Lost Is The Night

by Greg James

  Cacea closed the old woman’s fingers with her own, squeezing the shaking hands tightly.

  “I should have served Chuma more right, perhaps, for I have become as a plague to those around me,” the Sister went on. “My Lord does not listen to my counsel, and I am turned away by all others. This castle is cold, and its people colder. I fear the world outside grows colder still. What place is this for a life to be born into? What have the Gods made of the world? What have we made of it?”

  Cacea stroked the old woman’s agitated shoulders. “Speak calmly. You should not forsake the Gods you have served for so many long years.”

  The Sister turned her face to Cacea. “Why not, when they have shown me so little favour?”

  Cacea looked to the bowl of scraps at the feet of Mirane’s idol, and wondered. “If the Gods fail us, maybe we only have each other to ward against the dark.”

  “But what then,” the Sister asked, red-eyed, “if we fail each other?”

  Cacea didn’t know.

  The old Sister sighed as her body sagged against the younger woman’s.

  A queer breeze blew through the chapel.

  Cacea frowned, looking around; there were no windows in here, for daylight was forbidden in the presence of the Four. She had closed the door to the Chapel behind her when she entered, so where was the wind coming from? The old Sister let out a breath that rustled like old leaves. The Chapel could not be said to ever be a warm place, but the air was somehow changed. Each breath Cacea took bore a bite of cold that had not been there before.

  And the Sister, she felt too still at her side.

  “Sister,” she asked, “are you well?”

  A hoarse, hectic chuckling came from the old woman.

  “Sister?” Cacea made to stand up.

  Old fingers with a sudden iron strength curled around her arm.

  “Sit ... and be still ...” The voice came from the Sister, but it was not the Sister’s voice.

  “Unhand me,” Cacea said.

  The tough fingers continued to grip her arm, tightening, making her muscles and flesh ache.

  “I said, unhand me,” Cacea shouted, as she twisted around and struck the Sister across the side of the head.

  Cacea saw a terrible change come over the old woman’s face. It became gaunt and drawn, moreso than before, and the eyes and mouth swam with a wet darkness that ran down her face as thick lines of tears. The Sister’s other hand came up and snatched at Cacea.

  She elbowed it away, although the elderly fingers tore out strands of hair. Pain stung. She spat in the Sister’s face, but that only made it twist into a ghoulish leer.

  “Unhand me, creature!”

  Cacea headbutted the Sister’s face. She felt the nose give and loose cartilage grind under her forehead. The grip on her arm was unbroken, and the creature—not the Sister anymore—was unfazed by the bleeding ruin of its nose.

  Cacea began to pray. “Protect me, O Four who stand without light. For far gone and lost is this, my last night.”

  The creature chuckled thickly in its throat again. “You belong ... to us now.”

  Chapter Seven

  Aelias Bartell lay awake, and he wasn’t sure why.

  The feast was done, and his Lordship had been satisfied, although that useless wench, Cacea Selwen, had almost spoiled the Lord’s mood. It could never be said that Milius Barneth had a good mood, but he had been quiet and stable throughout the feast—until that stupid little bitch had knocked wine everywhere. If the brigand hadn’t wanted to fuck her, Bartell was certain the feast would have ended with a good deal of blood to clean up.

  It wasn’t the blood he minded so much, though; it was the screams.

  When Barneth was at his pleasure, the tormented screams echoing throughout the castle made it most difficult to sleep. There was no place from which one could escape them. Bartell was sure Barneth’s ancestors had built the castle with just that in mind; knowing that when the Red Wheel was being turned, the entire structure would become an echo chamber of pain and suffering, from its deepest foundation to the peak of its tallest tower.

  As a younger man, on nights when Barneth was in the mood, Aelias had lain awake listening to the screams, but tonight was not one of those nights. On other nights, when a different mood was upon his Lordship, the screams were Bartell’s own. The Steward bore the scars well enough beneath his fine clothing.

  Tonight, the castle was at peace, as much as it could be. The scuttling of the occasional rat in the walls and the rustling of the wall hangings was the only disturbance.

  So why was he awake?

  There would be much to do on the morrow, and he needed his rest. He had grown old and tired. Was he now to suffer a sleeping sickness so that his night hours would bring him no respite from the mundane grimness of day after day?

  There came a sound.

  He had been disturbed; this was no symptom after all.

  But the sound did not put him at ease.

  It was the shuffling of feet across stone.

  Someone was in his chamber.

  How so? And who could it be?

  “Hello? Who is there?” he called, hoarsely. “Name yourself, please, or I will call the guards.”

  If guards would come at this hour, and to his call. Bartell had few friends. He’d barked at too many of them over the years to kindle much love in the breasts of his fellows. His rooms might be more well-appointed and he might have more coins to rub together when visiting the market or a brothel, but he was still a servant, as they were.

  And I have forgotten that somewhat, he thought, but they will not forget, nor forgive me.

  “Please, I must ask you to leave. I am Steward to Lord Barneth.”

  Which means nothing to a man who wants blood.

  “I will have to place you under arrest if you try to harm me.”

  Such a feeble threat, he thought. Pathetic.

  The shuffling came close to the bed, and a hand grasped at its wooden frame.

  Bartell recognised the hand and the body it was attached to. A familiar face emerged from the shadows and his heart steadied in his breast.

  Old Nathe, the cook.

  “Soused again, are you?” Bartell cackled, trying to quash the note of hysteria that had crept into his voice.

  The lech wants his root sucked again, Bartell thought.

  It was a courtesy he performed for the old man, at least that was how he liked to see it. No others in the castle were honest enough with themselves to acknowledge sharing a taste for male flesh, so Bartell and Nathe found small solace in each other.

  A fumbling fuck now and then with a frail old goat thrice my age, Bartell thought at times. How low can one get?

  But it was either that or spending himself alone, rather than with flesh in his hands or in his mouth. The Steward drew back the bedsheets and got to his feet.

  Bartell put his arm around Nathe’s shoulders. He felt the cold flesh through the cloth. The weight and stiffness of it.

  He let go of Nathe and backed away. “Nathe, what’s wrong with you?”

  The other did not speak, only went on shuffling towards him until there was nothing but wall behind Bartell. Nowhere to go. He tried to move past Nathe, but found a bulky clothes chest in his way. Bartell tried to vault over it, but his nightclothes caught on the chest’s fastenings and he tumbled ungracefully to the floor, cracking his kneecaps hard on the stone.

  “Fuck ... bastard ... fuck!”

  He scrambled to his feet, limping, favouring one leg, and made for the door. Cold hands grasped at him, tugging hard—harder than Bartell thought Nathe would be capable of.

  “Get off me, you old drunk,” he snarled, whispering no more. “I’m leaving, and you’d better do the same if you don’t want to end up on the Wheel in the morning.”

  Nathe growled deep in his throat. Bartell turned on the old cook, ready to fight, to lash out. But when he saw Nathe’s eyes and mouth, his courage failed him. The eyes were pools of shimmering b
lack water and the mouth was slack, drooling a spittle that clung like tar and oil to his peeling lips.

  “Gods’ bones!” Bartell croaked.

  Nathe lunged at him, dragging Bartell to the ground. His wounded legs gave out, and a cry caught in his throat as he fell. His skull cracked hard against flagstones. His head sang dark songs as he tried to master himself and throw off the weight of Nathe, who was crawling over him like a nightmare-born slug.

  Bartell tried again to cry out, but his mouth would not obey him.

  He could taste blood, feel delirium taking hold. The singing in his head crescendoed into a scream.

  Ah, once again, he thought, Lord Barneth is at his work, making bodies weep blood as tears. Perhaps, I will sleep some when he stops. When it all just ... stops ...

  And it did stop, as Nathe closed his drooling mouth over Bartell’s and breathed the stuff of the void into the Steward’s twisted soul.

  Chapter Eight

  Murtagh remembered the day Leste was found and brought to the tower of the City-Watch. Small and fierce she was, even then. She’d bitten his finger the first time he tried to touch her.

  He had been without children since Neal died, and Maerysa had pined for a babe, although they had tried and failed to bring another life into the world. Childbirth was becoming a rarer and rarer thing as each year passed. He had wondered if it was some punishment from the Gods for a wrong done to them. It must have been his own, he thought, for his wife was blameless.

  Then, Leste was brought to them, and they couldn’t have been happier. She was both daughter and son to him, as she cast aside the expected interests of a girl child for fighting and wrestling in the mud with the boys.

  As he raised her, he tried to harness her temper, channelling it with fencing, and lessons on a warrior’s grace and honour. Soon, she was a great source of pride to him as she entered the City-Watch at his side and became one of his most trusted aides in the execution of the Watch’s duties.

  She was his one joy after Maerysa was taken from him too soon by fever.

  No other member of the City-Watch pursued their duty with as much fervour as she, nor did any adhere as fiercely to the notions of honour that Murtagh had instilled in Leste.

  And this had been her downfall, he thought. She saw her failure to save the king from Khale and the abduction of Milanda as being her personal responsibility.

  No one else in the Watch would have taken the matter as hard as she.

  Leste, he thought, forgive me, for I taught you far too well.

  There had been difficulties as she aged. It became clear she preferred the company of women to men. There had been the matter of Yrena’s seduction. Leste could have chosen anyone other than Oman’s widow but no, she had to have the woman that would cause upset among the most people.

  Oman had been a loyal and true member of the City-Watch. His death had been most ignoble. Chasing down a child-thief who had stolen an apple from a market stall. It should have been a simple case of dragging the thief by the scruff of the neck to return the apple and swearing her in as an apprentice to the stallholder as penance.

  However, the child had a small knife. Although the wound she dealt Oman was not grievous, it was poisoned. Murtagh’s dear friend found an ugly death waiting for him. If he closed his eyes now, Murtagh could still see the blackness creeping over Oman’s jowls, his tongue becoming too swollen for the mouth that housed it, and his eyes turning leprous-white as cataracts spread to blind him before death set in and Murtuva claimed his last breath.

  His son, gone. His wife, gone. His friend, gone.

  And now, Leste and Colm.

  Khale had left him alone in the world.

  Without the brigand, the city might still be standing, its people breathing—and Leste would not be dead. He could not know for certain what had become of her, but Murtagh knew Khale was here and she was not.

  There could have been no other outcome if the two had met in combat. As much as he had trained and honed Leste’s skills as a warrior, he knew she could not have matched Khale.

  And why, then, am I going to fight this man myself?

  Because someone had to.

  Because there was no one else left.

  If Khale had not slain Alosse and kidnapped Milanda, the chaos that consumed Colm might have been averted. The riots. The deaths. Parts of the city burned to the ground. And Murtagh knew there were those in pay to Barneth who had fomented the people’s anger and despair. He watched his plan to have the city and its people safely delivered to Barneth go up in smoke and flame.

  And then came the morning when the armies of Barneth and Farness descended on Colm. There were few enough of the City-Watch and King’s Militia left to stand against them. In the pandemonium, Murtagh was unable to reach Barneth to broker a deal.

  Not that Barneth would have truly listened; there was no-one of high blood left to negotiate a surrender with him, only a Captain of the Watch with little standing.

  The city was sacked, and Murtagh saw the guilty man mounted at his side. Timoth the mage, the last man that Murtagh would have suspected and, now he thought on it, the first that he should have. Timoth’s family had died in Colm; at the decree of the king they had been burned at the stake. He had seen emotions warring across the mage’s face at the sight of so much death around him, but there was a strange, melancholy peace there as well, perhaps brought about by the knowledge that vengeance had been served.

  Murtagh watched Barneth ride away from the devastation he had wrought with Timoth at his side, and Murtagh fell in after them, matching his stride with those on foot. His life had been spared, more for having helped to swell Barneth’s coffers than for any notion of loyalty; although he was sure Barneth was having him watched. The fate of Colm had proven Lord Barneth’s word was worth no coin, and Murtagh knew if he survived Khale, he would doubtless ride the Red Wheel for the entertainment of Milius and his retinue.

  So ends the life of Murtagh, son of Gaughran.

  From nothing I came this far in Life, thought Murtagh, and to nothing I shall soon return.

  He stood at the door to Khale’s chamber, took a long breath, and entered.

  Chapter Nine

  Khale came to and found he was alone.

  His head ached and swam with the beginnings of a hangover. Fuck, there are some things immortality can’t do much about, he thought, ruefully.

  He sat up on the bed and made to rise when he realised he wasn’t alone after all. “Who is there? Come forward. Show yourself to me.”

  Shadows moved. He looked to them as a figure stepped into the light cast by the half-dead fire behind the grate.

  It was Milanda, or rather it was her shade: an apparition of wan moonlight with downcast eyes and low, slumped shoulders. Her breast was badged with the blood Khale had spilt when he slew her. No judgement showed in her bearing, only loss. No words of accusation sprang from her azure lips, only the unbroken silence of death.

  And at Khale’s next breath, the shade flickered, dying away, and the Wanderer saw another.

  The figure was Murtagh.

  “What are you doing here, old man?”

  “I might ask you the same question, Khale.”

  “Don’t bandy words with me,” Khale grunted. “Do you come here in the dead of night to kill me? If so, you make a poor assassin. You could have cut my throat in a trice. Why didn’t you?”

  “In the old days,” Murtagh said, “I might have done, but I needed to speak with you first.”

  “Really? You know a man such as I is more dangerous awake and alive than asleep in death? This will not end well for you.”

  “Perhaps,” said Murtagh, “but let us speak first. If one of us is to die and one to live, let there be one more conversation with the dead man before that happens.”

  Khale laughed. “Very well. You wish to speak with me, then speak.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came here for shelter.”

  “I’ll piss
on those words for all they’re worth,” Murtagh replied. “Shelter? I think not. You are a man of designs. You would not come to Castle Barneth simply for shelter, like a lost mongrel dog.”

  “Careful with your words, Captain, or this might become a very short conversation followed by a long, drawn-out death.”

  Murtagh went on, his fingers never leaving the pommel of his sword. “Very well. Go on, tell me, in truth, why you are here?”

  “To save a life.”

  Murtagh’s lips became a thin white line before he next spoke. “You lie. That is more than you are capable of.”

  “You think so?”

  “You live for blood, death, and battle. You kill, you murder, you slay. You do not save lives.”

  “I do as I wish and that is the whole of my law.”

  “What do you mean by that, brigand?”

  “That I am the monster you name me as—burning from the inside, hated, unloved and unbound. I bend the knee to no crown, no god, no king. Obedience to honour and grace has never been a sin of mine. I sin only against myself. And in so doing, I have undone my soul, opened it to much darkness, so much that pain has become but a whisper to me. My strength is in knowing I am damned and that I seek no redemption.”

  “And you think this makes you greater than I?” Murtagh asked.

  “How does it feel to be the last of your kin, the last of your people, to be alone in the world, Murtagh? How does it feel to be the man who allowed that to come to pass? No doubt you did it for reasons of honour and grace, am I not right? No doubt you told yourself that?”

  The old Captain glared at Khale, though the xanthic glaze of the Wanderer’s eyes made it hard for him to meet them for long, ere he started to feel sick in his gut.

  “It is a feeling I know of old,” said Khale. “My bloodline died out long ago, before the world was in its middle ages. Mother, father, brother, sister, daughter, son: these are words meant for others, not for me.”