by Bruce Blake
Khirro fell back as a second hand emerged from the widening gash. If the woman still screamed, he didn’t hear as he stared at the two brown arms protruding from between her legs.
Why is my baby brown?
The thought disappeared as the hands worked to extract the rest of the child. The top of a smooth brown head appeared, stretching the woman wide. Traders had come to Khirro’s village once from the far south with dark skin and shaved heads, but not like this. The child’s skin was mottled gray-brown, like clay or earth or shit.
The head came through, then the shoulders. Blood flowed around the baby as Emeline/Elyea’s body split to the navel to make room and she screamed over and over without pausing for breath. The child pulled free, dragging wrinkled legs behind it, rolled onto its back and yanked the umbilical cord from its stomach, severing the connection with the woman whose belly it had just left. The cord whipped around, spraying blood like a snake with its head cut off. Khirro’s dream-self watched, unmoving, wanting to help but unable to. The babe rolled onto its stomach and pushed itself to its feet.
The child standing before Khirro swayed slightly on plump brown legs. It no longer looked like a babe but like a boy of perhaps four summers. Its entire body—arms, legs, head, face—were all the same gray-brown, its features indistinguishable except by shape. It stared at him, its wet-looking skin glistening in the strange glow illuminating the straw mattress but nothing else around them. Khirro extended a tentative finger toward the child’s shoulder. Emeline/Elyea had stopped both screaming and moving; Khirro knew her to be dead, or close to it, but couldn’t take his eyes from the child.
His finger touched the child’s shoulder and sank to the first knuckle in the mottled flesh. Gray-brown eyelids blinked across gray-brown eyes, but the child made no other reaction. Khirro withdrew his finger. It came away covered with mud. Fleshy gray-brown lips parted revealing mouth, teeth and tongue the same color.
“Dada.”
Khirro woke with no memory of his dream of the mud child, only a heavy feeling of dread perched on his chest. Eyes still closed, he felt the wall close to his face. A chill at his back told him Elyea must have already risen. He breathed deep, forcing the constriction from his chest, and thought of wanting to touch Elyea and of encountering Ghaul’s hand.
Did he tell her?
He hoped not but, no matter how long he lay here, it wouldn’t change it. Better to get up and face it.
The dawn light cast little illumination into the hut as Khirro opened his eyes. Rain no longer beat on the broken roof, yet he still heard water flowing. They hadn’t seen the lagoon when they arrived, but Khirro knew it was nearby. It was the towering waterfall he heard.
As he edged toward wakefulness, Khirro gazed at the wall inches from his nose. No wonder banging his elbow hurt so much, the mortar hadn’t been smoothed when they built the hut. Bumps and valleys covered its surface leaving it rough and unfinished. He moved his head back to get a better look.
At least the bumps aren’t jagged, that would have really hurt.
He looked at the gray-brown wall constructed of dried mud—horrible workmanship that somehow still stood after so many years. Even a farmer like himself could have built it better than this.
The random bumps and valleys coalesced as Khirro blinked the last vestige of sleep from his eyes. Thoughts of masonry practices fled his mind and his dream rushed in, filling the void: the woman, the horrifying birth, the mud child. The same gray-brown eyes stared at him from the wall, the same mottled gray-brown face, its mouth open in a frozen scream.
Khirro scrambled away, bumping against Athryn asleep on the floor. The magician stirred, perhaps said something, but Khirro didn’t notice. Farther from the wall, able to see more of its surface, other faces became visible—dozens of them.
“Hey,” Khirro called struggling to his feet.
“What is it?”
Athryn woke instantly, hand on the hilt of his dagger. Someone stood in the doorway: Shyn or Ghaul, maybe both. Khirro didn’t look.
“The walls,” Khirro whispered as though not wanting to wake the children sleeping within. He pointed with a quivering finger. “The walls are made of children.”
He felt the others beside him but didn’t look at them. Instead, he stared at the wall composed of face after face. Some of the younger ones looked placid, calm, but expressions of pain and fear twisted the others, silent screams mortared in their open mouths. Khirro’s jaw dropped, but his eyes stared, seeing the faces while the children stared back, blind. The smallest was no more than a babe, the eldest perhaps seven or eight summers old. Their faces horrified Khirro. Corpses didn’t wear such expressions—these children had been alive when sealed in the mud.
The hand on Khirro’s shoulder made him jump. He’d forgotten his friends were there.
“We must go,” Shyn said, his voice low, controlled. “This place is evil.”
Khirro looked at him and saw sadness in his eyes, and in Athryn’s, too. Ghaul’s face remained stony.
“Where’s Elyea?” Khirro’s voice sounded small to his own ears, like all the energy had been sucked from it.
“Bathing at the lagoon,” Ghaul replied.
“Gather everything. I’ll get Elyea,” Khirro said.
He spun toward the door and took one step before more faces staring at him, more bodies supporting the walls, stopped him. A hundred anguished children pleaded to be set free from the walls by the door.
Khirro turned his gaze to the floor and hurried out into the ruined village, a sickly feeling clawing its way out of his gut and into the back of his throat. He glanced at the other huts as he passed and saw more of the same: innocent faces—invisible in the dark and the rain when they arrived—glared at him from every surface. Where the baked mud was broken, bones showed: smooth tops of yellowed skulls, pointed ribs, shattered thigh bones.
The sound of water tumbling over the fall and into the lagoon kept him moving. He had to get Elyea, spare her from these sights. He plunged through a thicket of trees and emerged on the shore of the lagoon to see the waterfall cascading over a rocky outcropping thirty feet above into water murky with silt and mud kicked up by Elyea’s bathing. She stood in the middle of the shallow pool facing away from him, water up past her waist, wet hair clinging to her freckled back.
“Elyea,” he called urgently. She turned to him, arms crossed in front of her bare breasts, and he remembered her face in his dream—agonized, sweaty. “We have to go.”
“But I’m having such fun,” she said with mock pout. “I love the water, it makes me feel free.”
She dropped her hands into the water, then threw them up over her head, splashing droplets into the air to sparkle in the rising sunlight. Khirro glanced at her breasts, but the memory of his dream, and of the children in the walls, kept his eyes from lingering.
“Now, Elyea. We have to go now.”
She covered her chest again. “Has something happened?”
“I’ll tell you when we’ve left.”
She’d waded only two steps toward shore when the first corpse floated to the surface: a girl of about eight summers, naked, her swollen body white and puckered with seaweed tangled in her hair. Others followed: a boy a little older, an infant. Elyea gasped. More corpses appeared bobbing on the waves created by the waterfall, and body parts—arms and legs and heads.
“Elyea! Hurry!”
She didn’t move. For half-an-hour she’d bathed with these things hidden in the mud beneath her feet and now she could only stare. The corpse of an infant girl, bald and sweet as a cherub even in water-bloated death, brushed Elyea’s leg. She screamed.
Khirro plunged into the water, heedless of the body parts bumping his legs. Corpses and severed limbs covered the surface of the lagoon, a few of them adults with lips and nipples purple against their bulging white skin; most were children.
So many children.
Elyea had stopped screaming by the time he reached her. She stood, eyes wide, h
ands clamped over her mouth as convulsive sobs shook her. Khirro forced a hand under her arm and dragged her toward shore, fighting his own panic as he cleared the way of corpses. Each step brought more bodies and limbs into their path, touching Elyea’s skin no matter how he tried to protect her. Fear and disgust stiffened her legs, made her difficult to move. Khirro glanced shoreward and saw his companions staring at the grisly scene.
“Find her clothes,” he yelled.
Shyn and Ghaul went immediately to the task as Athryn waded into the water, extending his hand. Elyea screamed again as the head of a young boy floated against her leg, dead eyes open, staring up at her. Khirro kicked it away but lost his footing. His grip slipped from Elyea.
Water closed over his head, murky fluid found its way into his mouth. He pushed against the bottom of the lagoon but his hand sank into mud and held him, sucked him down. The corpse of a boy in his teen years floated over him, hands seeming to grasp for his chest and the vial hidden there. Khirro kicked and struggled as the corpse sank toward him.
The boy’s eyes opened.
Bubbles exploded from Khirro’s lips as he yelled; the lagoon rushed in to fill his mouth. The corpse face loomed inches from his, its cheeks tinged blue; an eel-like fish slithered out of its nose and into its mouth. The corpse’s hand groped his chest: searching, caressing. Then a hand on Khirro’s shoulder pulled him up until his head broke the surface of the water. He spat and choked, expelling the rancid fluid from his mouth, his lungs. He looked into Athryn’s masked face and for a moment thought he’d been rescued by yet another corpse.
“Come on, Khirro,” the magician urged.
He released Khirro and swung his cloak over Elyea’s shoulders as she shivered violently. Khirro struggled to his feet, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as they moved to the shore, the waves their steps created setting the corpses bobbing and bumping against one another.
“Her clothes,” Shyn said coming to their side.
Elyea stared at the lagoon and Khirro looked back, too. The body parts and dead children had begun to sink back into the depths, their bleached bodies going under as though recalled to their watery graves
“Keep them,” Khirro said to Shyn. “We’ll stop for her to dress when we’re away from this place.”
A minute later, the surface of the lagoon was clear, all of the bodies, arms, legs and heads settled back like silt after a spring rain. Elyea watched until they were gone, then turned to Khirro.
“Did you know?” she asked, her voice so quiet he had to lean close to hear. “Did you know this would happen?”
Khirro shook his head.
“No. There are other things in the village. Things you don’t need to see.”
He looked into her eyes and saw the last fragment of her strength disappear. He scooped her into his arms as her knees gave way and hugged her close, her body shivering against his.
Athryn put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder.
“Let us go.”
Khirro nodded.
“Which way?” Ghaul asked, voice unshaken. Nothing on his face, in his voice or demeanor suggested the grisly sights affected him. It made Khirro both envy and pity him.
“West,” he replied steering Elyea away from the lagoon.
They moved in silence, allowing Elyea to dictate their pace as the sun rose above the trees. With some distance between them and the lagoon's corpses, they paused for her to dress. She moved slowly, distracted from the task, but they waited patiently; even Ghaul gave her privacy to clothe herself.
Shyn took the lead when they struck out again. Elyea walked beside Khirro, her arm around his waist for support.
“Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him on the cheek. Khirro shook his head.
“No need to thank me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“And I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“A messenger from the Isthmus fortress, my Lord.”
From his balcony, Therrador contemplated the city spread before him—his city. Curls of smoke rose from the chimneys of bakeries and smithies; people crowded the market and public houses. The city did a booming business during wartime, its population swollen by those seeking shelter in the capital, afraid for their lives. Beyond the walls, tents spread across the plains, set up by merchants from near and far come to fleece coins from the burgeoned populace.
“Send him in,” Therrador said without looking away.
He breathed deep, smelled the bread from the bakeries and the oily odor of the blacksmiths’ forges. The streets bustled, clean and tidy near the palace. The distant strains of a musical troupe floated on a breeze cooler now than it had been—summer had finally broken.
“My Lord.”
Therrador turned to look at the messenger and it took him a moment to recognize Sir Matte Eliden, a knight of at least sixty summers who fought beside them when Braymon won his crown. The six years since Therrador last saw him had not been kind; he looked every one of his years and more. The knight’s watery blue eyes always looked like they might spill tears into his neatly trimmed white beard at any moment.
“Sir Matte,” Therrador said, consciously adding a note of delight to his voice. He descended the short marble stair from the balcony and embraced the old knight. “You look well, old man. What news from the front?”
“The enemy’s ceased storming the wall, my Lord.”
“That’s good news. Push enough of them from ladders and they lose their taste for climbing, eh?”
Sir Matte neither smiled nor nodded.
“The siege continues from afar, hurling boulders and hellfire at the wall. We return the same, but for every one what falls, two more take their place.” He glanced around the room, eyes watering, then leaned forward and, in a quieter voice, said: “We fight an army of the dead, my Lord.
“So I’ve heard,” Therrador nodded and put his arm around the old knight’s shoulders, guiding him to a seat. “Rest, good sir. Would you like some wine?”
Sir Matte wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “We ran dry of ale a week ago. I’d welcome a tankard.”
“I’ll make sure the situation is remedied.” Therrador clapped his hands sharply and a squire appeared at the doorway. “Bring Sir Matte a flagon of ale, and a cup of red for myself.” The squire bowed and left. Therrador took a seat across from the knight. “Tell me, how is morale amongst the troops?”
“It’d be better with more ale, my Lord.”
“I’ll send some kegs back from my personal stores. How is it otherwise?”
The knight shook his head, sighed. “It taxes them, fighting an army of dead men. And there be the matter of the king.”
“What do you mean?”
The squire re-entered the chamber, a pewter mug of ale and a goblet of wine on his black tray. Sir Matte had the ewer to his lips before it left the servant’s hand. Therrador waved the youth away and took a sip of wine as he watched the knight drain half the tankard, ale dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Ah,” he proclaimed lowering the mug, froth in his mustache like icicles hanging in the eaves of a house. “That’ll put the hair back on yer balls.”
Therrador laughed in spite of himself. “Even your saggy old balls?”
“I’ll let you know.” Matte took another swig, then his face became serious. “Some of the men are worried the wall won’t hold.”
“We both know the wall will stand. It has done so for a thousand years, it will for a thousand more. But you mentioned the king. What of it?”
Sir Matte set his tankard on the table with a thunk.
“With the king by their sides, the men remembered why they fought against those monsters. Now he’s gone, and none know if he’s dead or not.”
“He’s dead,” Therrador said, voice flat. He swirled his wine in the silver goblet, weighing his words. “Braymon left instructions I should rule if he fell.”
The knight paused, mu
g lifted half-way to his lips. “This shouldn’t be kept a secret, my Lo... your grace. The men need to know for whom they fight.”
“And they shall, Sir Matte.”
He stared past the old knight, remembering Braymon, the battles they fought and the good times they shared. The plan was going perfectly so far, but he had to admit, he missed the man in spite of the wrongs he’d done him.
“I’ll come, bring ale for the men, and I shall bring them a king.” He moved his gaze to the knight. “You have given me an idea, Matte. They can watch as I become their king.”
“What do you mean, Ther... my liege?”
“My coronation will take place at the Isthmus Fortress. The men protecting the kingdom will see first hand for whom they fight.” Therrador smiled and raised his goblet; Sir Matte banged his flagon against it and drained the remaining ale.
And the Archon will see I have done as promised. Therrador’s smile faded from his lips. Gods help me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
They traversed hills and valleys, plunged through thick stands of trees twisted with brambles and ivy slowing their progress, but now the land flattened, the trees thinned and travel became easier. Each step carried them farther from the grotesqueries of the ruined village, each mile from it bettering their moods. Elyea slept fitfully, calling out sometimes, but she calmed. Khirro dreamed of the mud child the first few nights, but the image faded with distance until it no longer disturbed his sleep.
It was Khirro’s turn to scout, a task he didn’t relish, but only Elyea was excused from the duty—against her will. As he walked, he hummed a working song his father sang in the days before the accident, distracting himself from his discomfort. He didn’t remember the words—something about an aching back and a good harvest—but the melody remained. No other sounds disturbed the forest: no animals, no wind, no chirping birds or buzzing insects. Khirro stopped, listening when he thought he heard something, the melody halted halfway through a verse, but only the same silence that dogged them from the time they landed in the haunted land came to his ear. He held his breath, waiting.
