To the south the city shone a path toward possible salvation. There was no choice at all, really.
Chapter Four
Nowhere to Run
Harper Ruttket
“They’re here!” Mearhan Slattery’s voice broke the silence and Harper looked up at the woman. Her red hair was a mess and her face was drawn and all sharp angles. The scryer’s words were meant for all, but she looked to Laram as she spoke. She’d betrayed them all, forced to by the gods, but none of them meant any more to her than she did to them. Laram was the exception. He’d planned to ask her hand in marriage before the betrayal. Now? Who could say.
Not that it mattered. There was killing to be done.
Harper rose from where he’d been sitting and raised his bow. He blew a harsh whistle and then used gestures to make his commands. The men with him nodded and obeyed, all reaching for their bows. They still had the advantage of height and they meant to use it.
From below them, the slavers came again. Not as many as before, but more than enough if the problems continued.
Brogan was off on his quest. The rest of the men listened to Harper, but they followed Brogan. It was a distinction that might have been lost on many, but not on Harper. Brogan was a leader. Harper was a strategist. Leaders were rarer things.
Harper looked over the side and down at the men coming his way. They were determined, say that for the bastards.
His first arrow split a man’s nose and stuck a few inches in. The slaver screamed and rolled down the steep incline. Whether or not he lived was unimportant. He’d be out of the fight at the least. Bump let out a scream and loosed arrows as quickly as he could draw. Some hit their targets and others missed, but in any event the man caught the attention of their enemy and Harper was fine with that.
His second arrow took a man in the heart. That one was dead for sure before he flopped bonelessly down the slope.
Janned, next to Bump in the line of archers, took an axe to his head. The man who threw it hooted victoriously and Harper killed him for his troubles. Hard to make a noise with an arrow rammed down your gullet to the fletch.
Janned was dead. He had never been a close friend but they had long been allies.
Bump and Janned had been close. He let out a scream and ran from the combat, heading for his surprise for the enemy. Two others helped him haul the large shield of burning embers to the edge and throw it over. The coals weighed less than a horse, but they burned brightly as they rained down on the invaders.
The problem with the slavers was that they lacked commitment. They were being paid, yes, but as a rule they were best at intimidating their enemies.
Mercenaries were paid to fight as well, but they did it with more passion and more savagery. Harper had long since become numb to the number of men he’d killed and tortured over the years. Brogan would likely have been horrified and his body count was close to a hundred.
Three arrows in quick succession. Two kills, one man who would be suffering for a great deal of time as a result of the arrow in his testicles. He might live, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.
Bump’s coals were the trick, really. When a few of the men got burns they were annoyed. When one of them actually caught ablaze, the rest of them broke away and retreated. The man ran around screaming and swatting at his leg as the flames chewed away his leather and fur boots and made it to his leggings.
Harper considered ending the poor bastard’s pain but decided against it. As long as he was screaming, he was keeping his fellow slavers from coming back up the mountain.
“Retreat, lads.” He spoke softly. The men nodded and grabbed their belongings, already stowed and waiting. By earlier agreement they headed south along the spine of the mountains. As soon as they were clear of the slavers the plan was to descend and head east.
Sooner or later their reinforcements were supposed to show up. They would gather when they could; until then it was only the handful that were there and not a single soul more.
Brogan might have worried for Mearhan Slattery. Laram surely would, but Harper did not care. She would come of her own volition, because no sane woman would wait around for the mercy of slavers.
There was no mercy from slavers. There was pain and rape and, only if one were particularly lucky, eventual death. Most were not lucky. Slaves were how they made their wage, after all, and these particular bastards were down a king’s ransom and looking for reimbursement.
They moved. Sure enough, Mearhan Slattery followed.
Beron
“Damn them all!” Beron roared the words and looked at the men coming down the mountainside. He couldn’t afford to kill the bastards as cowards. He needed the warm bodies.
“There are twenty-five men or less up there and you stupid bastards can’t reach the top of the mountain to hunt them down?”
One of the men – Durst? Dennis? Denst? He could not remember – shook his head. “They’ve poured hot coals down on us and they’ve thrown a fucking horse our way! We lost at least a dozen men to arrows just now. They have the advantage.”
Beron sighed. The man was right, but he was also an idiot. Argus was supposed to be coming along this way, having lost his slaves to the Undying. While he was tempted to try killing the man for failing, he was rather certain the bastard would prove hard to kill and far too costly to take down in any event. Better to keep paying him.
Beron pointed with a drawn sword. “Take your fucking men two miles to the north. Climb to the top from there, and then chase the bastards down!” Beron’s throat hurt from screaming. But the look on the fool’s face was worth it. Beron knew exactly how scary he looked when he was angry; he practiced to make sure he was terrifying. It was how he kept everyone in check. That, and the money he paid.
Having been properly chastised, DurstDennisDenst nodded and then started calling out to his soldiers with a properly terrified expression on his face. He was wise. He obviously realized Beron was perfectly willing to gut him to make his point.
“Your war does not go well?” The voice was in his head. He felt each word in his sword hand and in his skull, a vibration not unlike the buzzing of a hornet. He looked around and as he did so, the world seemed to change.
Gone were the Broken Swords, replaced by a valley filled with an explosion of plants that were, in turn, buried beneath a million types of blooms. In the distance, trees offered thick, fat fruit if one could get past the dagger-length thorns.
“Ariah?”
The demon stood before him again, long and tall and lean and deadly. His human face was in place, for which Beron was grateful. Having seen the impossible shape of the demon once, he had no desire to see it a second time.
“Yes. I am here.” He held a blossom that led to a thorny vine which seemed to be growing directly from the demon’s arm. “You have done well and offered me sacrifices. I am pleased. Now, I reward you.”
“Reward me? I have barely even begun to fight.”
“Just the same. You are my priest and you have offered up prayers. Unlike the gods, I answer prayers.” The demon’s face pulled into a smile that was a lovely lie. “You brought me three of the He-Kisshi. I deliver them to you now, along with an army of faithful servants. They were the Grakhul women. Now they are yours to command in my name.”
Just that quickly the images were gone and the mountains were once again in plain sight. Next to him Levarre was screaming. The man looked to the east and called for the slavers to unite and prepare to defend the camp.
Beron turned and looked in the same direction.
It was not a large army, but he suspected it would be enough.
The three forms at the front of the gathered force were once He-Kisshi. He knew that from the conversation with Ariah, but he suspected he’d have known in any case. They walked with the same otherworldly stride, and they were hooded things, their faces lost to shadow, their bodies seemingly covered in hardened black leather. There were three of them and they bore themselves with the same silent arr
ogance as the Undying.
Behind them came the newly reshaped Grakhul. It was fair to say he would not have recognized the vile things that came his way as the same women he’d meant to sell to the highest bidders. Those women had been pale and exotic and while not every one had been a beauty, they’d have fetched a sweet price on the bidding stands in Torema.
The things before him were still pale. That was nearly all they had in common with the Grakhul. All of them had mouths, but the lips were withered and drawn away from the teeth as surely as a dead man who’s been too long in the desert. Their gums were dark gray. Their chins sharply pointed. The rest of their faces were gone, hidden behind masks of iron that looked to be riveted into the skulls where eyes and nose should have been. There were no visible slits to allow the things to see, but they seemed capable of sight just the same. The bodies were as withered in appearance as the faces. The skin looked mummified, and the hands and feet, bare to the elements, had the look of long-dead things. As a man who had more than once nailed corpses to the outer walls of his home and spent time watching them dry or rot depending on the season, Beron was far too familiar with the sight.
Beron stared and did his best not to let his fear show. These were not natural things. These were purely the sort of creatures that he never wanted to be around. They moved when they should surely have been dead. They saw without eyes and perhaps even heard from the withered nubs that were their ears. The rich, silky hair that had been on the Grakhul – even when they were unwashed they’d had hair that could be groomed properly – was still there, but not all of it. A great deal had fallen out, or rotted away, or been torn from their heads – it was hard to say for certain. They were not bald, but that seemed more an oversight than something deliberate. The bodies had been tortured as they were changed. The scars showed where flesh and bone had been twisted like slightly softened wax or damp clay.
In the right hand of each of the creatures was a sword. Growing down the left arm of each, much as Beron had seen in the vision of Ariah, there was a thick vine covered in thorns. If he looked, he could see the roots of those vines riding up the arm and into the withered chests of the creatures.
Beron stared, barely breathing, as the things came closer. The three at the head of the columns did not speak, and he was oddly grateful for that fact. He suspected that their voices might be like Ariah’s true face: something best never studied carefully.
The first of the cadaverous women came closer and stared up into Beron’s eyes. He looked at the shaped metal that hid away half of the creature’s face and swallowed his revulsion.
“But tell me what you seek, Lord Beron, and we shall find it for you.”
“Brogan McTyre and Harper Ruttket. The men who captured you and sold you to me. I would have them brought before me alive. All of them, to the last.”
The thing turned its head and looked to its followers. The scream that came from that horrid mouth was a dry mockery of a human scream, and it sent shivers through him. The creatures were either dead or close enough that they should have been unable to walk, let alone move as quickly as they did.
They had approached in columns, sixty or more to each line, following the cloaked forms. Now they broke formation and ran. They did not all go in the same direction. Perhaps fifty ran for the mountains, crawling like dogs, hands and feet seeking purchase as their swords were sheathed in a nest of vines. Still more turned to the south and east, screeching as they ran.
Around him the slavers and sellswords did their best not to panic. They stepped aside as the creatures scattered, moving in what seemed a random pattern. Only ten ran to the north, heading for the far edge of the mountains perhaps. In less than three minutes the iron-faced things were gone from the area, charging to follow Beron’s orders.
The three hooded forms stayed where they were, not even bothering to look in Beron’s direction. He looked at them because there was something off about how they moved; he had to take a moment but he finally understood: none of them touched the ground. They were several inches free of the dirt and runoff.
Levarre turned to Beron and asked, “What are they?”
Beron looked back, his face blank of expression because he did not know if he should laugh, cry, or scream. “They are the answer to our prayers.”
Niall Leraby
Stanna called a halt to their ride and Niall looked her way, puzzled. They were within sight of the gates to Edinrun. He had been this far away on countless occasions, though normally to the west where the forest was at its heaviest. He could walk from here and be at the gates before the sun set.
He was about to ask why they were stopping when she called him over. He rode closer and Tully followed, a frown on her face.
“Niall, do they usually have the gates closed to your city?”
“No. Of course not.” He had not truly looked aside from seeing they were closer. Now he did and he saw that she was right. The gates were closed. When night came and the city was in peril – which had not happened since Niall was a boy – they would sometimes close the massive gates and only allow people through the small doors. The small doors would not permit anything larger than a horse through. A wagon could not enter the city without being examined carefully. There was a reason for that, at least according to his father.
This? The main gates were sealed. The small doors were shut. There were soldiers along the edge of the wall, looking down. They were barely noticeable, but some had banners and that was enough to let him know the soldiers were there.
There were soldiers outside the walls as well. Riding on their horses, driving people away from the gates, near as he could tell.
“Well, we’ll see about that.” Without another word, Niall started riding again, heading down the main road and moving into a trot and then a run without conscious thought. His meager skills as a rider were barely enough to keep him in the saddle.
He had not meant to lead the riders, but they followed him, Tully and Stanna and the rest. Even Lexx, who seemed inclined to not care at all about what happened to the others.
As they got closer, the riders in front of the gates grew more alert. They were warriors of Giddenland, to be sure, at least if their coat of arms and their armor meant anything.
The doors and gates were barricaded from the outside. Trees had been cut down and cut to fit as braces, ensuring that whatever was inside the gates would not come out. Niall scowled as he came closer, his insides twisting as if grabbed by a vast fist.
Giddenland was a peaceful enough place, but over the years the royal family ensured the kingdom stayed that way by building a proper army, possibly the strongest in the entire land. King Opar made certain of it.
One of the horsemen came forward, his helmet down, his spear at the ready. Behind him, half a dozen more were already lined up and more were moving into formation.
Niall couldn’t understand why at first and then he remembered the heads.
“My name is Niall Leraby, my father is Duke Andrew Leraby. Why are the gates blocked?” He tried to sound stern, but it wasn’t something he was used to, and the way the soldiers formed up left him little to be confident about. The slavers rode horses, too, but the guards were armored, and they had greater numbers.
Stanna pulled up beside him. She did not speak, but she listened.
The man at the front of the gathered guards said, “The city is under quarantine, Duke Leraby. The people inside have gone mad.”
“No. My father is the duke.”
The man lifted his visor. His face was bruised, with one eye swollen nearly shut.
“No, my lord. I must inform you that your father has gone to join the gods on the Final Battlefield. He was killed four nights ago.”
Niall did not fall from his horse. He certainly felt as if he might, but he did not. The air was stolen from his chest and his heart seemed to beat too slow and too hard.
“My father, you say?”
The man nodded. “I am sorry for your loss, my lord. It
is a grim thing; the city had gone mad. Whatever it is that takes place within the walls of the city, it is contained for now, but any who enter the city are driven mad as well.”
Lexx spoke up, his voice as soft as ever. “It is the Second Tribulation.”
“The what?” Niall asked.
“The Second Tribulation. The gods are angry and they are punishing the mortal world. Their sacrifices were interrupted. Until this is made right the world is in peril. The Second Tribulation is madness and the words of the gods say that, ‘Madness shall hold the strongest minds prisoner within the greatest fortress.’”
Stanna stared at the man as if he had grown a second nose. “What are you saying? You’ve never been to a church in your entire life, Lexx.”
Lexx stared at her for a moment and sighed. “Believe what you will. This is the Second Tribulation. The greatest city in the Five Kingdoms has gone mad.”
“King Opar has ordered the gates sealed. That is all that is known at this time, Duke Leraby.” The man looked at Lexx and frowned as he spoke. Niall understood the desire. There was something wrong with Lexx on a level that made him uncomfortable to be around.
Lexx, for his part, looked back at Niall and spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper and heard only by his traveling companion. “You have a title and land. Your title was never enough. You should have stayed on the wagon and spared yourself everything that is coming.”
Niall stared at the man without any comprehension.
“What are you talking about?”
“You were paid your coin. You left it in the dirt when you tried to escape. You should have stayed on the wagon. You would have been spared all of this.”
“Stayed on the wagon? What do you mea…” Comprehension sank in. “Were you there? Did you see everything?”
Niall was outside the gates of his home simply because the Undying had come for him. Thanks to Tully he’d escaped being one of the sacrifices for the gods. The only person who knew that was Tully. He’d shared the knowledge with no one else, not even Temmi.
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