The GodSpill

by Todd Fahnestock

  “That’s an...order,” he managed to say. “There is nothing more to protect here. You can see our condition as well as I.”

  “Do not say such things,” Deni’tri said.

  “An order,” Mershayn restated. “A yard of sharp steel in the chest.”

  “I cannot do that, my lord,” Lo’gan said in his captain’s voice. Intransigent bastard.

  “You are...useless,” Mershayn said, then stopped speaking for the pain. He rallied and tried again. “I ask you for one thing, and you deny me. You will die for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing,” Lo’gan murmured. “I will die for my king and his brother. I will die for my country. I will die with honor.”

  “Much good it may do you.” Damned stiff-necked guards. Mershayn looked away from the pair of them, anywhere but at their loyal faces. Light leaked down through the wooden planks overhead. Every now and then, the booted feet of Bi’sivus or one of his family thunked overhead. There were no windows in this accursed tomb, only that crooked door on the far side of the room.

  He closed his eyes, drifting, the silence and the dripping mixing in his head. He wanted to sleep. Maybe he did, riding waves of pain into the darkness, but he didn’t go far. When he heard the voices, he opened his eye again.

  Their “benefactor,” Bi’sivus, was speaking to someone at his front door. The voices were hushed, muffled by the planking, but Mershayn could guess what was happening. The gold had arrived. Bi’sivus would make his fortune today by betraying a king. At least, that was what Bi’sivus dreamt.

  More likely he would earn a dagger across his throat, and the throats of each of his family. Sym wouldn’t want any witnesses to what happened here today.

  Both Deni’tri and Lo’gan sensed the same thing. Lo’gan drew his short sword and whispered out the crooked door to his men, “Stand ready. We die here today for the king. But we will take them with us.”

  Deni’tri drew her own blade and unhooked her hatchet. She gave a meaningful look to Lo’gan that he ignored.

  Then it began.

  Like an avalanche of rocks, booted feet stormed across the planks overhead. The light in the small room danced as Sym’s guards invaded The Gutted Fish.

  Ironic. In moments, we’ll all be gutted fish.

  He watched the light that slipped through the slats. It was all fuzzy, but he imagined he could see the Godgate above him.

  What would that be like?

  Boots thundered down the stairwell and shouts went up from the two hapless guards stationed outside. Steel clashed against steel. Mershayn clenched his teeth against the nausea and drew his hand carefully close to his body, groped for the dagger at his waist.

  But he didn’t have a dagger anymore.

  He let his hand go blessedly still once more and continued to stare forward. He did not want to watch Lo’gan and Deni’tri’s deaths. They were stupid and stubborn, but they were good guards. He didn’t want to witness their slaughter.

  If I’d been with Collus in those early audiences, I could have stood in Sym’s way. If I’d been a little less self-involved, this would have turned out differently. We could have taken steps together.

  He could have. Collus would eventually have listened to Mershayn, if he had persisted. But Mershayn had wasted his time courting the wife of Collus’s ally. No doubt Vullieth sat with Sym right now, waiting for Mershayn’s head to be brought back to the palace.

  A cry of pain arose from the conflict on the other side of the door. Lo’gan’s men could not prevail. At least a dozen men had thundered across that floor and down those steps. Even Mershayn at his best couldn’t stop that many.

  Lo’gan and Deni’tri stood tense on either side of the door. They both looked as though they wished to fling it open and join the fray, but Lo’gan had assessed that hallway. Only two could fight efficiently. His two guards would do maximum damage before they fell, then Lo’gan and Deni’tri would pin their hopes to getting the rest as they tried to come through the door.

  Another shadow passed over the planks overhead, silent. He wouldn’t even have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking upward. The figure crossed the room as though flying.

  A cry of fear arose among the grunting melee. Then a cry of pain. And another.

  Clashing swords faltered. More screams. A body thudded against the wall. Armor clanged against the stairwell. All sounds of swordplay ceased. Another death cry filled the air.

  Then, silence....

  “Wh—Who are you?” someone asked beyond the door, one of Lo’gan’s guards.

  “I am not your enemy. I have come to aid Mershayn,” came a woman’s voice. “And the king,” she added.

  By Thalius... It’s that vampire woman. Silasa.

  “You...how did you...? It’s not possible...” the guard babbled.

  “If Mershayn and the king are to live, they must be taken from this place,” Silasa said. “More of Sym’s soldiers are on the way.”

  “I—I can’t let you in there,” the guard said.

  “You cannot stop me.”

  “Let her in,” Mershayn said, but he wasn’t sure Lo’gan or Deni’tri heard him.

  “I—I... Captain Lo’gan?” the guard said in a plainly frightened voice. “I don’t know what to do, sir.”

  “Let her in,” Mershayn demanded, louder this time. Both Deni’tri and Lo’gan looked at him. Mershayn closed his eye and fought the urge to throw up.

  Lo’gan hesitated, Mershayn heard the door unlatch. His nausea subsided, and he opened his eye.

  Lo’gan had his sword at Silasa’s throat. She came forward, flicking a glance at the sword, then ignoring it. Her long braid had come undone, and her black hair spilled over her shoulders. Her black skirts, shirt, and corset flowed down her like one long shadow. Her gaze fell upon Mershayn, and she smiled. “Well,” she said. “You’re alive.”

  “Silasa,” he croaked.

  “I told you not to go. This time, you are coming with me.”

  “The king cannot be moved,” Lo’gan said. “He clings to life by a thin thread. Mershayn is not much better. He is stricken with vertigo. If you move him, he will vomit.”

  “Then he will puke all the way, but he’s coming.”

  “And just who are you?” Deni’tri appeared from behind the door, her hatchet cocked back, her sword pointed at Silasa’s back.

  Silasa paused. She didn’t turn, but she looked over her shoulder. “Calm yourself, guardswoman. If you would save this man, you’ll help me. If you stay here, you will not survive the night.”

  “Some of us don’t think we should survive the night,” Mershayn mumbled.

  Silasa’s eyes flashed. “Some of you are idiots.”

  “Agreed,” Mershayn said.

  Lo’gan pushed his sword point against the flesh of Silasa’s throat. “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because I am the only one coming to help you tonight. Because I walked through Sym’s thugs. Because I could walk through you just as easily,” she said. “But if these three reasons do not satisfy you, then know that I am a friend of Medophae, sent to see you through this night.”

  Lo’gan looked astonished. “You know Captain Medophae?” he asked. “Has he returned?”

  “No. But events are moving in Teni’sia, and Medophae always manages to be at the center of events that are moving. I would not be surprised to see him soon.”

  A small smile snuck its way onto Lo’gan’s face, despite himself. “I, too, have noticed this about our young captain.”

  “Young indeed,” Silasa said.

  Lo’gan lowered his sword, and Deni’tri lowered hers as well. She rehooked her axe onto her belt.

  Silasa moved past Lo’gan. Her dusty black skirts swished as she knelt next to Mershayn. He angled his head to meet her stare, and the vertigo seized him. The room spun.

  Her cold fingers touched his good cheek, and he wanted to recoil, despite himself. With her other hand, she lifted the bandage away from his ruined cheek. “It is a b
ad wound,” she murmured. “I am sorry that you must endure it.”

  “You are the soul of compassion,” he grunted.

  “But you will survive.”

  “The real question is: should I?”

  “Self-pity?” she asked. She put his bandage back in place.

  Mershayn closed his eyes. “Collus is dying. It is my fault. I will die with him.” He looked up at her, hoping she would tell him that Collus would, in fact, live.

  She did not.

  “So you will die here with your king and let Sym have his way with Teni’sia?”

  “What do I care about Teni’sia?”

  “What indeed.” She frowned. “Some wish their entire lives for the loyalty that surrounds you now. Be worthy of it. When the truth comes to light about the assassination, this will be a kingdom divided. Sym will make himself king unless someone stops him. Captain Lo’gan knows this. The young woman with the hatchet knows this. They will give their lives to serve their people. What will you give?”

  “I did not ask them to drag me here,” he growled.

  “And I did not ask to be one of the damned.”

  “What would you have me do?” he growled and immediately regretted the volume of his voice. It ripped through his head.

  “Topple Sym. Make him pay for what he has to your brother and to Teni’sia.”

  “Yes, I will simply march back up to the palace.”

  “No, you will come with me, and I will take you to a safe place.”

  “I am ruined,” Mershayn breathed, feeling desolation wash over him. “I cannot see. I cannot fight. I cannot even stand.”

  “I will carry you.”

  “I will never hold a sword again. Tell me how I can bring this fight to Sym and his horde.”

  “A fast sword is not all you have to give.”

  He fell silent. Drip drip drip. The puddle behind him continued to collect its water.

  “What of Collus?” he asked. “Do you have some supernatural cure to heal his wound?”

  “No.”

  He clenched his teeth. His throat tightened, and he could not speak. His brother would die.

  Fine.

  A recklessness overcame him. He didn’t care about the pain. He didn’t care about anything. Let them drag him all over Amarion. Let the lands spin on a stick. Let him puke his guts over the cobblestones of The Barnacles. If Collus deserved to die, Mershayn deserved to suffer for it.

  With a surge of strength, he pushed his heels against the mud floor. He braced his back against the wall and forced himself to stand up. The room danced into a frenzy. He grabbed for the rock wall, but he found nothing. The room spun. He fell—

  Strong, cold fingers gripped his arms, held him upright.

  “Hold your fury,” Silasa said. “That is the strength you will need.”

  Mershayn vomited across her frilly black dress. She did not flinch, and she did not let him go.

  “Carry the king,” she said. “Follow me.”

  The room finally steadied, and Mershayn watched Deni’tri’s blurry figure kneel beside Collus. She touched his cheek and withdrew her hand quickly. She craned her head about to look at Lo’gan.

  “Captain...” Deni’tri’s voice trailed off.

  Mershayn stumbled forward with Silasa’s help. The room bucked and spun. His stomach flipped, and he vomited to the side, but there was nothing left. The dry heave wracked his body. He fumbled to a kneeling position next to his brother.

  Deni’tri’s hands joined Silasa’s in steadying him, and when the vertigo left him, he stared down at his dead brother. Mershayn closed his bad eye so he could see his brother clearly one last time.

  The skin of his face was pale wax, and he wasn’t breathing. His eyes did not dart beneath closed lids. Mershayn reached out one hand and touched Collus’s cold cheek.

  He bowed his head and ignored the spinning. He clenched Collus’s cool hand and pressed it to his forehead. He did not know how long he stayed like that, but Silasa finally interrupted his mourning.

  “We must leave,” Silasa said. “Come. Buy the chance to avenge him. Stay here, and there will be no revenge against your brother’s killer.”

  Mershayn let Collus’s hand go and pressed his fingers into the packed earth floor. The light sheen of mud was cold on his fingers. He waited for another long moment, shaking with anger.

  Finally, he reached out. Silasa gripped his hand. “I’ll go. I’ll fight Sym.”

  “Good—”

  “On one condition.”

  Silasa paused. “Very well.”

  “You help me,” he said.

  “That is why I am here,” she said.

  “Not now. Later. Until Sym is dead. You help me. Swear it.”

  Silasa raised her chin, and Mershayn held her hand in a death grip. She’d hefted him like a bushel of wheat once, carried him up steep stairs as though he weighed nothing. But she did not pull her hand away. “Mershayn, I cannot promise—”

  “Swear it! Or leave me here to die.”

  “My services are pledged to another. I cannot assure you that—”

  He threw her hand away from himself. “Then leave. I belong here with my brother.”

  He waited, striving to stay upright in a room that insisted on leaning to one side, then another.

  Softly, Silasa said, “Very well, Mershayn. I swear. I will help you as I can.”

  “No. You will come when I call.”

  She hesitated. “Very well.”

  “Don’t be so dour, vampire,” he said. “My death will free you from your vow. I wager your service will last a day, three at most.”

  “We shall see,” she said, scooping him into her arms and leaping up the steps.

  37

  Mirolah

  The salt spray flecked Mirolah’s face. Clouds soared above her, and the late fall sky was as blue as a robin’s egg. She gripped the rail of the bow and leaned into the wind. Another day of traveling had taken them to Corialis Port, a village east of the ruins of Belshra, and they’d hired a boat to take them south along the coast. Zilok’s trail had turned south over the Inland Ocean, and Sniff stood next to her, nose to the air. He would yip to her, and she would tell the captain which way to go.

  A seagull paced the boat, flying to starboard and keeping level with her. He squawked at her, and she touched him lightly with the fingers of her GodSpill. The seagull had followed them all the way from Corialis Port and Mirolah had become fond of him. He’d started alone, but now a dozen gulls swarmed around the small ship.

  Though they still followed Sniff’s nose, Medophae was sure now that they were going to Teni’sia. Zilok Morth had sent the bakkaral that had killed Tyndiria. The undead spirit knew there were others in Teni’sia that Medophae cared about. Medophae said Zilok was too strategic a thinker not to capitalize on that. If he was going to create a trap, he would do it there.

  They’d been at sea all day, sailing toward a trap.

  Sniff barked. “It goes a little left and farther south.”

  Straight toward Teni’sia.

  Stavark made his way up from the back of the ship where he had been talking with Medophae. “Nature breathes easier when you are around,” he said, looking at the seagulls.

  And may well twist in torment because of me, she thought of the putrid forest with its deadly trees, but she didn’t say it.

  “You do not seem angry with him anymore,” Mirolah said, glancing at Medophae.

  Stavark watched the flat horizon. The sun would set in a few hours. “He is not the same as when I first met him. He was a frightened, curled creature, bent inward so that he could no longer see himself. A creature that fears its own nature is a dead thing that walks.”

  “And now?”

  “He looks at the present with fire, and the future with hope. The legends tell of him this way, a sun that lights the way.”

  “Except we are not suns, Stavark.”

  “The Rabasyvihrk is.”

  “He is a man. If
you expect too much of him, you will disappoint yourself.”

  “That is saying a tree is the same as a stick. It is a lie to expect the same from him as I would from another. He is not just a man.”

  “Then we do not see the same person when we look at him.”

  “No,” the quicksilver answered softly.

  Was Stavark right? He only said things because he felt they were true. And the truth was that Mirolah had hated the moment she’d first met Medophae in Denema’s Valley because she realized just how far beyond her he was. She’d wanted him to be her equal because she wanted to love him. But Stavark was right. Medophae wasn’t a god, but he was closer to being one than he was to being a man.

  She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “When did you meet Elekkena?” she asked.

  “Ah,” he said. “I knew of her when we were children, but we were never friends. She was the girl who disappeared. But then she returned to us recently, shortly after I did. She arrived while I was recovering from the wounds of the darkling fight. When I told her of my quest to find Orem, she insisted she come along, to help.”

  “That is all you know? She is a bit of a mystery.”

  Mirolah knew why Elekkena had come. Unfortunately, the other answers she wanted wouldn’t come from Stavark. He knew less than she did.

  They both watched the water, but Stavark did not speak again. Eventually, he made his way back to his berth.

  Soon after, she left as well. Sniff’s yips indicated a straight line toward Teni’sia. She told him to stay at the bow and alert her if the trail took a turn.

  Mirolah found Elekkena and invited her to the relative privacy of the bow, and they continued her threadweaver lessons. Elekkena struggled to see the threads, and the more Mirolah worked with her, the more she was sure Elekkena had not been the one to heal her. She remembered seeing the threads so quickly, then the smaller fibers, when she had begun training to learn threadweaving. She remembered devouring those lessons in mere hours, then working through more and more complex spells. She tried not to be frustrated as Elekkena tried and failed over and over again until the sky darkened from sunset to night. The sailors lit lamps and put them on hooks, two at the front of the boat and two at the back.