The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Looking up from where he'd crouched to pull Arron's body across his shoulders, Talyard said, “We need to take him home.”

  Vyslin's face pinched. “We can't. We're already half-wrecked, and those monsters will be after the pilgrims. If we want to protect them, we need to go quick.”

  “He wouldn't want to rot here. I know his family.“

  “It's days still 'til Keceirnden. We won't get him outta here in any family-friendly state. I'm sorry, but our obligation is to the living, and to getting out alive so we can piking tell them.”

  “We have to honor the dead—“

  “By not allowing more of 'em. He's beyond harm now. C'mon.”

  Lark couldn't see Talyard's expression, but after a tense moment he nodded, lowered the body, then rose. Haggard, weary, they struck out from the village in the dim hope of saving the pilgrims.

  *****

  Not far past the turn-off, they found the first blood-trail. It led off the side of the road into the murk ten feet below.

  A half-mark later, they came upon the next: widely spattered and with multiple pools, likely several dead. The drag-marks went off the side again. Looking down with her light, Lark saw holes in the road's sagging sides that might have been used as hand-holds.

  They picked up the pace as best they could, but between their injuries and Lark's own flagging strength, they couldn't seem to catch up. Another swath of blood greeted them—this clearly a fight, with several monster-corpses sprawled near the center of the stains—but again there were no pilgrim bodies, just drag-marks. Bloody slipper-prints headed on down the road.

  Lark's legs felt like lead. Her robe kept the cold off, but her sides were full of needles, and a copper tang coated her throat. The soldiers had formed up roughly around her, with Vyslin on point and Maevor at her side, grey-faced. He kept huffing under his breath, exuding a strange acrid scent which she could only hope it was some side-effect of his mending rather than a chemical death-throe.

  She wanted to be anywhere but here, following bloody tracks to the people she'd failed.

  Can't all be dead, she told herself. Can't. There had been scores of pilgrims on the road; those beast-monsters couldn't have taken them all down. But then who could say if Haurah's pack was the only one operating in this swamp? Perhaps all the horrors of this place had emerged from their murky dens to prey upon the fleeing faithful.

  There's so much further to go. How long can we run, or fight?

  I wish Ilshenrir was here.

  She'd seen the wraith respond once to a flare of the crystal, but she'd been using it for days now without any kind of contact. He'd gone to his people at Hlacaasteia to delay their pursuit of Cob and crew; perhaps he was dead now, or subjugated. Perhaps he was locked inside that titanic crystal where it sat in the Palace ruins, able to hear but not help.

  She couldn't blame him for Rian's death, not anymore. It was on all of them—on this miserable situation that had torn them from their homes and lives and flung them against the Palace walls like so many dice. Rian's number had come up; perhaps Ilshenrir's had too.

  Perhaps all her friends were dead, leaving her to run alone through this endless darkness, toward her devastated city and murdered people. Thinking like that, it almost felt pointless to keep going.

  But she wasn't alone: Maevor was here, and Erevard—hateful but useful—and the others, and when she focused on it, she knew Cob wasn't dead. Erevard had all but confirmed it. So there was hope somewhere.

  Hope of what, she couldn't say.

  Alternating between a jog and a shamble, they traveled for what felt like an eternity. Again and again they found blood, though less now: one or two victims instead of slaughters. Opportunism. Lark struggled to remind herself that this was real, not some nightmare; as exhaustion pulled, it became harder to differentiate.

  Then, quite abruptly, her light shone on white shapes ahead, and voices rose to greet them. As the pilgrims clustered close, she saw that they were spattered in blood and mud, some carrying sticks or rocks scavenged from the swamp below. Her eyes wouldn't hold steady enough to take a count, but at the front was Yendrah with a good-sized club in hand and a slack-faced boy clinging to the back of her robe.

  “Light's grace, we thought we'd lost you,” said the stout Riddishwoman. “I see you've fought them too. I don't know what they were, just shapes on the road, just teeth and claws...”

  “Monsters,” said Lark, pushing forward to clasp Yendrah's arm in relief. “Some converted things, some...rejects, I don't know. Have we lost many?”

  “Impossible to say. The first time, there was such a panic, I think people went off the side of the road, ran the wrong way...” She shook her head, squinting against the crystal's light. “We tried to set guards after that, but they'd skulk up on us or just charge. There's no discipline here. Not enough of my people to organize a fighting-line.”

  “How many still with us?”

  “A hundred or so. We haven't stopped to check. The ones in the lead are probably still walking.”

  Lark desperately wanted to sit, rest, sleep, but she nodded instead. They couldn't delay. “We need to pull them back in. Close ranks. These are intelligent predators; they'll pick off anyone that tries to go it alone. If there's someone who can run ahead, alert them...”

  Yendrah nodded and called orders to some names she didn't know. Immediately two of the younger faces vanished from the crowd to race off into the night.

  “Did you find anything?” Yendrah said hopefully, looking back.

  Lark grimaced. “No food, no supplies of any type.”

  The woman's face fell, but then she firmed it deliberately and clapped Lark on the shoulder. “Well, we won't let that stop us—and you oughtn't look so down. You escaped the Palace, didn't you? I remember seeing you there, and when the soldiers dragged us off to capture that boy. We survived that, we'll survive this.”

  Lark blinked at Yendrah owlishly. She didn't remember seeing the woman there—but then again, most of her attention had been on her friends and her own terror-spiral. “Did you… Did the Palace try to eat you?”

  “Eat me? Goodness, no. We fell behind on the return march, my nephew and I. Glad for that.”

  Lark nodded slowly, and for a moment couldn't think of anything to say. The brief burst of energy that their reunion had given her had ebbed, and she was starting to lose the thread of the situation. “Good, good,” she managed. “Now we need to…keep moving. The road… The road is still warm because of the Palace, but that won't last. It can't last. We need fires...”

  “Don't you worry about it,” said Yendrah with another pat. “You just act as our guiding light, and the rest of us will handle the little things.”

  Lark mumbled something appreciative and pushed a bit more energy into the crystal, wincing at the wave of weakness that passed through her in return. Slowly, the crowd around her resumed the trek, but even at a walk it was almost more than she could handle. Her eyes kept closing in mid-step, and she knew she'd kiss the road soon.

  Then Maevor hooked an arm around her waist, pulling them hip to hip. His side was sticky with drying gore; a younger Lark would have complained bitterly about it, but this Lark didn't care. It was a comfort to have a solid body at her side.

  She slung her arm across his shoulders and let him help—let him lead her onward. Step after step, over and over, into a grey infinity.

  *****

  Screams cracked her haze. She tried to sit up but someone pushed her back down, the hand on her chest hiding the crystal's dim light.

  All around, clusters of white robes and armor were surging upright, the details of their wearers too difficult to discern. The shape above her was darker; it took a moment for her to recognize Maevor, his face turned toward where the sounds had come.

  They rose again: not screams but inhuman wailing, harsh and close enough to make her skin prickle. Silent around her, the White Flames gained their feet, their armor silvered in the—

  Moonlight
.

  She tried to sit up again but Maevor forced her down, half-covering her with himself. Up close, his breath was chemical-sour. Past his shoulder she saw that sickle-curve in the sky: the mother moon's thin edge hanging just over the trees.

  “The moon,” she said, feeling like a delirious child. “The moon...”

  Maevor clapped his other hand over her mouth. Out there in the swampy darkness, another voice joined the chorus of wails, then another, not below but on the road. The pilgrims shifted, heads turning to track the threats, but no one broke ranks to run. Even as the cries concentrated ahead, the white shapes just tightened together, fear congealing into resolve.

  As her White Flames moved to mesh with the line, Maevor tugged her upright, keeping his body between her and the edge. She almost collapsed despite his grip, legs unable to bear her weight, but someone else grabbed her from the other side and pulled her into the crowd's center.

  The wails slowly died. From the continuing tension of the crowd, she knew the monsters hadn't left; perhaps they'd decided fear no longer worked and were preparing to charge.

  Or perhaps they would just wait. They'd dragged away dozens of pilgrims already; well-fed, they had the luxury of patience.

  A rasping voice cut through the silence: “Send out the mage and the rest of you can go.”

  No one answered Haurah, either to curse or agree. Maevor's one arm stayed tight on Lark, but she felt him shift the other, saw a reflection of crystal-glow as he drew his knife.

  “Send her out or we will kill you all,” the wolf-monster snarled.

  “Go pike yourself, you mangy piss-bag!” That was Vyslin.

  A growling chorus arose from the mob of monsters, loud as thunder, and Lark felt the crowd squeeze inward. She braced herself, expecting a push or a grab—some effort to expel her—but nothing came, no one even looking at her in accusation. In every direction she checked, she saw only pilgrims' backs.

  “Do you think we're stupid?” said someone else, rather more high and fearful than they likely meant.

  “Yes, meat. You are.” Lark couldn't see past the press of bodies, but her imagination drew Haurah's face clearly in her mind, all vicious teeth and stitched-up skin. “You have one chance. Give us the mage, the Guardian-friend, and we will not hunt you further. Try to protect her and you will die slowly, screaming, as we gorge ourselves upon your living flesh. We will not offer this again.”

  “Shove your threats,” snapped Vyslin, “and shove this blade up your ass while you're at it.”

  A light flickered above the tree-line—just briefly, and when Lark looked there, she couldn't see what had made it, only a faint sway of branches. Her stomach clenched at the thought that there might be wraiths somewhere, watching. Not Ilshenrir. Not friendly.

  Another treetop swayed slightly, as if touched by an extremely selective breeze.

  “Very well,” growled the wolf-monster, “we will—“

  Something launched from the tree, moonlight glinting on its form, and slammed down in the space between Lark's guards and the unseen wall of monsters. She felt its impact ripple through the soft fibers of the road—then felt another, and more, as glinting creatures dropped from all around to form a second perimeter.

  “Friend?” came a weird voice, reedy and genderless. “Friend, can we eat these?”

  Maevor straightened. Lark tried to see past him, but there wasn't enough of a gap in the White Flames to catch more than a glimpse of pale carapace, long scythe-like claws. “Kyleen?” said the bodythief. “You caught my Call?”

  “Can we eat these? They look rotten.”

  “Well...when has that stopped you?”

  A hissing sound came from the creature, immediately echoed by several others, and Lark realized it was laughter. Hollow, insectile amusement from that bizarre carapaced thing that was Maevor's partner.

  “Point,” it said, then gave a chilling shriek, echoed instantly by all its kind.

  Lark never saw the fight. The pilgrims and White Flames didn't move—barely spoke except to curse softly, fervently—but the shivers in the road and the sounds from beyond told the tale. Shock, pain and confusion echoed in the monsters' wails; even the roar of the great bear became a squeal, and the musical screeches of Kyleen's cohorts just mounted in volume and glee. It didn't take long for the splashes to begin as the monstrous pack bailed into the mire.

  Several of the spring-legged creatures pursued them, but others stayed; past the nervous murmurs of her guards, Lark heard chirring and the crunch of bone. She nudged Maevor insistently, and after a moment he seemed to get her meaning, because he shouldered at the White Flames until they parted enough to let the two through.

  Half a dozen of the chitinous slayers crouched over the mangled remains of a monster, tearing into it with claws and mandibles. They weren't radiant like when Lark had first seen Kyleen, but they were pale, the thin moonlight silvering the edges and prominences that riddled their jackknife bodies.

  “Kyleen?” Maevor said again, and one of them stood, swiveling its head almost entirely around to regard him.

  “Yes, friend?” it said.

  “Are you… Where have you been?”

  It gave a fluting sigh and turned properly, flipping its scythe-claws in to sit against its forearms. Its long, teardrop-eyed face was coated in gore, with more down the curved planes of its chest and thighs; there were notches in the chitin over its abdomen, but Lark couldn't tell if they were old or fresh. “Watching,” it hissed. “Searching. Good you Called—might not have found you. You look much worse than me. For once, I am the winner. Ha!”

  “Is this the Daecian nest?” said Maevor, gesturing at the other creatures.

  Kyleen twitched its shoulders in a facsimile of a shrug. “Part. Other teams out hunting, spying. Many dead—all incubators, most young. Some had accidents. I fell in the mud, could not move. Almost drowned. Better now.”

  “Those creatures...”

  “We know them. We will hunt them. Were not allowed to before, but now...” Its pink chelicerae twitched wide, and it chittered a long, chilling laugh through its ridged maw. “Now we clean away squatters and parasites, so-called superiors, all the meaty bits left on the bone. Go, humans. Go, former friend. This is our territory, and we will eat you if you stay.”

  Maevor shook his head, frowning. “You can't stay here either. The Light is gone, the Palace fallen.“

  “Go where instead? To bug-spirits? To shadows?” Kyleen made a sharp sound that might have been a scoff. “You go. Blend in with humans, play pretend. We will not tolerate screams and finger-pointings anymore. No Light means no master, no more missions, forever!”

  “All right, Kyleen, but—”

  “I am being gracious to let you go—so go, shoo. Do not make me bite you.”

  For a moment, it seemed Maevor would keep arguing. Then something went out of him, and his shoulders slumped, his head bobbing in weak agreement. “Watch out for wraiths, they—”

  “We know.”

  Turning, Maevor looked over the gathered pilgrims with hollow eyes. “We need to move. Give them space. A couple marks' march if we can.”

  A murmur of assent went through the crowd, and almost immediately they were moving again. Lark did her best, but her head was swimming, and she could swear the light from the crystal had started to throb with her heartbeat. “You all right?” she nevertheless managed as Maevor nudged her into a moderate pace.

  He exhaled but stayed silent until she almost thought he wouldn't speak. Finally, with the white tide pushing them along, he murmured, “Thirty years of partnership. Kyleen's kind are piking insane but I didn't expect...that.”

  “Are we safe?”

  “I don't know. Best we just get ourselves far away.”

  Lark nodded. She couldn't agree more.

  Chapter 9 – Vulnerability

  Vesha twitched awake at the sound of whispers outside his shelter. He'd dug himself under another bunkhouse, this den so shallow that his spine scra
ped the boards when he inhaled; under him, the torn-up earth still smelled fresh. It couldn't have been more than a mark since he'd squeezed in.

  He wanted to cry. This was his eighth hiding spot since reintegrating himself, and by far the most desperate: too near the mages' dome in the hope that the ambient chill of magic would keep away the hounds that otherwise kept tracking him down. He didn't know how much time had passed while he was just a flock of birds, but he had dim memories of roosting on roofs until chitinous things pounced at him, of dodging arrows and spells and flung stones, of being chased down a dark alley while only half-reformed.

  That had been perhaps a day ago. He'd come to his senses in mid-run, some essential part of himself finally reconnecting, and had managed to lose his pursuit by laying low among the nightsoil carts near River Gate. They'd moved on, though—to dump their load in the Losgannon in a continued attempt to poison Kanrodi downstream—and he'd been forced to flee again.

  And again, and again, and again.

  Now he was done. He couldn't think, couldn't fight, couldn't even flee as crows—too drained by his struggles to break apart. Wretched and miserable, he braced himself in the tiny den and prepared for the end.

  It took some time before he realized the whispers were his name.

  Even then, he didn't understand. It felt like a dream, so he rested his face in his arms again in the hope that it would give up and let him rest.

  “Hsst. Vesha. Vesha, re a'vanvan, skilia nethe-hars.”

  He blinked. That meant…stabbing. The whispers threatened to stab him in the foot if he didn't speak. Why would they do that?

  He tried to ask them, but his tongue wouldn't work right and it came out garbled. Someone made an impatient sound, then a vise locked around his ankle. He tried to kick but just jammed his foot against the boards, and the shock it sent up his leg woke all the slices and bites he'd picked up in his flight.

  He whimpered, and then the earth was sliding away beneath him, a grip locking around his other ankle as well. Another hand grabbed his hip once it cleared, and there was a heave that scraped his shoulders and scalp harshly against the edge of the hole.