by Paul S. Kemp
Blushing, Aileen took to her stool. Brilla turned her sour gaze back to Cale.
“I hope this is important, Mister Cale. I was just preparing to pluck the chickens for tomorrow.” She held up the dead chicken for emphasis.
In a good humor, Cale barely suppressed a smile. Brilla stood almost as wide as she did tall, her thick legs as sturdy as tree stumps. With her long black hair pulled back and tied into a sloppy bun, she reminded him of the archetypal dwarven oerwen, the esteemed house matron, but without a beard.
Careful, man, he reminded himself jovially. You’d be as dead as that chicken if she knew you were comparing her to a dwarf.
Unlike most of the household staff, big Brilla was not and never would be intimidated by him. He respected her for that. That’s why he left her alone to run the kitchens.
“Mister Cale?”
He swallowed the last of his smile and put on his expressionless, head butler’s face. “I wanted to congratulate you.” He crossed his hands behind his back and nodded to include the kitchen staff, “To congratulate all of you, for work well done. Lord Uskevren has informed me that the meal received numerous compliments.” He paused dramatically before adding, “Particularly the dessert torte.”
At that, Brilla beamed. She had created the recipe for the torte herself and had personally selected the Calishite barkberries. She turned her broad smile on her staff, the eight of whom were sharing tired smiles of their own.
“Did you hear that, gir—” A high-pitched scream cut short her praise. Brilla cocked an eyebrow. “Now what was—” Another wail rose and fell.
At first, Cale thought the screams merely the giddy squeals of an empty-headed noblewoman, but another terror-filled shout, this one from a man, changed his mind. Something was wrong.
Instinctively, he fell into a fighting crouch, though he had no weapon. The kitchen girls jumped down from their stools.
Loud thumps suddenly sounded through the walls and startled the girls. They began to chatter fearfully. The heavy stomp of boots and angry shouts joined the frightened screams and carried down the forehall from the feasthall.
With his keen ears, Cale thought he caught the sound of the savage snarls of an animal intermixed with the shouts. What in the Hells? With the girls clamoring beside him, he could not make out any other details.
“Quiet down,” he ordered.
Nine mouths clamped shut. He walked to the kitchen door, pushed it open a handwidth, and listened.
The distant but distinctive sounds of shouting men, plied iron, and panicked screams filled the air. A battle!
Suddenly, from close by, he heard a man shout in surprise, then a loud scream of pain followed by vicious snarling. The sound made the hair on the nape of his neck rise. That had come from the parlor.
As though reading his mind, Brilla observed nervously, “That sounded like an animal loose in the parlor.” As one, the girls gasped and clustered together fearfully.
Cale let the door close and turned to the women. “Get in the herb pantry,” he ordered, as calmly as he could. Judging from the sound, the source of the growls was a big animal. “Block the door and don’t come out unless I say so.”
They stared at him blankly, dumbfounded.
“Move! Now.”
That got them going.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Brilla. “Mister Cale is right. Come along, girls. Hurry now.”
While casting nervous glances back at the wall through which the sounds of combat were made, Brilla quickly led the fearful staff out of the rear of the main kitchen toward the herb pantry. Cale waited till they had gone, then barreled through the kitchen door and raced toward the feasthall. He stopped cold when he reached the parlor, his favorite room.
Shouts, screams, and the crash of breaking dishes sounded loudly through the feasthall’s double doors. Across the parlor near the archway to the forehall, dimly visible in the candlelight, a bipedal form in tattered clothes hunched over the body of a slain household guard. The wet chomping sounds of a feeding animal filled Cale’s ears. When he gasped in surprise the creature looked up from its meal, wide eyed and startled. Cale’s stomach roiled. He had expected an animal, not … this.
Strings of flesh clung to the creature’s dirty fangs and inch-long claws. Yellow eyes stared out of a blood soaked, feral face. When those eyes found Cale, they narrowed to ochre slits. A purple tongue half as long as a man’s forearm wormed out of its mouth, swept its lips, and slobbered up the last bits of flesh that clung to its face. It gave a low growl, a sound as savage and merciless as the fiercest animal, yet inexplicably human. It left the corpse and took one step toward him. His stomach fluttered nervously.
It registered in his mind that the creature had eaten the fallen guard. Ghouls, he realized. Ghouls are in the house! He had never before encountered undead, but he had heard enough tales to recognize the warped body of one of the creatures. No wonder the monster’s growl had sounded vaguely human.
The panicked shouting from the feasthall grew louder, increasing in intensity. Men screamed, ghouls snarled—lots of ghouls—and women shrieked in terror. Cale, however, could spare no thought for the events in the feasthall. The ghoul before him began to prowl across the parlor toward him.
Involuntarily, he backed up a step. He reached for a weapon, patted himself for anything, but quickly realized that he had nothing. He cursed himself an idiot for leaving the kitchen without at least a carving knife. Think before you act, he rebuked himself.
Picking its way through the eclectic collection of furniture, the ghoul stalked closer. It moved in a hunched crouch, a vile, sickly-gray predator ready to pounce. As it approached, it tensed its clawed arms, smacked its lips, and gave a thoughtful snarl. Cale could have sworn it actually leered at him.
It knows I’m unarmed, he thought, and he realized that this savage, flesh-eating monster still retained some intelligence.
What in the Nine Hells is happening? Where’s the house guard?
He knew the answer the moment he thought the question. One of the house guards already lay dead on the parlor floor; the rest were fighting in the feasthall. Judging from all the screaming and breaking dishes, he did not think that Jander and his men were faring too well.
For an instant, he considered making a dash for the kitchen to retrieve a weapon, but dismissed the idea. He could not risk leading the ghoul to Brilla and the kitchen girls.
With his gaze never leaving the yellow eyes of the ghoul, he sidestepped along the wall. As he moved, he tried to keep furniture between himself and the ghoul. It seemed to enjoy his efforts. It playfully circled to cut him off and pawed at the air, content for now merely to toy with him.
Up close, Cale nearly gagged on the creature’s stench. It stank like the rotted remains of a corpse baking in the sun. He tried to breathe through his mouth to keep from vomiting. With only a high backed wooden chair between them, he got a good look at the creature for the first time.
A spider web tracery of purple veins showed through its gray, leprous skin. A bit of blood from the dead guard still glistened scarlet on its sunken cheeks, and its fanged mouth and feral eyes promised a similar end to Cale. The remains of its befouled clothes hung in tatters from a hunched, twisted body. Its claws, filthy knife blades caked with dirt and gore, clenched and unclenched reflexively while it stalked him. A strange mark on its shoulder caught the candlelight and grabbed Cale’s eye.
He stopped and stared, stupefied.
The ghoul had a tattoo inked into the flesh of its shoulder, a familiar tattoo, two crossed daggers superimposed over a cracked skull.
A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over Cale. He fought it off and studied the twisted, savage face of the ghoul. The clothes that might once have been the favorite blue cloak of a man Cale had known.
“Krendik,” he whispered in disbelief, the words drawn involuntarily from his constricted throat. He tasted bile and swallowed it down. “Krendik?” he said again, louder this time.
/> The ghoul stopped snarling and stood upright for a moment, as though hearing Cale say its name recalled the memory of its former humanity. In that instant, the feral gleam in its yellow eyes fell away. Its mouth softened from the rictus of savage hunger and a familiar face revealed itself. Behind the blood, the stink, and the twisted form, Cale recognized with certainty the face of Krendik, once a fellow Night Knife.
“Gods, man,” he breathed. “What happened to you? What has the Righteous Man done?”
Krendik the ghoul crouched low, threw its head back, and snarled into the rafters. All traces of its former humanity vanished. He returned his gaze to Cale, insane eyes narrowed conspiratorially, and hissed, “Maassk.”
Cale stared, dumbfounded. Mask? He did not understand. He knew that the Righteous Man was trying to convert everyone in the guild to the worship of Mask but that didn’t explain this.
“Feed,” Krendik mouthed, and a foul brown slaver dripped from between its filthy fangs. “Feed.”
The ghoul lunged at him.
Cale shoved the rocking chair into Krendik and frantically backpedaled. His eyes scanned the parlor for a weapon. Nothing! Cale scooted to his right.
Krendik bounded nimbly over the toppled chair and lashed out with a filthy claw.
Cale stumbled backward. Inadvertently, he crashed into one of the suits of armor and nearly tripped over the display pedestal. Unthinking, he grabbed at the armor to steady himself. It toppled. He flailed to keep his balance while the mail crashed to the floor and sent bits of armor skittering across the floor.
The ghoul pounced on him.
Krendik crashed into him like a battering ram, claws flailing maniacally. The force of the charge drove Cale backward into the wall and blew the breath from his lungs. Snarls rang in his ears. The stink of rotted flesh and fetid breath filled his nostrils. Claws tore through his clothes and raked again and again at his unprotected flesh.
Reeling, and with no weapon at hand, he tried to pull it close and throttle it with his bare hands. The squirming ghoul pulled him off balance and the two tumbled to the armor-strewn floor in a chaotic pile of limbs, fangs, and claws.
Surging with adrenaline, Cale used his greater size and strength to roll atop the snarling beast and slam a knee into its abdomen. It squealed in pain and slashed at his chest and shoulders. Filthy claws tore gashes through his doublet and into his flesh. Warm blood ran down his arms. The ghoul sank its teeth into Cale’s bicep and shook its head to rip his flesh open.
Through the pain, Cale felt his muscles begin to grow thick. The snarls of the ghoul became distant. His vision began to blur. Some kind of venom …
If his body did not resist it, he would be immobilized and the ghoul would eat him alive. He tried to punch at the squirming thing but with sluggish muscles he managed only a few feeble blows. Fight it, godsdammit! Fight!
The ghoul took advantage of his weakness and squirmed loose. Once free, it tore into his flesh with a manic flurry of raking claws. Cale awkwardly rose to his feet, stumbled backward, and tried to fend off the blows with his limbs. The ghoul ripped into him without mercy. His blood dribbled from the ghoul’s filthy fangs now. Snarling, slashing, and biting, Krendik tore into Cale’s body. Stinking, brown saliva pelted Cale’s face and drove him backward. He felt himself growing weaker. Stubbornly, he tried to fight back, but he knew his efforts to be futile. He was too weak. Soon he would not be able to move at all.
Distantly, he noticed that the chaotic noise from the feasthall had grown to a fever pitch. It sounded as though every dish in Stormweather was being shattered and an army was fighting on the dance floor. He had a sudden vision of the entire house guard slain and rampant ghouls feasting at leisure upon paralyzed victims. Thazienne! Thamalon! Shamur! In his mind’s eye, he saw his family being devoured alive, like him.
No! Anger heated his blood into a bonfire. A flood of rage washed away the ghoul’s paralyzing poison like a cleansing rain.
“No!” he shouted into the ghoul’s face, mere inches from its shark-toothed mouth. He caught it by the wrists and forced them out wide.
“No!” He pulled it toward him and at the same time kicked the ghoul square in the chest. Bone cracked and it squealed in agony. Its jaws snapped reflexively and brown spittle flew. Still holding it by the wrists, Cale threw it to the ground and landed on top of it, knees first. More cracking bones; more pain-filled squeals.
He released the ghoul’s arms, endured repeated retaliatory claw rakes, and closed both his hands around its throat. Blood flowed freely down Cale’s sides but he did not feel it. He felt only hot rage.
“No!” he shouted again. Gagging, the ghoul left off tearing at his sides and aimed for his forearms. Cale endured the pain and only tightened his grip.
With a grunt, he jerked the ghoul’s head forward and promptly slammed it back against the hardwood floor. Thud. Stunned, its eyes rolled backward for a moment.
“No!”
Its tongue lolled from its mouth and lay between its fangs. Cale released its throat only long enough to slam his palm under its lower jaw. Impaled between rows of fangs, the tongue exploded in a spray of stinking purple blood. The ghoul squealed in agony, squirmed desperately, but Cale held it pinned. Spit foamed between its teeth and blood continued to pour from its tongue. In desperation, it slashed into Cale’s ribs, but he maintained his hold.
“No!” He slammed its head against the floor.
It shrieked and clawed like an angry cat, but Cale had long passed the point where he felt pain.
“No!” Thud. Again and again, he slammed its head into the floor. “By …” Thud. Its squeals of pain gave way to stunned whimpers. “… the …” Thud.
Incoherent, it clawed weakly at his chest and arms. He pounded it mercilessly.
“… gods …” Thud.
Its head cracked open like a Yule nut. Reeking gore poured from its broken skull and formed a puddle of wet stink on the parlor floor.
Gasping, weakened from blood loss, Cale collapsed on top of the corpse. The rush of rage fled his body as fast as it had come, and the vacuum left him quivering and exhausted. Blood and putrescence covered him but he hardly noticed. As his lungs heaved for air, he tried to gather himself.
The desperate shouts coming from the feasthall gave him no time to rest. The terrible sounds pulled him to his feet and refueled his anger. Thazienne! Nearly slipping in the ghoul’s brains, he bounded over the corpse and sprinted for the feasthall.
He stopped cold in the double doorway. Perivel’s birthday celebration had been transformed into a chaotic melee of blood, screams, and death. Cale took it in, horrified.
Near him, the oak feast table and most of the dinner chairs lay overturned. Broken dishes lay scattered across the floor. Toppled candles and spilled oil lamps had started a few scattered fires. Cale watched Shamur’s tablecloths burn and the plush velvet curtains smolder. Wispy clouds of black smoke filled the room and gave the whole scene the look of some surreal vision from a nightmare. From everywhere, a horrid cacophony of terrified screams, hungry growls, and angry shouts filled his ears. Smears of blood stained everything red.
A pack of at least ten ghouls rampaged freely amidst the chaos. They bounded haphazardly through the clutter, attacking anything that came within their reach. Many guests were already paralyzed. He winced when he saw the wounds torn in their bodies. The ghouls had devoured hunks of their bodies while they stood helpless. His eyes moved frantically from victim to victim, looking for the members of his family. He didn’t see them.
Corpses lay scattered about the floor amidst the dishes and dining furniture, their bodies desiccated and unrecognizable. Not ghoul work, Cale realized, but he had no time to give it further thought.
He saw that the ghouls had herded most of the surviving guests to the far side of the feasthall, away from the double doors. Away from any means of escape. Though a few guests had tried to break the large, leaded glass windows, the beautifully crafted metal veins that depicted dr
agons in flight and men in battle imprisoned the guests as effectively as a jailer’s cell. Outside, the safety of the patio and gardens tantalizingly beckoned, just out of reach. Inside, the slaughter continued.
Here and there about the feasthall, groups of cornered noblemen fought the ghouls as best they could. The men pushed the women behind them and used table knives or heavy platters as makeshift weapons and shields. Cale watched transfixed as a ghoul leaped past the feeble weapons wielded by one elderly nobleman, knocked him to the floor, and began to feed. The man’s pathetic screams ended when the ghoul tore open his throat.
The three old women the elderly nobleman had been trying to protect screamed in terror and tried to flee. Two other ghouls bounded after them, pulled them down from behind, and began to feast.
Cale pushed aside his nausea and fear and looked frantically through the smoke for his family. Where are they, dammit?
At last he spotted them, across the hall standing behind a protective screen of the surviving house guards. Jander Orvist and the rest of his blue uniformed men had backed the family and many of the guests against the back wall and formed a semi-circle of flesh and steel around them. Each house guard brandished a long sword and stout buckler. They made no move to attack but lashed out at any ghouls that came near.
Through the smoke, Cale could make out Shamur and Thamalon. The pair were struggling to get free of the ring to return and protect the rest of their friends, but Jander personally held them back.
Good man, Cale thought. The only safe place on that side of the feasthall was right where they were, behind Jander’s men.
He saw that Tamlin, too, stood within the ring near his parents. He looked pale from fear, but still held his ground near the perimeter of the ring shielding two young women. Vox, Tamlin’s huge, hairy bodyguard, had somehow produced a wide-bladed short sword and now stood alongside the guards, a grim scowl on his face. Many of the house guards, their uniforms stained black with blood, had already fallen to the ghouls’ claws. The ghouls now looked to be keeping their distance. Captain Orvist was waiting for an opportune moment to make a run for the double doors.
