps of flesh with flies buzzing around.
“Explains where the ridge cat got off to,” Frey said and began whetting his stone into a sharper point.
Amyl kept up with the three of them as best he could. The meadow was mostly flat, but the grass was high and hidden stones tripped him up. The herbalist didn’t complain. The only one who did was Nathanael who groaned he was hungry.
“Plenty of grass to eat,” Frey responded.
They found a clearing by a small brook. Amyl dropped next to it and began to drink.
“Is it safe?” Hyman asked.
“Safer than dying of dehydration,” Amyl said, water dripping from his chin.
They all drank. Hyman unwrapped Amyl’s wound. It had a slight, putrid odor. Like meat that had soured. The wound was still wet and runny. Hyman washed the rags off in the stream and then wrapped them around Amyl’s leg.
“Too much walking,” Amyl said. “Probably won’t heal right until I am home in front of a warm fire.”
“We’ll get you there,” Hyman said.
They slept out in the open, thirst sated, but stomachs rumbling. There was no food or anything edible. Huddled together against the cold, Hyman felt warmth pour from Amyl and the herbalist began to sweat, though he shivered, teeth chattering. Hyman didn’t sleep at all, listening to the snores and grumbles. Probably won’t sleep again until I get home.
The next day was warmer. They followed the brook until it twisted west. They took another drink, knowing it could be their last for several days. Hyman guessed two more long slogs, unless something else slowed them.
That something else was Amyl. He fell a few times and Hyman helped him along. The heat from his skin was like standing next to a small fire. The smell from his leg wasn’t any better.
“I think I’ve reached the end of my journey,” Amyl said.
“Not yet,” Hyman grunted, supporting his friend. “Mona is waiting for you, remember.”
“Yeah. Don’t want to disappoint her,” Amyl said and gave a weak chuckle.
“No, then she will want to kill me.”
Another moon rose, another day without food and water. Nathanael withdrew into himself, twisting the grass around in his fingers while Frey continued to scrape the stone against the other. Amyl slept fitfully, mumbling a name.
“Have you lost anyone close to you in the war?” Nathanael asked.
“My father,” Hyman said, rubbing his sore calves. “Friends.”
“What about you, Frey?”
“No one worth shedding a tear over,” Frey said. “We all die in the end. What we do to fill up the time in-between, that’s important. Crying over the dead won’t bring them back.”
“Well, both of my parents and a brother died last season,” Nathanael said and tossed aside his piece of grass. “I cried, I’m not ashamed to say, enough to fill the moon and then some. Why I decided to do something about it by joining the silent men.”
“No shame in crying,” Hyman said. “It only proves you’re human.”
“I don’t want to bring shame to them by dying before I kill the soldiers who attacked my village.”
“Killing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Hyman said. “Like Frey said, nothing can bring them back. Taking another man’s, or woman’s, life doesn’t fill the empty hole left by your loved ones.”
“It sure does feel good trying,” Frey said. “Almost as good as fucking a woman.”
“So you said,” Nathanael said.
“I stand by it, kid.” Frey winked and set his sharpened stone aside. He lay down, arms crossed under his head. “After you’ve experienced both, let me know. Then we can talk about man stuff. Until then, I’m going to get some sleep.”
Hyman planned on staying up again, to watch over Amyl. He got to thinking about Glorian. He could almost hear her voice singing their daughter to sleep. An old song, one his mother used to sing, about mountains floating in the clouds and cities made of gold that shimmered in the sun. The Creator watching over them, fatherly hands gathering them up and carrying them to the city in the mountains floating in the sky. Light and peaceful, to lay down by cool waters and eat at a bountiful table. Hyman could almost taste it in her words.
“That was beautiful,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the back of her neck.
Glorian moaned, lacing her fingers through his.
“It’s a sad song,” she said.
“How?”
“It is the place my mother said where our souls go when we die,” Glorian said. “I don’t want to go anywhere without my loves.”
“Well,” Hyman said, and held her tightly against him. “I won’t let you die. We’ll live forever.”
“How will you do that?”
“I’ll find a way,” Hyman said, leading her to their bed, “I will climb the tallest mountain for you.”
Then he woke up. The first light broke through the gray clouds. Amyl had stopped mumbling.
“You ready for me to—” Hyman froze, staring at the bloody pulp where Amyl’s face had once been. Next to the smashed head, covered in dried gore and bits of hair was a large stone. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
Hyman jumped to his feet, head swiveling from Nathanael to Frey. They were starting to wake, or pretend to at least.
“Who the fuck did this?” Hyman shouted, voice raspy and throat burning like he swallowed a sword.
“Oh shit!” Nathanael shouted and scuttled away. “Is he—”
“Sure looks dead to me,” Frey said, stretching. “Head all smashed in, I guess we can rule out suicide. I think there’s an easier way to kill a man than bash his face in with a rock, kid. Got to be subtler, like with the mushrooms. That was a nice touch.”
“Fuck you! It wasn’t me!” Nathanael wobbled to his feet. “I’m not a murderer or rapist like some.”
“Watch your tongue, kid, else I’ll remove it so you can see it squirm around in the dirt.” Frey pointed his makeshift blade at Nathanael. “I sure as hell didn’t kill him. Was sleeping here the whole night. See my mark in the grass?”
“You’re always going on about being slowed and how its better to die than be a burden,” Nathanael said.
“Yeah, but not like that,” Frey said. “That’s messy.”
“Stop! Both of you!” Hyman squeezed his fingers into hi
s eyes. A heavy pain was setting up shop and he couldn’t stand any more noise. “One of you did it, and I know one has more reason than the other.”
Frey narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“That you killed Gillard and Amyl,” Hyman said.
“Why don’t you include Timonen and the others,” Frey said. “While we’re at it, say I called down the storms and ridge cats to kill everyone. I’m fucking Nazglum in disguise!”
“You could never abide weakness,” Hyman said. “Why you hurt the woman Finch before you killed her. She made you feel small, weak, and you wanted to take that back from her, from everyone who got in your way.”
“Why didn’t I kill you? Smash your head in while you slept?”
“I don’t know,” Hyman said, tossing his arms up. “Maybe I’m your witness to shit, like some village storyteller.”
“Yeah, well, the boy gets to witness me kicking the shit out of you.”
Frey moved quick for a man who just woke up. He dropped his stone-crafted blade, instead throwing a fist aimed at Hyman’s ribs. Hyman twisted away, grabbing at Frey’s arm. He missed and Frey kicked him above the knee cap. Pain ran though him like a snake coiling his leg. Frey was on him, sweeping an overhead blow that glanced off Hyman’s temple, striking his collar bone. Hyman caught the ground and rolled away from another blow. Hyman kicked out, connecting a glancing strike. Frey caught his leg and dragged him closer. Then he dropped to his knees, pinning Hyman’s arms beneath his knees. Fingers wrapped around Hyman’s throat. Hot, stinking breath flooded Hyman’s face for a moment, and then cut off his breath.
“I didn’t kill them,” Frey said, fingers squeezing Hyman’s throat. They tightened and then the pressure relinquished. Hyman gulped in air, hot in his bruised throat. “I’m not a murderer. I only kill those bitches. They took everything from me. Every—”
Frey made a strangled noise and blood splattered Hyman’s face. Eyes widened, his hands left Hyman’s throat and reached behind. Nathanael stood there, arm extended, twisting the stone through the back of neck. Frey tried to turn, but Nathanael held him in place, like working a marionette. More blood spilled from Frey’s lips, bubbling as he took his last gasps of air. Then he fell over, freeing Hyman.
Nathanael held the stone-knife, blood dripping from it. He stared at it, his face reverting to a small boy, who seemed surprised he knocked over his wooden blocks. He was distant, almost calculating, weighing other emotions and allowing nothing except surprise to show.
“Nathanael,” Hyman said the name quietly. The boy’s eyes shifted to him and he held up the stone knife. Hyman tensed to move, in case the boy decided to lunge at him. “Set it down, Nathanael.”
Nathanael seemed to consider the knife.
“Drop it,” Hyman said, using more force.
Nathanael nodded and bent, setting the stone knife in the grass.
“Back away.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Nathanael said, stepping back. “He was…I tried to…”
Hyman relaxed a little, his heart still racing over the series of violent events. He sat up and moved slowly, picking up the stone knife. It was still tacky, covered in Frey’s blood. Does this mean he killed Amyl and Gillard? Frey wanted Hyman to know he didn’t kill the men, then that left Nathanael. The boy acts like he never killed. Though, it could be an act.
“Is he dead?” Nathanael asked, reaching out to Frey, but not moving any closer.
“Yes,” Hyman said and whipped the knife across the grass, cleaning way as much of the gore as he could. “You sent him to the Creator’s embrace.”
Nathanael broke down and cried.
Hyman let him, walking away from two more dead companions. Two of twenty thousand remaining. The last leaves yet to fall.
Hyman still hadn’t decided who he trusted: the boy or Frey? With the one dead and the other his last travel companion, Hyman decided he wouldn’t take his eye off the boy until they got back home. Then the boy could go back to the Silent Men and Hyman would put all of this death and murder behind him. The meadow changed into more hills and the hills became a valley. They walked it in silence, stopping to forge berries and other fruit, some nuts that were hard to break open until Hyman used the stone knife. At night, he remained awake, holding the knife in his lap, watching the boy. Nathanael moaned and shifted restlessly in his sleep. He thrashed and kicked, crying out a name Hyman didn’t catch in the boy’s frightening shriek.
Hyman watched the boy wrestle with his demons.
The weight of the conscience is heavier at night.
One night he thought he heard the ripple of wind through a cloak. When he looked up, a shadow moved beneath the moonlight. It made no sound and kept a distance. A figment of his sleep deprived mind. Such omens were those of death, but Hyman believed he had seen enough death and this was the afterbirth still clinging to him.
On their last morning before they would cross the river and enter his village fields, Nathanael spoke.
“I have nowhere to go?”
“Back to the Silent Men,” Hyman said.
“And tell them what?”
“You are the lone survivor of the flooded valley.” Hyman walked on so the boy couldn’t respond. All he wanted was to hold Glorian, the feel of her substance against him. Everything else could burn.
They crossed the bridge over the river as dusk settled in. A renewed vigor lightened his step and he walked faster. Nathanael complained about not being able to keep up. Hyman was close to home, he could almost taste the honeysuckle growing against his home. Inside, Glorian and Hyrian would be asleep. He’d wake Glorian up first, and then long after, Hyrian. They would eat an early breakfast and spend time together, doing nothing for as long as he could stand it.
After I have a soak in hot water.
It was a nice fantasy that ended when he reached the edges of the fields and saw smoke rising from houses. At a distance, the smoke appeared to be from chimneys, though the night was warm. As he got closer, he saw the fields were churned up and the homes that should have filled the edges were smoking ruins.
“Blessed Creator,” Hyman said.
“What happened here?” Nathanael asked.
Hyman drew the stone knife. His heart sank into his gut. Not a single home remained intact. He sprinted through the fields, sharp stones biting into his heels. He ignored the pain, running for his house.
“Glorian!”
His own voice echoed back, mocking him by how shrill it sounded.
“No, no, no!”
Hyman fell to his knees in front of the charred remains where his house once stood. He crawled across the blackened grass, over the ash, cold touch, though he would have run through it even if it meant melting away his flesh.
Keep climbing. Come back to me, Glorian’s voice so strong, so clear. He had never felt lower in his life, like he had fallen from the tree and kept falling.
Their bodies were under a collapsed piece of roof, burnt beyond recognition. The flesh had melted off, the porcelain skin, button nose and freckles gone. A shade in his memory. He held the small skeletal remains of his daughter, her hand fused against her mother’s. In the instant before the fire consumed them, they must have reached out for comfort.
The voice led me here. Brought me home. Why are they dead?
“It doesn’t make sense.” Hyman felt his chest cinch and sobbed.
He laid Hyrain beside her mother and took out the stone knife. The edge was sharp against the inside of his wrist. A cool breeze blew ashes around him. Hyman felt a presence. The stench of rotting flesh wrapped putrid hands over his nose and mouth. Death had found him. The knife trembled and he imagined drawing it down the length of his arm, releasing his blood to the thirsty ask.
“You don’t have to do that,” the voice said, old and full of power, “to be united again.”
The voice that guided him away from a horrific demise, to bring him home to witness the destruction of everything he held dear.
�
�Leave me the fuck alone and let me die in peace.” Blood beaded around the tip of the stone knife
“A life you may have from the ashes,” the Shadow figure said.
Hyman lifted the knife from his skin.
“Are you saying I could have them back?” His heart quickened and he turned to the figure looming over him. Grey, grave cowl was tilted down, but any face was lost in the dark beyond. The corpse stench was strong as the figure exhaled a single word.
“One.”
Hyman’s shoulder slumped. One. A single piece of his shattered being returned, but not whole.
“Do I get to choose.”
“No.”
He shivered as the cold knowledge sank into his bones. It felt wrong, tearing apart the natural order as designed by the Creator. Life begat life and what was dead stayed dead. Climb. Come back to me.
“Did you do this to them?” Hyman’s muscles tensed waiting for the response. He would drive the stone through the front of the cowl, damn the consequence.
“No.”
“But you killed Gilliard and Amyl.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The Shadow figure gave no response. It seemed evident to Hyman. The others died to bring him home. A trail of blood and corpses. He even guessed the price the Shadow figure would ask in return for either his wife and his daughter, but he asked it anyway.
“What do you want?”
“Blood for blood, flesh for flesh.”
A trade. One life for another.
“Hyman!” Nathanael shouted from a distance.
The boy was like a son. A son he could let live. Allow the natural course to continue unimpeded. Glorian dead. Hyrian dead. Nathanael alive until he wasn’t. Easy to let it continue, but he had given up too much, climbed to high too just let it all go in ashes.
“Here,” Hyman replied, his throat dry and sore. “Over here.”
Blackest Spells Page 8
