Earth gave way under the weight of the wagon, and it began to tumble into free fall. Gregory reached out with a hand and smiled, mouthing goodbye, before disappearing into the empty pit.
17
Garrick spent most of his time looking at the ground as his feet walked along the forest floor. He’d grown used to seeing patches of green shrivel away from each step, as if he were a walking plague. He told himself that Seelios was right, he could go to Paloise for help. Perhaps they would execute him and release his tormented soul from this wretched life. At the very least they could imprison him and keep anyone else from harm. He would’ve turned around and followed the river, but he no longer had full control over his body.
“Where,” Garrick whispered. “Where are we going?” He waited with a listless expression for a response, but heard nothing. Only the crunch of dead leaves and brittle twigs sounded underfoot.
The walking continued for what could’ve been hours or days. The concept of time was lost on him, his sanity driven away to hide from the pain. The fog of emotional void became pierced by the occasional spike of anger or sadness, neither of which he enjoyed but was better than feeling nothing at all.
“Why’d you make me do it?” Garrick said aloud. “I just . . . wanted to be with her.”
“I did nothing,” a voice hissed inside his head. “Your sadness and anger corrupts you. You killed her yourself.”
Garrick was surprised to hear a response. The last he heard the voice was after Emeline died. He lifted his head and looked around the woods. Trees browned in decay in the wake of blight that trailed behind him.
“Show yourself,” Garrick said.
“In due time,” the voice said. “Once we are free.”
“Then . . . how is it I can I hear—” Garrick became suddenly aware of the warmth of the crystal hanging from his neck, swinging across his chest with each step.
“Yes,” the voice hissed. “You begin to understand. You carry it with you, a shard of the very prison that holds us.”
“I don’t want it,” Garrick said. He struggled to lift his hand up to his neck. Muscles and tendons strained as his arm resisted, seeming to have a will of its own. He gave up and let his arm hang limp.
“Foolish. You and I are one, wrapped in embrace. I cannot be cast aside,” the voice said.
“Leave me then, let me suffer in peace. I want nothing more of this.”
The voice cackled. “Your wants matter not. A divine balance must be restored and you’re going to help us.”
Garrick’s spine tingled with fear. He knew that something had been haunting him in his nightmares, growing more powerful with each passing day. He knew it would lead to horrible things that he could do nothing about. He knew his fate would be misery from the moment he revisited that tome in his library.
“There was a book in my possession that had seven names, telling tales of horrible deeds. Which are you?”
“Tales of horrible deeds.” The voice cackled in mockery. “The books of mortals cannot begin to fathom the malevolence of our coven. I am the Bringer of Torment, the Poisoner of Minds, the Embodiment of Pestilence. Those who succumb to their hatred bend to me, just as you have and forever will. I am Abaddon, the Demon of Wrath.”
The forest had grown dark as the sun retreated from the sky. Garrick continued to trudge through the woods, his feet carrying him to an unknown location. The flicker of firelight shone in the distance, and Garrick thought he’d stumbled upon a camp. He prayed they would get spooked and flee before any harm came to them.
As he plodded nearer, multiple lanterns came into view, hanging from the trees. Campfires were scattered between huts built among the trunks. A village in the middle of the forest.
“Pinewood?” Garrick said.
People strolled across the rope bridges suspended between the branches. Lantern light gleamed from within abodes built high up in the canopy. As Garrick approached, a voice called out to him.
“You there, gods, you must be freezing. Where’s your shirt?” a portly man said as he stepped out from a hut. He looked around curiously. “You traveling alone? Where’s your horse? Mercy on your soul you must be starving, look at you. Come, have some—”
A crack echoed through the forest so loud that it seemed to frighten the whole village into silence. It was the sound of a tree breaking in half and falling to the ground, its rotten trunk no longer able to support its own weight.
“That tree stood for ages,” the man said with confused look as he stared out into the woods.
Garrick continued to walk past the man and several other curious onlookers. Many villagers came out of their homes, some dressed in their bed clothes to see what the ruckus was. Many of those same people eyed Garrick with caution and concern. Mothers held their babes tight and whispered to their husbands. Garrick ignored the stares and continued onward, walking past the huts, trees, and overhanging rope bridges.
“Whoah there, friend.” A burly man with a thick beard and a large wood-axe stepped in front of Garrick.
“Get out of my way,” Garrick hissed, his tone putrid and unrecognizable.
“We just want to help you, lad,” the man said. “You showing up here shirtless and brooding makes these folks a bit nervous. What brings you to our parts?”
“The gods.”
The burly man’s eyebrows shot up at this. “Now listen here, you’ll not be going nowhere near—”
Garrick reached out and grasped the man’s wrist. Red swelling spread over the man’s arm and down his hand, followed by a darkening of veins that created a web of black lines beneath the skin. Globules of puss burst forth and oozed out a smell of rotten meat. The burly man dropped his axe and fell to his knees, shrieking as the affliction spread up his neck and across his face. Screams rang out as people scattered into hiding.
Garrick stepped over the man thrashing about on the ground and continued walking. Bow strings twanged from overhead and arrows whistled, but he paid no attention. Something struck him in the shoulder, accompanied with a burn that felt like a wasp’s sting. He looked down and saw an arrow, head buried halfway. Garrick’s shoulder twitched as flesh tightened and squeezed beneath the skin until the arrow pushed out like a harmless splinter. The small wound sealed itself up in a matter of seconds. More arrows found their mark on his torso, legs, and arms. Most grazed off harmlessly while others sank in with shallow bites, only to be pushed out moments later.
“He’s some kind of monster!” a voice yelled from an overhead.
“Protect the monolith,” another said.
Moonlight glinted off the water’s surface at the edge of the village. Men with spears and swords stood at the river’s shore, blocking the head of a wide wooden dock. Towering behind them was an obelisk of stone protruding out of the water, covered in glowing blue runes.
“We must kill this abomination,” one of the men said.
“Please, make this stop,” Garrick whispered to himself.
“These men are between us and freedom,” Abaddon’s voice said. “Freedom from the gods’ authoritarian rule. They must die.”
“Death isn’t the answer,” Garrick said.
Abaddon cackled. “Death is the only answer.”
Garrick felt something surge through his body, as if a ghastly hand passed through his whole being. He looked down and saw a ripple in the ground traveling away from his feet. The packed dirt cracked and broke apart. Rocks crumbled and reduced to dust and gravel. Plants and grass shrank away into nothingness. The men watched the ground with a certain panic in their eye, some backing up into the shallows of the river. When it reached their feet, their boots began to crumble away as if made of shoddy wet parchment. Their clothes tattered and fell to shreds. When their bare feet touched the tainted ground the skin blistered and cracked, oozing out blood of unnatural color. The valiant defenders collapsed into tortured screams without even raising their weapons. Some tried to jump into the river to cleanse themselves, but found no relief.
&n
bsp; The dock groaned as Garrick walked along the wooden planks and placed his hand on the cool surface of the obelisk. Flakes of stone peeled away as the smooth gray texture turned to a spotted mold of black and white. Cracks formed and large pieces broke off and crashed into the river. The blue light of the runes faded to a dim glow, then disappeared completely. The rest of the monolith collapsed in a violent eruption of water.
“There, it is done,” Garrick said.
“Not quite,” Abaddon said. “We need more strength. The villagers will do nicely for a sacrifice.”
18
Seelios hit the ground with harsh force, yet barely felt a thing. He rolled through thick grass before coming to rest, looking up at the starry night sky. A familiar scent of Alnerwick’s farmland manure wafted into his nostrils. His body had been pushed to the limit and felt so tired that he couldn’t even muster the energy to feel anything. He continued to gaze, numb to all, when a flood of tears suddenly came. His heart ached with crushing despair and he began to quietly sob. He closed his eyes to shut out the overwhelming pain, but still saw Gregory tumbling into the darkness.
Seelios jolted awake, wondering how long he’d been asleep. Galloping hooves thundered in the distance, growing louder as they drew near. Dirt and pebbles dug into his palms as he tried to push himself up, but he collapsed back onto the ground in a feeble heap. His fingers brushed something beside him. He looked down and saw the teleportation totem and the cloth wrapped object laying side by side.
The galloping drew closer as if a whole cavalry were charging his direction. Voices called to each other.
“The flash of light came from here,” a man’s voice said. “It must be Gregory.”
Seelios lifted his head as much as his neck muscles would allow, which barely provided him a view over the stalks of grass. A small army of horsed soldiers trotted in small formation, wearing thick plates of ornate armor. The light from their torches lit up the tips of their pikes like a forest of floating knives.
“Over there, laying on the ground,” a voice said from the group of soldiers.
Helmed heads turned in Seelios’s direction and two men galloped over. The sudden closeness of torchlight was blinding, masking the features of the approaching men. Gasps of surprise came as the soldiers stood overhead.
“Eyes of silver. Is he a disciple?” one said.
“He’s wounded,” said another. “Difficult to say how bad, but conscious.”
More galloping came as additional soldiers arrived. One handed his pike to the soldier next to him before he lowered himself from his horse. He knelt down beside Seelios and lifted his visor, revealing a middle-aged man with a thick, red beard.
“Can you speak? What happened here?” the bearded man said.
Seelios summoned as much energy he could and drew a breath. “The God of Earth . . . he killed so many.”
The man’s eyes flickered at this, a combination of confusion and fear.
The sound of another horse approaching came from behind the line of soldiers surrounding Seelios. One of the horsed soldiers turned. “M’lady, please stay with the main guard, we don’t yet know if—”
“Thank you, sir, but I can handle myself,” an older woman’s voice said.
The horsed knight bowed his head. “Of course m’lady.” He tugged his reins and trotted aside to make way.
Seelios saw a small, white-robed figure hunched over on the saddle. His eyes fell to the sun emblem on her chest, clothing identical to what Gregory wore. Seelios realized the decor of the soldiers were the same as those who helped him escape Fembleton, so valiantly giving their lives. As fate would have it, if he could not make it to Paloise, then Paloise would come to him.
The robed woman dropped down from her horse with gentle grace, her face concealed by the deep hood. She walked over to Seelios and locked eyes with him for a moment, studying him. She turned her attention to the objects on the ground. The other soldiers watched as she bent down and opened the folds of cloth. The Lumastra gleamed in her hand as she tilted it from side to side inspecting it with a careful eye.
“Where did this come from?” the woman asked as she turned back to Seelios, holding out the runic artifact. Her eyes too were a striking silver, visible even in the shadowy folds of her hood.
Seelios stared at the glass orb, a final reminder of the friend that he’d lost.
“The man who had this, where is he now?” she asked.
Seelios closed his eyes and fought back more tears. “Gone,” he whispered. “Gameus killed him and many others.”
“Then it’s true,” the woman said to herself. She turned to the main group of soldiers. “Raphael, come. This boy needs healing.”
Seelios lifted his head to see another horse trot over, carrying two people. The one in front was a pike-wielding knight while the second was another hooded white-robed disciple. The horse stopped beside the woman and the robed man slowly lowered himself off the saddle, struggling half-way down.
“Confound it, soldier. Help me down,” Raphael said, struggling to stretch his leg to the ground.
“Y—yes, m’lord,” the knight said. He turned in the saddle and held the robed man as he made his slow descent, wincing a bit as his left leg came to rest on the dirt.
The sun emblem became visible when he straightened out his robes. He thrust out an open palm toward the knight. “Well? You don’t expect me to hobble around without support, do you?”
The knight paused, then moved in small, flustered motions as if he were thinking of what he was supposed to do. Finally, he offered his pike to the disciple.
“I supposed that’ll do,” Raphael said as he grabbed the pike and used it brace himself as he walked. He hobbled across the grass and stood over Seelios, looking down at him. It was a haunting sight to see two sets of silvery eyes staring through shadowy hoods.
The hunched woman turned to the surrounding soldiers. “Leave us.”
“Wait. There are others in the town with nowhere to go. Please, help them,” Seelios said.
One of the knights nodded and, without a word, they galloped away. Silence passed between Seelios and the two disciples as they waited for the hoof beats to go silent, falling back into formation with the rest of the escort.
Seelios tried to sit up, but the muscles in his abdomen gave out before he’d even reached halfway. He slumped back down on the grass in helpless resignation.
“Calm yourself, boy,” Raphael said as he slowly crouched down, like an old man with aching joints. “Injure yourself more and you make it harder for the both of us.”
The disciple extended a palm from his robes and pressed it on Seelios’s chest. The warmth from his touch spread, sinking down into aching muscle. Seelios had experienced the healing sensation of a rejuvenation stone, but it was nothing compared to Raphael’s power. There was no pain from wounds stitching back together or bones rejoining. The feeling was soothing and gentle, like dipping into a warm bath on a cold day.
“Such fragility. Curious though, you’ve taken much damage yet your wounds are superficial,” Raphael said. He reached into his robes and pulled out a leather bound book and quill. The feather wiggled in the air as the disciple scratched a few short notes then snapped it closed.
“That should do,” Raphael said as he stood with the assistance of the pike.
The whole process had taken mere seconds, an instant compared to Seelios using the rejuvenation stone. With nothing more than a small touch from the disciple, Seelios felt like his injuries were completely gone. He blinked for a moment and sat up with ease. He flexed his hands and looked down at his arms. Dry blood still glistened in the moonlight, but the scratches had disappeared. He was far from being in top shape, but was no longer close to death.
Seelios looked at Raphael, peering at the eyes in the hood.
“You have a rejuvenation stone? Gregory didn’t mention there were others,” Seelios said.
A soldier came galloping up to them.
“M’lady, m�
��lord, please pardon the interruption,” the armored knight said. “There are a handful of survivors in the town as the boy said. They claim the boy saved them from the God of Earth.”
The two disciples turned to each other for a moment and gave small nods. Raphael reached up and drew his hood back. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the old man Seelios had imagined. He was middle-aged with short brown hair, a long nose, and clean-shaven. Oddly enough, the man looked somewhat familiar. Seelios drew in a sharp breath of sudden realization when it dawned on him.
“That frightening, am I?” Raphael said.
“Sorry, no. It’s just, I’ve seen you before,” Seelios said.
Raphael frowned at this. “I think I might recall a scrawny thing like you walking around Paloise.”
Seelios shook his head. “No, here in Alnerwick. At least, it wasn’t you, but rather someone that looked like you. The God of Earth commands men of clay and gives them faces. A few days ago many were in the village and . . . yours was one of them.”
Raphael brought a hand up to his chin in curious thought. “Very strange indeed. I can’t say I’ve ever met the Lord of the Earth before.” He pulled out his book and scribbled more notes.
“Tell me of Gregory. What did he say to you?” the woman said.
Seelios nodded. “He came to Fembleton to give news about a gate to my father.”
“Gregory would not share that lightly. He must’ve had great trust in you,” she said.
Raphael turned to her. “The boy’s eyes . . . Mirabelle, this must be who we felt.”
She drew her hood back, revealing the old wrinkled face of an elderly woman. Her silver eyes had laugh lines around them, giving her a friendly appearance despite her serious expression. Her white hair was pulled back and hung down in a thick braid.
“We must be sure.” Mirabelle turned to Seelios. “What is your name?”
As the Earthen Stag Walks (The Simulacrum Book 1) Page 14
