by Ari Marmell
“They're moving!”
Erik straightened. “Attacking?”
“Don't think so, sir. They're not coming in at a charge, and they're splitting up. I think they're moving to block the other roads.”
One hand on his chin, Erik nodded. It made sense; so long as they believed they were dealing with bandits, the soldiers of Kirol Syrreth had no reason to suspect that the path to the Brimstone Mountains was the only escape route the hostage-takers would consider.
A soft rumbling danced through the hostages, an indecipherable mishmash of whispers and sobs and sighs, from the moment they heard the patrol was moving. Erik slammed his foot down hard on the wooden planks, putting an abrupt stop to the sound.
“Shut up! All of you, just shut up!” He was raving now, his wide-eyed stare more than enough to convince his hostages and his companions both that he'd begun losing his grip on the situation. “You think they're coming for you? You think they give a damn about you? I told you, they don't! Whatever they decide to do, they'll just trample you down in the rush! Split your skulls if you get in the way! Nobody gives a damn about the lot of you! The soldiers out there don't, the rest of the army doesn't, and Morthûl sure as shit—”
“You're partially right, Erik.”
The young soldier's voice melted away, though his mouth continued to move. He spun wildly, seeking any possible source for that horrible voice. It was inhuman. It was cold, the winter winds outside given speech.
And standing as he was on the western side of the Brimstone Mountains, Erik had a horrible suspicion as to whose voice it might be. A wet stain began seeping down the inseam of his leggings.
“You…you know me?” It was, all told, a fairly stupid question, but the fact that he had enough presence of mind to string words together at all was little shy of miraculous.
“I know you well,” the disembodied voice taunted him. “Erik Kaleth, lieutenant. Officer in the armies of that warthog, Dororam. Fourth-generation career soldier, two sisters, one brother. Betrothed to a young woman back home who pretends ignorance of the whores you frequent, so that you in turn will not suspect what she's doing with said brother of yours. Shall I continue?”
Erik's throat and tongue produced only a faint gurgle.
“This creature was partly correct,” the voice said, and though there remained no visible sign of the speaker, everyone present knew that he had turned from the soldier to the huddled townsfolk. “Sending in my soldiers to crush these insects would indeed have endangered you all.” The invisible presence focused on Erik once more. “And no matter what propaganda Dororam and Theiolyn and their ilk choose to spread, I do not casually slaughter my own.
“You brought this on yourself, you pathetic fools. For you have left me no choice but to deal with you…”
The wooden floor bulged, the planks disgorging a swarm of twitching roaches and glistening beetles. They spouted upward in a geyser of thrashing legs and clacking mandibles. Soldiers and hostages shrieked in a single voice, united in terrified revulsion.
From the center of that horrid fountain rose a greater shape. Vermin poured from it in a living rain, revealing a worn yet regal robe, a silver crown, a dead and decaying figure that scowled with the one remaining half of its face.
“…personally,” Morthûl concluded, revealed in all his profane splendor. “I believe this is yours.” Casually, he tossed something at Erik's feet, where it landed with a sodden splat. It took a moment for the soldier to recognize that what he saw was three human hearts, partly melted and congealed into a single mass.
Erik had sent three men to sneak their way around the patrol….
Branden retched across the toes of his boots, and Dale had begun, ever so softly, to cry. And Erik—Erik raised his blade, screamed his defiance at the Charnel King of Kirol Syrreth, and attacked.
Branden never knew if it was an act of sheer desperation, or if his commanding officer had finally slipped the final bonds of reason. Nor did he know why the Dark Lord, master of a thousand spells, chose to meet that attack with his bare hands. Perhaps it was an amusing diversion; perhaps he simply didn't consider Erik to be worth any greater effort.
The Charnel King's skeletal hand slammed into Erik's chest before the sword could fall. Branden saw leather freeze and shatter, saw pink skin turn white, then blue, beneath those fleshless fingers. The Dark Lord flexed, driving fingertips of bone into his enemy, and the skin did not tear; it cracked, sending slivers of frozen skin and blood to clatter around Morthûl's feet.
Nobody breathed, as though all in the room were as dead as Morthûl himself.
Erik gasped but otherwise didn't move at all, paralyzed in a mockery of combat by the unending cold of unhallowed graves.
A huge wood-roach, seemingly undisturbed by the cold, poked its antennae from the cuff of the Dark Lord's sleeve. Then, seeing a new environment to explore, it quickly scuttled over the skeletal arm and into the gaping wound in Erik's chest.
Dale finally threw up.
Other insects followed the first. After a moment's pause, even shaking his sleeve to ensure that no other vermin cared to make the trip, the Charnel King pushed. Frozen flesh shattered; ribs snapped like twigs. Branden cringed, unable to conceive of such pain, and actually felt relief for his friend when Morthûl drew back, holding Erik's blackened heart in his hand.
But Erik wasn't dead.
The side of the Charnel King's face that still wore flesh creaked audibly as it curled in a smile. “You led these men.” He spoke almost affectionately in Erik's ear, though loudly enough for the others to hear. The profane yellow glow pulsed in rhythm with his words. “You will atone for your sins, Erik Kaleth, and theirs. Forever.”
With one final sob, his last act of free will, the undead thing that was Erik Kaleth marched outside to await the orders of his new master.
“All of my citizens,” Morthûl intoned solemnly, “may leave. Go to your homes, and do not emerge until tomorrow morning. Each of you will be compensated for the indignities you have suffered here today.”
With a shuffling but quite rapid pace, the townsfolk fled.
Erik's heart cupped casually in his right hand, Morthûl rounded on Branden and Dale. “Your fate is less fixed,” he said, his teeth dreadfully backlit by that horrid aura. “You are my enemy. You threatened my people. And you displayed a rather appalling lack of intelligence in going along with this idiotic scheme. But obedience and loyalty are virtues I admire, even when granted to foolish commanders and foolish kings.
“So I make you this offer. Cooperate. Answer my queries truthfully and I will allow you to go free. Refuse me, and serve your commander in death as you did in life.”
A moment, perhaps so they could mull it over, and then, “Why are you here?”
Either some last remnant of nationalism pierced Dale's veil of terror or, more probably, he was simply so overcome with terror that he couldn't think straight. “We—we just wanted to take the town!” he sobbed at the Charnel King. “You—you know why we're here! You got our demands. You—”
It was Morthûl's left hand this time, the digits partially clothed in that same not-quite-skin. A rotting thumb broke three of Dale's teeth and sank through the roof of his mouth. Even as the man spasmed, his voice emerging in a choked gurgle, two more fingers invaded his body, his eyeballs bursting beneath them like engorged pimples. From where he stood, Branden could see clearly enough to note several wriggling things fall from the Charnel King's hand to slither down Dale's throat.
He doubled over, vomiting again—and racked with guilt that his only conscious thought was Thank the gods Dale spoke first.
“I don't care for liars,” Morthûl said calmly. “Such lies invariably lead to a, ah, loss of face.” And with that, the Charnel King tightened his fist and yanked, breaking free the entire front of Dale's skull.
Despite the various substances that spilled from the gaping hole, the faceless thing called Dale caught its balance before it toppled and shuffled slowl
y through the door. The bloody face landed on the floor with a hollow clatter.
“One opportunity,” the Charnel King said, turning finally toward Branden, “and one only, to avoid the fate you have just witnessed. I am losing my patience. Why are you here?”
“We were scouting!” the soldier shouted, hysterical. “We needed to confirm that your armies were training, up north.”
“Confirm?” Morthûl asked, a new edge to his tone. “And where did Dororam get this information that he wished to ‘confirm’?”
“I don't know.” Then, as the Dark Lord's hand twitched, Branden dropped to his knees, sobbing. “I don't know, I swear I don't! Please, I wouldn't lie to you! Not here, not like this! Please…”
Morthûl nodded slowly. “I believe you. It appears we have a spy somewhere in our midst.” Slowly, clearly pondering, he began to turn away.
And then, as though he'd forgotten some bauble, perhaps his hat, the Charnel King suddenly stopped short and turned once more. “Oh, yes,” he said, his tone such that Branden almost expected him to slap himself in the head. “You.”
“M-me?”
“If I do release you, how do I know you'll not cause any further trouble in my lands?”
“I—I wouldn't!” Gods, I’m never coming anywhere near here again!
“No, probably not. You seem wise enough to learn from your lesson here today. Still, I must be certain. A brief test, then.”
Branden's heart fluttered wildly. Test?
“A test of your obedience, and your fear. This should do.” The soldier's eyes grew even wider and his stomach shriveled as Morthûl tossed Erik's blackened heart at Branden's feet.
“You may leave,” the Dark Lord said, “as soon as you've finished. Unless you'd prefer…” He snapped his leather fingers, and Dale's open skull appeared briefly in the window, as though he were merely some curious passerby. “Do eat up, Branden. You've a long journey ahead of you, and you'll need your strength.”
The Charnel King's laughter filled the room as Branden lifted the frigid mass to his tear-streaked face and slowly began to eat.
“I don't like it,” Gork said from the wet tuft of grasses on which he was unrolling his blankets. “I think we ought to just kill the damn thing.”
Fezeill nodded what was currently a human head. “For once, the kobold and I are in complete agreement. Who knows what it might do to us in our sleep?”
With a gruff sigh and a rustle of bedroll, Cræosh rolled over to face the griping duo. “That's why we set a watch, shapeshifter. Look, we've been over this. I’m all for kicking their scaly asses from here to Timas Khoreth and back again if they start fucking with us. But as of now, they haven't done shit, and we've got enough trouble without borrowing extra. I say, if they want to sit and watch us, let ‘em stare till their eyes bug out. Doesn't hurt my feelings any.”
“Yeah, right now they're just watching,” Gork muttered. He cast a glance at Katim, currently crouched in the twisted cypress boughs above. “Let's see if they're so peaceful when it's me or Gimmol on watch.”
They had, in fact, agreed to stand guard in pairs—save for Katim, who'd refused a partner, and since they were one short anyway, that worked out nicely. The purpose was in part to make it clear to the watchers that they were ready for anything, and in part to avoid leaving their fate entirely in the hands of sentinels as intellectually challenged as Belrotha or Jhurpess alone.
Cræosh, having clearly decided to ignore the kobold's bitching, was asleep instantly, his tectonic snores sending ripples through the marsh. It took more time for the others, but within half an hour, all but Katim were sleeping the sleep of the just (or at least the just plain exhausted).
They'd found the circle of stones atop a shallow rise, smaller cousin to the one supporting the ruins of Jureb Nahl. The ground was sodden, swarming with insects, and filthy as an orc's vocabulary, but in its favor, it offered a campsite that lacked the very real threat of drowning in one's sleep. In fact, with the exception of the night spent in the troglodyte-infested library, it was the most comfortable they'd passed since losing the skiff.
Or it would have been, had a strange pair of eyes not watched constantly from atop the stones. That lone naga, perhaps a sentry or a scout, had remained where they'd first spotted it, observing them with cold, black orbs. Unmoving and unblinking, only the occasional twitch of tail or tongue convinced Katim the thing lived at all.
It looked just as she'd described it to the troglodytes, as she'd heard in many a folktale. Half man and half snake, covered in squamous skin, possessed of ugly slits rather than a recognizable nose, and with a mouth far wider than any human's. It clutched a long spear in one fist, wore a blunt, axelike weapon on a leather harness. And still it did…Absolutely…Nothing.
Katim frowned, her snout twisting violently. Her fur stood on end and her mind gibbered at her that something was massively, horribly wrong.
To which she could only respond Of course there is! But what? What am I missing?
The troll took a deep, rasping breath, consciously relaxed her shoulders. Then, calm and casual as she could manage, she raised her head once more. She scanned slowly from left to right, her nostrils gaping as she scented the night air.
Her companions, snoring and drooling, were clumped at the base of the largest stone. From the edge of their camp, the ground sloped sharply, the hillock's edge plunging back into the depths of the swamp. Katim shivered at that, a sign of fear that none of the others would ever be allowed to see. She dreaded the thought of that foul water creeping any higher, of reaching any point in Jureb Nahl where she couldn't keep her head above the surface.
A second shudder…Because Katim didn't know how to swim.
The troll gave herself a mental slap and returned her attention to her surroundings. The naga coiled, bathed in the rays of moonlight that penetrated the heavy clouds, atop the stones. It waited proud, immobile, as though the entire henge had been constructed solely to showcase the creature's magnificence.
Stupid, slithering, arrogant…Ah, shit…
Katim could've kicked herself as understanding finally dawned (though she felt more like kicking one of the others, truth be told). They'd spent so long studying the creature, watching for any sign of movement, of treachery, of danger—and that was the point. The thing wasn't just a sentinel, it was a diversion.
The troll drew her axe and sprang from the branches. And finally, the naga moved.
It spun toward her, hissing madly, tail thrashing, as she landed in a crouch atop the stone. The monolith teetered beneath her, but held. Its spear useless at such short range, the naga reached down with the speed (unsurprisingly) of a striking snake and yanked the peculiar club/axe thing from its harness.
Katim watched its eyes, saw them flicker aside as it moved to draw, extended her own weapon in that same direction to draw its attention even further…
And in that split second of distraction, hurled her chirrusk with the other hand.
Fast as it was, the naga probably could have dodged or parried the blow, had it not been reaching for its weapon. But it was, and it couldn't.
The serpentine head rocked back as the weighty hook slammed it across what would have been the bridge of its nose if it had one. Blood poured from split skin and from the nostril slits below. Katim took a single step and swung, deliberately striking with only the tip of her axe blade, slitting its throat rather than beheading it outright.
A second step and she embraced the toppling body, holding it immobile atop the tottering stone. It spasmed in her arms, spilling warm death across her breast and stomach, and finally hung limp. She allowed herself a brief smile of satisfaction—how many trolls could claim a naga in the next life's stable?—and then it was time to get back to work.
Still moving as silently as circumstances would permit, Katim gently lay the corpse down atop the stones, hung over the edge, and hooked the naga's fallen spear with her chirrusk. She hauled the weapon back up and, with some careful balanc
ing and a few rasped profanities, used it to prop the body upright. It was clear from up close what she'd done, but hopefully it would be enough to fool anyone at a distance.
And there would, she was quite certain, be quite a few “anyones” showing up before long. She didn't know how the lone sentry had signaled them, but she knew, she knew, that it had.
Lying flat beside the corpse, struggling to ignore the reptilian musk and more casually disregarding the acrid stench of recent death, Katim waited. Patiently, long into the darkest hours, well beyond the hour she was supposed to awaken Gimmol and Belrotha for their turn at watch, she waited.
The waters off to one side of the hill rippled. It was a subtle movement, quiet and peaceful, barely more than a fish or a toad caressing the surface. Easy enough to miss, had Katim not been specifically watching for it.
It? No. Them. Three, if she had to guess by the patterns and the wakes slowly revealing themselves in the scum-covered marsh. Although she saw no sign of it, she was certain there must be a fourth, approaching the tree in which she'd first begun her watch. More than enough to slay the squad in their sleep.
Katim almost felt sorry for them. Her fist closed on the shaft that held the dead snake upright.
The first naga's head broke the surface. With a stealth Gork might have envied, it rose from the slimy water and crept up the slope, propelled in silent surges by its powerful tail. It clasped a long-bladed knife, a tool designed for murder, not battle. As it moved, it raised the knife and twisted it in the air: a signal, Katim realized, to the creature she'd slain. She reached out to twitch one of its hands and hoped the nagas on the ground were not awaiting a more intricate response.
Two more figures rose, swamp water flowing from them in torrents, and slithered after the first. She still saw no fourth naga, but an abrupt hiss from the vicinity of the tree proved its presence, and proved as well that they'd discovered she wasn't where she was supposed to be.
Rising into a low crouch, Katim yanked the spear from behind the corpse—unconcerned, now, with letting the dead thing fall—and cast. The lead naga, which had only just begun to turn in reply to its companion's hissed warning, fell to the earth with a sodden thump, the spear quivering obscenely between its shoulder blades.
