by Greg Keyes
“Easy,” he said. “You’re right. You have as much right to risk your life as I do mine. I just selfishly don’t want you to die. Be that as it may, if you know someone who can tell us if we have something important here or just a recipe for soup, please, go find out.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said again. “What will you do?”
“Well, I still have a job,” he said. “Marall will want a report tomorrow. How long will this take?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It depends on a few things. A couple of days at most.”
“Days?”
“I have to leave the city.”
“The city is surrounded,” he pointed out.
She smiled. “A girl can’t give up all her secrets right away. Meet you back here in a day or two?”
He nodded.
“Right,” she said, and started dressing.
“You’re going now?”
“It’s dark outside,” she replied. “And time is of the essence, right?”
“Yes,” he admitted. Despite his words, he wanted to grab her, tie her up if necessary. He had a terrible, wrong feeling in his gut, as if he were never going to see her again.
But he didn’t stop her when she went through the door. He walked along with her until their paths parted, and she gave him a little kiss on the cheek. Then he returned to his own apartment.
TWELVE
Mazgar gnashed her tusks as Brennus cleaned the cut in her back, but managed not to let any sound escape her.
“You’re lucky,” he whispered. “Another inch and it would have been your spine.”
“Luck is all I’m having lately,” she grunted back softly.
“Hey,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious, “at least we got through. I’m not sure how many of the others did.”
“I saw Falcus go down,” she said. “And Tosh.”
She closed her eyes as he rubbed something in the wound and began to bandage it. She strained her senses at the young night but couldn’t make anything out but silence. Too much silence—no night birds, no dogs barking or wolves howling—just the wind and the rustling of leaves as hundreds, maybe thousands of the wormies strode through the forest below the rock shelter they’d found at dusk. Brennus used his sorcery to further hide them, deaden the sound of their voices, their scent, the life force in them. It had exhausted him, and they still hadn’t been certain it would be enough, but the wormies had been passing for more than an hour without noticing them.
“At least we got a few decent meals,” she said. “And beer! I’d almost forgotten how good it is.”
“We’ll get another,” he said, “when we reach the Imperial City.”
“Yah,” she agreed. “That’s something to look forward to.”
“Divines,” Brennus breathed.
“Now, don’t get silly and start praying,” she said.
“No, no,” he said. “Look.”
She turned, and there it was, a blackness taking up the whole sky. Beneath it, long flickers like lightning reached up from the ground into the shadows, giving the illusion that something huge was walking by on hundreds of tentacles, only a few of which were visible at any given time.
“Each of those is a death,” Brennus murmured. “A soul, drawn up to feed that thing’s engines.”
“Do you think it’s caught up to the others?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he replied. “Not at that pace. We gave them a good head start. Those must be farmers or hunters who either never got the word or were stubborn, like those who stayed in Cheydinhal.”
“Idiots,” she muttered. “That’s likely them passing us down there right now.”
“Right,” he murmured. He didn’t sound good.
“You’re not dying on me, are you?” she asked. “I can’t reach back there, and in a few days it’s going to be itching.”
“There you go,” he said. “That’s incentive to keep living—the promise of scratching your knobby back.”
“Happy to help,” she said. “Now get some sleep. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“You’re the one with the wound,” he said.
“Yes, and it hurts too much to let me sleep, so do as I tell you, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. He curled up on the stone floor, and in minutes he was snoring.
Mazgar watched Umbriel pass, running the battle back through her head: the mad charge with the Cheydinhal guard, breaking the wormies’ line. That hadn’t been so bad. But then they had to set up their own lines on either side of the gate as Cheydinhal evacuated, and that hadn’t been so much fun. It took hours, and the wormies didn’t rest, didn’t retreat or regroup. They just kept coming, wave after wave of them. In the end their line had been rolled up, and Falcus gave the command to fall back and regroup on the Blue Road—just before he took a spear in the throat. She and Brennus had been driven miles from the road, and now here they were.
Suppose they managed to get around the army and rejoin what was left of the Cheydinhal guards and the Imperial company. Suppose they managed to stay ahead of that thing long enough to reach the Imperial City. What then? Another evacuation? Because, by Mauloch, what was going to stop that?
As dawn slid red claws up from behind the world, she saw that the wormies had all passed, at least for the time being, so she shook Brennus awake.
“You let me sleep all night,” he accused.
“I never got sleepy,” she said.
They packed quickly, starting off south and then turning west, alternating between jogging and walking, hoping to flank the main mass of the wormies. It was easy enough to see where they were, at least—Umbriel could be seen from any clear, elevated spot. But that also made it obvious they weren’t gaining very quickly on their objective.
Most of the undead army marched together, but they were constantly sending out hunting parties in search of more bodies to steal. Brenn and she avoided two successfully, but were spotted by a third a few hundred yards behind them as they were crossing some fallow fields. They picked up their pace, but Mazgar knew Brennus wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long.
She was right; less than an hour later he began to falter, and their pursuers started gaining.
She spotted a farmstead up ahead and steered them toward that. It was abandoned, so they broke in and barricaded the door. There were no windows.
“How many of ’em do you think there are?” Brennus asked as various implements began thudding into the door.
“Fifteen, I guess.”
“You can’t count any higher than that,” he said. “It could be thirty.”
“Could be,” she said. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? They can only get at us one or two at a time.”
“Oh, well, I can’t dispute that logic,” he said.
There was a splintering sound, and daylight and the edge of an ax appeared. Mazgar rested Sister, point down, and took long, deep breaths, watching as the door disintegrated and the leering, rotting faces of the enemy appeared.
“Stand back a bit,” Brennus said as the first of them came through.
“You save your strength,” she snapped, but it was too late. A sheet of white fire erupted from the earth a few feet on the other side of the door. She saw at least three of the things more or less disintegrated immediately. Half of one fell into the house, but it didn’t move again.
She glared at Brennus, but he was sitting against the wall, eyes closed, face pallid.
“All yours now,” he said.
So she waited until the eldritch flame began to subside and then placed herself in the frame of the door so Sister could swing freely outside.
But when the spell dissipated, she saw there weren’t any wormies left standing. She found herself regarding instead about twenty men in heavy armor, most astride barded horses. Two were dismounted, making certain the wormies weren’t going to get up. When they saw her, one of them doffed his helmet, revealing a dark Dunmer face.
“I’m glad
we got here in time,” he said. “We spied them chasing you from the hilltop a while back, but we had a lot of ground to cross.” He bowed his head a little. “I’m Ilver Indarys, and these are the Knights of the Thorn.”
“Mazgar gra Yagash,” she said, “Imperial scouts.”
“You were at Cheydinhal? You can tell us what happened? We were dealing with some of these things in the South—had no idea a whole army of them was coming down on the city. We found it empty.”
“Most evacuated,” she told him. “We held them back long enough to give the refugees a head start, and that’s when we got cut off.”
“Thanks Azura,” he murmured. “That’s good to know. They’re on the Blue Road, then? Ahead of that monstrous thing?”
“Yes, so far as I know,” she replied.
“We need to join them, then,” he said. “We have extra mounts, if you would like to ride with us.”
“I would love a horse,” Brennus said from behind her.
“Knowing you, you probably would,” Mazgar said. “Would you read it poetry first?”
“Whatever it wants to hear,” he replied.
“I was implying—” she began.
“Right,” he said. “I got it. Can we go now?”
THIRTEEN
When the stonework of the castle gave way to living rock, Irinja stopped.
“It’s farther down there,” she said. “There’s a gate, with a lock. I don’t have the key. And I … I won’t go any farther.”
“Why not?” Sul asked suspiciously.
“I don’t want to see him. Or hear him,” she replied. “They say he wails and curses.”
“Who comes down here?” Attrebus asked.
“No one,” she replied.
“Someone has to feed him.”
She shook her head. “He quit eating after the first year. We kept bringing him food for another year more, but it always went untouched.”
“And after he hadn’t eaten for a year—he was still wailing and cursing?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, Irinja,” Attrebus said. “This will be far enough.”
Her face seemed to darken in the light of the lantern and she looked down. Sul rolled his eyes and stepped a bit away.
When they had a bit of privacy, Attrebus gave her a little kiss. “I hope you’re not sorry about last night,” he said.
“I’m not,” she replied. “It was nice. I just don’t want you to think ill of me.”
“I couldn’t do that, Irinja.”
“I know you’re a prince. I know I was just a dalliance, and I never expected more. But I don’t want you to think I’m like this all the time. That I’m a bad person.”
“I think you’re an excellent person,” he said. “Now—are we straight on that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Just be careful. I don’t want you to get into trouble over this.”
She shrugged, then kissed him lightly on the lips. “Goodbye,” she said, then turned and quickly retreated back up the stairs she had just led them down.
“That wasn’t wise, letting her go,” Sul said.
“Well, I don’t make a habit of punishing people for helping me,” Attrebus replied. “Anyway, it’s done.”
“It certainly is,” Sul said.
“Look, we know where the sword is, at least. You can thank me for that.”
“I suppose I could thank parts of you, anyway,” Sul replied. “Your brain not among them. Never mind—let’s go.”
The passage was roughly hewn, and continued down into the bedrock the castle stood upon for another sixty feet or so, then opened into what appeared to be a natural cavern. The gate Irinja had mentioned was there, but when Attrebus pushed experimentally on it, it swung open.
He drew his sword and looked around, but on his side of the gate there was no place to hide.
“I don’t like this,” Sul said.
“Why? I don’t hear any wailing or cursing, do you? He’s dead. He’s been dead for years. Probably whoever tried to feed him last didn’t bother to lock the gate.”
“I still don’t like it,” Sul said. “You stay here. I’ll go and find the sword.”
“If he really killed all those people—”
“Weren’t you just arguing he’s dead?” Sul snapped.
“I was, but you don’t believe it.”
“Just stay here and watch the gate.”
“Fine. But if you need help—”
“Right,” Sul said, waving him off. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Attrebus watched him stride off into the darkness, until all he could see was the lamp he carried, growing smaller. Then Sul must have passed behind something.
He rubbed his head. The hangover wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and for that he was grateful. Irinja’s attitude about their little tumble together was fortunate, because now that he was sober, he couldn’t shake the nearly unfamiliar feeling that he had done something wrong. He’d been with a lot of women, and never had any sense of guilt. That had changed now, and he knew that against all reason, he felt some sort of loyalty to Annaïg, a woman he had never seen in the flesh, much less been with. He was going to have to sort this out, because he didn’t like feeling guilty. But he understood that it couldn’t happen until they were actually together, face-to-face. As it was, the relationship was too fantastical.
His ruminations were interrupted by the poke of something sharp in his back.
He leapt forward—away from the pressure—and spun, drawing his sword, Flashing.
The gate slammed in his face. On the other side stood Nirai Sathil. She smiled.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I should rather ask what you are doing, sneaking around down here,” she replied, wagging her finger at him.
“We were just exploring the castle,” Attrebus said, “and we got a bit lost.”
“A bit,” Nirai replied sarcastically.
“Look, I can explain,” Attrebus said. “I’m—”
“Attrebus Mede,” she interrupted. “You’ve come here looking for the sword, Umbra, and you seduced—or think you seduced—our dear little Irinja to find out where it is.”
“Irinja isn’t to blame,” Attrebus began, then stopped. “ ‘Think’ I seduced?”
“I sent her to you, of course,” Nirai said. “After she told me what you wanted.”
Attrebus closed his eyes, glad that Sul was out of earshot.
“So you know what I want,” he said. “What do you want? Your father spoke to Sul yesterday, and he apparently didn’t know who I was.”
“That’s because he doesn’t know,” Nirai said. “He doesn’t know about this either. He’s still protecting Elhul. After what he did! And he’s determined not to let any servant of Clavicus Vile take the weapon.”
“Why?”
“My father made certain pacts with Vile, and in exchange the prince asked him to find a certain sword in Morrowind. What Vile didn’t tell my father was what would happen when someone picked the sword up. The rest I think you know.”
“I don’t serve Clavicus Vile.”
“I don’t care if you do,” she said. “That’s my father’s obsession, not mine. I want this to be over with, finally. If you can get the sword from Elhul, you can have it, for all I care.”
“Then why this game? Why lock us in?”
“It’s just tidier this way,” she said. “And if one of you ends up picking up the sword and losing your mind, you’ll be safely jailed.”
“We won’t pick it up,” Attrebus said.
“Can’t count on that,” Nirai said. “Sorry. Good luck.”
From somewhere in the back of the cave he heard Sul shout, and then an unholy sort of shriek.
“You’d better hurry,” Nirai said.
Cursing under his breath, Attrebus turned away from her and, holding his lantern in one hand and Flashing in the other, made his way as quickly as he could over the rough floor in the direction
Sul had gone.
The howling continued, a nerve-shivering, inhuman rasp that sometimes broke into what might be words in a language he didn’t know.
Another few moments of stumbling brought him to the source.
Sul had dropped—or maybe thrown—his lantern; it had shattered and was now a brightly burning pool of oil. In the ruddy light, Elhul Sathil was hideously revealed.
He had skin but no flesh, and the skin fit him so tightly his bones were all plainly revealed. As he continued his terrible shrieking, Attrebus could see the apple of his throat bobbing, reminding him of a lizard or a frog. There was something strangely childlike in his gestures, the way his almost white eyes darted hesitantly between Sul and Attrebus.
Attrebus almost didn’t notice the sword, it was so much a part of Elhul, just an extension of his arm with its tip resting on the floor.
He glanced at Sul long enough to see the dark stain spreading on his arm.
“I told you—” Sul began, but Elhul was suddenly bouncing toward Attrebus with unbelievable speed. There was no attempt at technique; Umbra chopped down toward him like a cleaver. He met the blade with Flashing’s flat edge.
The blow drove him to his knees and sent arrows of pain into his shoulder. Gasping, he flung himself forward in an attempt to tackle the apparition—but although Elhul looked as if he only weighed sixty pounds, he felt as if he were made of cast iron.
Elhul boxed his ears, and Attrebus stumbled back, his head ringing exactly like a bell. Elhul came after him. Lightning crackled about him but he didn’t miss a stride.
Elhul lifted the black sword to strike again, and Attrebus drove Flashing into his solar plexus. Or tried to; the point didn’t break the withered black skin. Still, the impact sent Elhul back a step so that his swing smacked into the cave floor rather than Attrebus’s skull. Attrebus cut hard at his foe’s head; it felt like hitting a statue. Elhul shook it off as Attrebus backed away. Elhul stopped screaming, and then spoke.
“Take it from him,” Elhul said, his voice curiously high-pitched, but imperiously demanding.
