by Plum Pascal
We climb out after a few minutes of thorough scrubbing and steal the first things we find that fit. It’s an easy task for me. I’m about the size of a young page boy, and with the half-cloak I steal and my hair pulled up and into a leather thong, I look as ubiquitous as I can get.
My men have a harder time of it. Purely human men don’t have the width of shoulders they boast, nor do they bulk so impressively without intense effort. The best they can do is don surcoats and ill-fitting trousers that are either too tight around the waist or end at their calves.
“What the fuck?” Nash says as he glances down at himself, the pants too tight and too short. I can’t help my light giggle and he looks over at me with a glare.
“Stop being so vain, Nash,” Leith says.
Nash turns the glare on his cousin. “Easy for you to say when you can button your breeches.”
We shred a bed sheet to make makeshift belts for our weapons as well as a belt for Nash’s pants, to ensure they stay up around his waist. Then, clean, armed, and still undetected, we creep through the corridors, hugging the walls. We’re forced to go slow, hobbled as we are by the mist. Every time we turn corners, I expect to find more hellhounds, or at the very least a contingent of guards.
Nothing but eerie silence meets us. The fortress doesn’t feel like a bustling hive of activity, with mindless drones swarming the place, as I’d half-expected.
Instead, it feels like a tomb. Empty and forgotten. Filled with nothing but decay and the promise of a reaper’s touch. Cold tickles up my spine, settling like a glacial premonition at the base of my skull. A cold, mocking voice whispers to me.
This is where you die, thief.
Oh, shut the fuck up, I respond.
The first few doors we try are unlocked and appear to be servants’ quarters. There’s little in the way of personal belongings; they’re mostly just filled with pallets with straw mattresses and blankets. Occasionally, one will have a pillow as well. In very rare cases, there are toys or books tucked into corners. But they all have one thing in common: They’re all glaringly void of life.
This fortress is enormous, probably double the size of the one in the werebear compound. It must take a hundred servants to man it, if not more. And yet there appears to be no one here. Has Discordia put all of her staff out into the town to guard against intruders? It seems like a foolish move. It’s arrogant in the extreme to believe that no one could breach her defenses.
Clearly such isn’t the case.
Had the villagers been a sacrifice to the hellhounds? Some of those nasty hounds are bloodthirsty and deranged, preferring to hunt men for the sport of it. But, no. I’d expect a little more blood, if such were the case.
The void of sound is beginning to unnerve me. You don’t really notice the ambient noise of a place until there’s a lack of it. I’m expecting a monster or perhaps a Gryphus huntsman to come up behind me and slit my throat any second. The ever-present mist isn’t helping—anything might be looming just beyond my line of sight.
“This place is just fucking creepy,” Nash mutters from behind me, voicing my thoughts almost verbatim.
“How are your trousers holding up?” I ask, just to lighten the mood.
Leith snickers.
“Keep commenting, Aurelian,” Nash responds. “I’m just going to take it out on you later.”
I swallow hard as memories of Nash thrusting inside of me revisit me with a thrill. “I’ll hold you to it,” I respond.
Nash chuckles as Leith elbows him in the ribs and shushes him lightly. Nash falls silent once more. Leith is right. We do need to remain silent. But a silly part of me wants Nash to keep talking, just so I can assure myself I’m not alone. I keep expecting to turn and find them swallowed up by the mist, like they never existed in the first place.
There’s a surreal quality to this place, one that makes me wonder if anything here is even real. If maybe I’m not real anymore. Just a shade, walking lonely corridors.
We ascend another flight of stairs and tiptoe down more hallways until we reach an armory. Nash seems particularly pleased by this and insists on a brief stop. Leith doesn’t want to risk the delay, but I agree with Nash. One can never be too prepared. The place is full to bursting with weapons of every sort: swords, halberds, spears, enormous battle axes that look fit to be wielded by a giant, and more. I restock my quiver of arrows and cinch a belt around my waist that can hold up to seven knives. I stuff each sheath with daggers and hide them beneath my cloak.
I smile when I think how much Sabre or Titus would approve. I’m more heavily armed than I’ve ever been outside of a Huntsman enclave. I almost feel like one of them.
Nash chooses a spear, brandishing it like it’s a natural extension of his arm. Sorren grins as he swings an ax, and I shudder a little at the sight. Even though I’ve definitely warmed to him, I can’t help but still be afraid of him, just a little. Heartless, he’s capable of very little mercy. And he’s still completely unpredictable.
We check every room in the corridor, finding a few more stuffed with furniture, but we strike gold in the last room. Literal gold. Dazzling, clinquant gold. Tapestries hung on every wall shimmer with the stuff. I blink in awe, because I know where these works of art have been stolen from. I’m just not sure how in the name of Avernus Discordia has managed to get her hands on them.
There used to be a kingdom on the edge of the Enchanted Forest, small but very wealthy, as this kingdom was the breadbasket of the seven principalities, producing most of the grain and herbal remedies the rest of us relied on. The queen, Leita Rose, had been arguably the fairest in the land, endowed with many gifts. She was a master weaver, creating tapestries of pure gold or silver, becoming the most sought-after artisan in Fantasia.
She’d surprised everyone by marrying a lowly farmer’s boy, Henry, instead of the prince she’d been promised to.
A year later, after she’d given birth to her daughter, Briar, a calamity struck her castle while everyone was celebrating the birth of her daughter. Every person at the feast was poisoned by the spurned Prince Payne, excluding his own retinue, of course. The heartless bastard had even conspired to murder the baby. If it weren’t for the intervention of Maura Lechance, the babe would have died, foaming at the mouth like the rest of her people. But saving the baby’s life still came at a price.
Briar never stirred again—she was stuck in an everlasting sleep, aging with each year that passed, though she never woke. The tales say she still lies in eternal sleep, even now, awaiting true love’s kiss to wake her.
What a load of troll toss!
Well, that’s according to the stories, anyway…
How is a spell supposed to recognize true love? True love is earned—it doesn’t just appear because one wills it to!
Regardless, the entire kingdom is encircled by thorny briars, stretching miles high and at least twelve feet thick. Even the most determined adventurer has been unable to get more than a few feet in. According to lore, all that remains inside are the decaying corpses of the people and the cursed Prince Payne and his fellows. They’re abominations now, fatally allergic to sunlight and any holy objects, condemned to drink blood for the rest of their days. They’re starving to death, I imagine.
Good riddance.
The tapestries aren’t the only things in the room that grab my attention, however. The place looks like a small horde a dragon might sit on. Treasures of every type imaginable are scattered throughout the room, leaving only narrow pathways with which to navigate the place. None of the others are able to follow me, their bulk making the tight corridors between treasures impassable.
A selection of wands is held in a bracket on one wall. On another, there are wooden puppets, of the sort carved by the master craftsman Carlo Gepetto. The tiny wooden golems are highly sought after, as they make valuable spies and soldiers. I skirt around them nervously.
There are vases full of gems, pottery, a tea set that appears to be snoring in one corner. A pristine, r
ed rose that’s trapped beneath glass, a spinning wheel, the preserved corpse of a dewdrop fae.
If this place is where the valuables are kept, I have to imagine Sorren’s heart must be here somewhere. I strain my ears, trying to hear a distinct beat. Is Sorren’s heart still beating? Or did Discordia stop it long ago? Has this trip been a waste? Has it cost Sorren what little time he has left?
I don’t want to consider any of it, don’t want to imagine I’m going to be the death of him, so I push the thoughts to the darkest recesses of my mind. I do a tight handspring, launching myself onto the surface of an intricately carved ebony table, and assess the rest of the room.
The mist is a little bit thinner here, with the door blocking most of it from leaking in. Through the wispy stuff, I spy the shape of a gilt mirror, propped against the far wall. I creep toward it after a second of thought. Sometimes, mirrors are enchanted to show your heart’s desire. There’s nothing I want more than to find Sorren’s heart. Maybe the mirror can point me in the right direction?
I grab a fistful of the gauzy fabric that covers the mirror and yank it free, letting it fall to the floor with a flourish. The surface of the mirror is a lovely blue-green and reveals my reflection as soon as I look into it. I react in surprise as soon as I see myself—the pageboy getup steals what little curves my body offers, and with my hair slicked to my head by the recent bath, I look even more boyish. I grimace at myself.
And then, suddenly, a face grimaces right back at me. Not my face. It appears to be a crimson Punchinello mask covering most of a milky pale visage. Silver eyes without pupils blink open and fix on me. I’m frozen, staring at the unexpected stranger in the mirror, heart beating so hard, the others must hear it from across the room.
The mouth just beneath the mask is thin, almost lipless, and just as pale as the rest of the face. The thing opens that pale mouth, sucks in a breath, and then screams.
“Intruders! Intruders, mistress! Thieves come to steal your treasures, to rend you asunder! Intruders!”
“Fuck!” I hiss as I turn to face the others. “Run!”
TWENTY-ONE
Nash
The mirror continues to wail even as we beat a hasty retreat back to the door.
I’m not sure how many guards Discordia has on standby, or why she’s waited so long to deploy them. I expected more backlash before now and never believed we would make it this far without issue. It appears our luck has finally worn off. Someone will be coming. In all likelihood, we’re about to become food for ravenous hell beasts.
We pelt down another corridor, searching for another staircase or a way out. We’re too far up to jump from a window, even if we pass one. It’s mostly arrow loops here, and they’re far, far too small to offer any sort of escape. They are large enough to let a thousand swarming insects through though.
The fuckers pour in from the outside, pulsing with light like fireflies, and a screaming sound like cicadas. They hurtle toward us at unbelievable speeds.
“Shit!” Kassidy hisses. “Shit, shit, shit! How the fuck does Discordia have those?”
“What are they?” I shout over the growing buzz of the insects.
“Cerise Wasps! That face in the mirror must have been Bacchus or one of his followers. He breeds them himself. They feed on blood wine. Or just blood in a pinch.”
I raise my hands to shield my face, but it’s no use. The wasps streak by, taking button-sized chunks out of any bare flesh they find. As soon as the scent of blood hits the air, they begin to swarm, the buzzing reaching a new fever pitch. They all began to converge on me and even my flailing isn’t enough to keep them off.
Kassidy hits me broadside and, unprepared, it’s enough to send me sprawling to the ground with her on top of me. Her legs lock around my waist and I buck up on instinct. It’s not really the time, but my body can’t help but respond to hers. She arches her back and then shocks the shit out of all of us by belching fire and black smoke into the air.
It doesn’t remove all the wasps, but it’s enough to sedate or kill most of them. The remaining buggers that stick to my skin meet a swift end beneath the heel of my palm.
Kassidy’s welcome weight lifts from my waist, though she still hovers close. She’s bleeding too, though only from a few spots on her neck and cheeks. I took the worst of the attack, standing at the front of our little procession.
Concern wells in her eyes as she runs her fingers over the ruin of my arms. A quick glance shows they’re littered with small but numerous bleeding gashes. And the wounds are quickly filling with pus. They emit a strong odor of putrefaction.
“Oh, Gods,” she pants. “Gods, Nash. You need a healer.”
“Don’t suppose you sucked one dry?” I ask, taking a weak stab at humor. Kassidy’s expression doesn’t flicker. She just looks at me with worry in those gorgeous eyes.
“Can we please move?” I ask.
She tears off the cloak of her pageboy getup and rips one corner into strips as quickly as she can, dressing the wounds with businesslike efficiency. She looks so delicate, it’s easy to forget she’s a trained killer. But she’s so much more than that. Kassidy is a thief, and a warrior and quite possibly one of the champions that will save us from the threat that looms on the horizon.
“Let’s go,” she mutters, as she places the ripped jacket back on and secures it in place with her belt. Then she takes off down the hallway. We follow behind her like three dark shadows.
Just in time, too. There are voices behind us and the thud of many heavy boots as Discordia’s men tromp up the stairs and spill into the corridors behind us.
“That was an interesting trick you pulled with the fire,” Sorren says, and even he sounds a little winded. “How’d you do it?”
“Hellhound,” she pants. “Drained one before it drowned. I can’t hold onto the energy for long, though. It’s too fucking hot. I feel like I’m baking in a desert right now. My insides feel hot and gritty.”
“It might be a good idea to release more smoke if you can,” Leith suggests, tossing a glance over his shoulder. The dark plumes of smoke she summoned before still hang in the hall, slowly eaten up by the mist. The mist has hungry fingers, and tears her magic apart piece by piece, like a child crumbling a cookie.
Kassidy nods and turns so she’s running backward for a stretch, taking a deep breath, she opens her mouth and forces more of the smoke out, leaving a trail behind her. The trail of smoke cuts a dark line through the mist. Shapes move around inside the haze of mist and smoke. I reach out an arm to snag Kassidy when she stumbles. She gives me a grateful nod. I return it with the barest hint of a smile.
Then we’re rounding a corner. One that should take us toward the portcullis, if this fortress is modeled anything like others of its kind. We come to a staggering halt when we’re faced with a wall of spears. Sorren almost takes one to the gut before he can stop his forward motion. Of the three of us, he’s arguably the fastest in human form.
Kassidy lets out a breathless shriek of fear and then cries to the soldiers; “Don’t hurt him!”
I don’t think the lead guard can even hear her. He has the same dull-eyed gaze as the other zombies in Discordia’s employ, the same glowing, white eyes. I’m willing to bet that were this soldier’s armor removed, he’d be sweating the sweet poison of Discordia’s making.
They inch closer, surrounding us on all sides. The tips of dozens of different spears jab into us. We can’t go for our weapons, not without exposing ourselves or our comrades to harm. The fog is still here, still cloyingly sweet and cold. My vision swims alarmingly, like I’ve just come up from water. My lungs burn, my head pounds, my mouth feels as gritty as sand.
The reason for the fortress’ echoing emptiness suddenly becomes very clear. Discordia needs her servants alive and unharmed. Only those fit to die have been sent in to chase us through the fog.
Through the poisonous, somnolent fog.
Sorren falls to his side first, more affected by it than the rest of us, d
ue to the poor condition of his heart. I’m struggling to stay on my feet and Leith fights a losing battle with gravity as well. One knee buckles, so he’s kneeling at the booted foot of a soldier. The second knee bends as well, and then he’s barely able to keep his head up.
I’m engaged in a vicious wrestling match with my eyes as I struggle to keep from letting the lethargy take me. This must be Long Winter’s Nap, a poison developed in Sweetland to be sold for painless death. A favorite of Shepherds if they have to force the issue. There’s probably not enough of it in the water vapor to cause instantaneous death. But death is coming, whether I like it or not.
A shape, tall and wraith-like, pushes through the crowd, which parts obediently to let the shape through. The shadow flips back the hood of its gown to reveal the face of a very beautiful woman. Pale, but with startlingly crimson lips that quirk in an enticing manner as she stares down at us. Cruel amusement plays out over that face, though the amusement never truly reaches her dark eyes. They’re like a pair of drowning pools in that pale face, intriguing and terrifying all at once.
Kassidy is the only one left standing, because I sink to my knees at last, trying, in vain, to cough the poison from me. I pitch forward, noting dully that the fog did nothing at all to fade my pain. On the contrary, it seems to sink into every divot of my tortured skin and start the stinging anew.
The last thing I spy before my eyes shutter closed, is Kassidy loosing one of her throwing daggers, aiming for those terrifying, unfathomable eyes.
TWENTY-TWO
Sorren
I know the hand fisted in my hair, long, witchy nails digging soft furrows into my scalp as she strokes me like a beloved house cat. I grew very used to her touch years ago.
When I dare to crack my eyes open, I find my surroundings changed from when I was last conscious. Again, this place is somewhat familiar. I spent at least one of my many weeks of captivity here, while the generals carved out their amusement on my body.
