His Dark Empire (Tears of Blood)

by Forbes, M. R.

  Eryn thought about screaming, but she still didn't want the soldiers to find her. At least if this thing killed her, it would be doing so for food, not out of pure malice. Still, it didn't look like it wanted to kill her and eat her. In fact, it looked sad.

  "Mmmm," it said again, staring at her. "Mmmalik." It tapped on its chest. Was it telling her its name?

  "Malik?" Eryn asked. She fought against the natural fear that came from standing before something that looked so menacing.

  It took a deep breath in, and huffed it out. "Malik," it said.

  "Hello, Malik. I'm Eryn." Her voice was shaky from nervousness, but she managed to steel herself enough to put out her hand. She hoped the creature could take it in its own massive fist without breaking it.

  It didn't take her hand at all. It just stared at her for a minute.

  "Hur...hurrrr....hurrrttss," Malik said, looking down at the ground. "Huuurrttss."

  Eryn immediately forgot her fear. "What hurts?" she asked. "Did you hurt yourself?"

  Malik still just looked at her, as if considering something. "Huuurrttss," it said again. It put a finger to its eye, and ran it down its face, like a falling tear.

  Eryn remembered her bleeding eye. It always did that when she used her Curse. "No, it doesn't hurt." Did this creature really care if she was in pain?

  "Huuurrrttss," it said again. It held out its other hand and opened it. Resting in its palm was her knife. It looked like it belonged to a doll in its hand. "Taakkkee."

  Eryn was confused. The monster was offering her the knife back? She moved slowly, stepping forward and reaching out. She was sure it would catch her hand in its own, or pull the weapon back at the last second, but it did neither of these things. It just let her take the knife.

  "Thank you," Eryn said. She needed to leave. She needed to get back out into the woods and follow the creature's tracks back to where her things had fallen. She didn't want to lose the round stone, or the red crystal brooch. She was sure she would need them to find the answers that she sought. "I have to go," she said to it. "I have to leave."

  She looked around the small hole for the first time, and her fear began to overcome her again. All around the corners of the lair were bones. Large bones, small bones. Some were picked clean, others still had rotting flesh and muscle on them. In the corner was a larger pile of bones, spread out in a circle and covered with branches and leaves so that it looked like a bed. On top of the bed was a single book.

  "Huurrrttss," Malik said again. It took a tentative step towards her, so she backed way, closer to the bed.

  "You have a book," Eryn said, taking back control of her fear. If it had wanted to hurt her, it would have done it already. Wouldn't it?

  She had only seen one other book, the one her father had brought back from Elling City. She was curious why a monster would have a book. She wondered what it could be. "Do you mind if I look at it?"

  She took a few more steps back to the bed, and leaned over to retrieve it. It was a plain item, with a simple leather cover and a number of pages inside. Malik hadn't moved, so she opened it up and began flipping through it.

  There was writing, so much writing, but no pictures. She turned page after page, seeing the words but not wanting to take the time to read them. She needed to get out of there, to get her things and get out of the forest. She needed to go to Elling and learn what she could about him. Why was she wasting time with a book?

  "Plleeeeeassse," Malik said. He was still standing there, his head hung low. "Huurrrtttss."

  Eryn realized then that the monster wasn't asking her if she was hurt. It was telling her that it was hurt. She looked at it more closely, noticing how its eyes followed her head as she examined it for injury. "I don't see anything."

  "Mmmm..." It closed its eyes and started shaking. Eryn saw the tears began to pool on its cracked, grey face.

  She didn't know what to do. It was clear the thing was in pain, enough that it was making it cry. She looked back at the book, at the headings on each of the pages. She realized then that she was holding a journal.

  "Is this yours?" she asked. Malik didn't respond. "How can this be yours? Your hands are too big to hold a quill." Still, she thought maybe there could be something useful in the book. She wasn't the best reader, but it didn't hurt to check.

  She turned to the last entry, only about halfway through the book. It was written in sloppy hand, with big loops and splotches that made it more difficult to read. It also made Eryn believe that it had been written either at the same time, or after Malik had been injured.

  Year Of Our Lord: 423

  I fear this is the last entry I will be able to make in this journal. The change is occurring more rapidly now, and I can tell that both my body and my mind are becoming too inhuman to continue writing. I look back on the decisions I've made that led me here, and I wish to Amman that I had been more wise. I assumed that I was the one who knew better, and I have found the hard way that I was wrong. All of the rumors I had heard are true, and the pain and torment that I suffer with every day is becoming more and more unbearable. I wish I had the strength to take my own life, but I am too much a coward. I will continue to suffer, becoming a creature of no regard and with little memory of who I was before or am today.

  There is a reason they call it a curse.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Silas

  Silas stayed at Madam Toll's for two days. As promised, he was given a bed to sleep in, a warm bath, and a fresh pair of clothes - a blue tunic, brown trousers, knee high doeskin boots, and a sword belt.

  The sword Rappett left him with looked like it had been taken from a graveyard; the hilt had bits of rust on it, and the edge was chipped and worn. Even so, when he swung it into the corner of his bedpost, it dug in enough to kill. The thief had also gifted him with a faded black cloak that he claimed used to be his own, before had had given up active jobs and began organizing. It was a few inches too short, but it was enough to keep his face shrouded in shadow if needed.

  "Silas, honey, it's time to go," Evelyn said, knocking on his door. He had gotten over his first reaction to the prostitute after she had promised she wouldn't try to sell him on anything, and would keep her hands to herself. It turned out the woman held valuable wisdom based on her experiences, especially when it came to the movements of his soldiers through Root. 'If they don't fall asleep after, they talk,' she had said with a laugh. They had become fast friends.

  Silas cinched the sword belt tight, slid the sword into the leather loop, and opened the door. As usual, Evelyn was wearing just enough of something to entice a man to want to see her take it off, but give them enough of an idea of what she had to offer that they would request her in the first place. Silas barely noticed, his mind set on his escape, and his heart somewhere across the sea.

  "I don't even know if she's alive, whoever she is," he muttered to himself.

  "What's that, honey?" Evelyn asked.

  Silas put up his hand. "Nothing. Just talking to myself."

  "You do that a lot," she replied. "Better be careful, people'll start talking." She let out her throaty laugh and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I'm going to miss having you around. I don't get to talk to many men who don't want to have a roll first."

  Silas put his hand to her cheek, touching it gently. He looked her in the eyes. "Thank you. For your ear, and for your insight."

  It had been his conversations with her that had made him decide to head to Elling City. For one, the greater population would make it easy for him to disappear. For another, it was the seat of the Overlord, and so there was always ripe information to be had on the movements of his empire.

  "Take care of yourself, Silas," she said, as he walked past her and down the stairs. He passed through the kitchen to the orange door, and pulled it open.

  Rappett was waiting for him. "Silas." He handed him a small leather pouch. "Trevon got me nearly double for the sword. I thought I would share the wealth, to entice you to come back to
me if you come across another. I have a feeling you will."

  He hated to admit it, but Silas had a feeling he would also. His intention was to learn what he could about him, and then move to put an end to the cruelty of his reign. If that meant killing their ruler, so be it. It was as much as he deserved, for all of the lives he had ordered taken.

  He heard it in his head again.

  Murderer.

  "All the lives I have taken for him," he said softly.

  Rappett didn't seem to hear, he just started walking through the tunnels. "We'll meet up with a man named Barstow on Cistern. He's got a load of grain he's transporting up to Elling. As long as you don't mind spending most of the next night in a burlap sack, you should be able to make it out of Root without drawing attention."

  A few minutes later, they were standing in Rappett's shop, with the thief staring out through a crack in the door while wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

  "I feel like those ladders add another rung every week," he whispered. "There's Barstow now. When he gives the signal, make a run for the cart. Jump in the back, find the sack, and get in it. He's going to have to tie it off, and then cover you with a few bags of grain. It's going to be hot, heavy, and hard to breathe." He turned back, his face serious. "There's no guarantee you'll survive."

  Silas understood. "There's a guarantee I won't survive long if I stay in Root. I'll take my chances."

  "I knew you would. I just thought I'd warn you. There's the signal now. Go!"

  Rappett pushed the door open, and Silas took off towards the cart at a run. He saw Barstow waiting at the back corner, a large man with long black hair in a white shirt, dark pants, and a leather apron. He waved Silas on as he approached.

  Silas leaped into the back of the cart and found the burlap sack, hopping into it and then laying on the floor of the wagon, curling himself up so he could get all the way inside. As soon as his head was covered, he felt Barstow's hands on the sack, wrapping the top and tying it off with a rope. Silas took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. He was at the mercy of the merchant.

  "Just stay as still as you can, Morningstar," Barstow said. "I'm going to toss a few bags on you so the guards at the gate don't get suspicious. Once we're out of sight, I'll get them off and open the sack."

  Silas didn't respond. A second later, he nearly lost his breath when the first bag came down on his chest. A second landed on his legs, and a third was placed just next to his head. The burlap was pushed down into his face, and he fought to control his nerves. It was as Rappett had warned, and even he wasn't sure he would survive.

  "Here we go," Barstow said.

  He felt the wagon rock when the man climbed up into the front, and heard him call to his horse. The cart began rolling forward, slow at first, and then at a steady trot.

  Nothing would have been fast enough for Silas. He could feel the sweat forming on his face, his neck, his chest, and his legs. He could breathe, but it was shallow and labored, and he was sure he wasn't getting enough air to sustain himself indefinitely. They needed to go faster!

  Silas was feeling lightheaded when the wagon rolled to a stop, and he heard the clinking of his soldier's armor.

  "All carts require inspection, until the murderer is found," one of them said.

  "Be my guest," Barstow replied. "I hope you catch the bastard what killed the soldiers and disfigured the good Constable."

  He could almost feel them circling the wagon, checking underneath, looking over at the sacks of grain. At least they didn't climb aboard to move any of them.

  "More than disfigured him," the soldier said. "Just as much signed his death warrant. You're free to go."

  Silas didn't dare react, but he was still surprised that Penticott hadn't been lying about his predicament. Again he wondered how he had managed to escape him intact.

  "Thank you sir," Barstow replied. "A fine evening to you." He called to his horse again, and they were back on the move.

  Still, Silas was beginning to panic. Breathing was getting harder, and his lightheadedness had turned to dizziness. His heart was beating way too quickly, and his mouth felt dry while his body felt wet. He clenched his eyes closed and tried to hold every muscle, to keep himself from moving until they were well enough away. He wanted to cry out, to claw at the sack, to try to push away the grain that was covering him.

  He didn't. He held himself in check, and waited it out, each passing second like a lifetime of agony.

  Then the wagon stopped. The wagon rocked when Barstow hopped off, and then Silas felt the pressure of the grain coming off him. He figured if they'd stopped, he was safe, and so he let himself cough, gulping in the air and choking on it.

  "Okay, okay," Barstow whispered. "Try to quiet down. We may be out of sight but sound travels out here."

  Silas held his breath again, letting his lungs burn instead of coughing. When the sack opened, he shoved himself out and took a deep breath of the fresh, cool night air.

  "I never want to do that again," he said.

  Barstow laughed. "It ain't pretty, but it works. Now get off my wagon, I've got grain to deliver."

  Silas pulled himself the rest of the way out of the sack and hopped down from the cart. His legs were a little shaky under him, and he used the sword as a cane to hold himself up. "Thank you, kind sir," he said, bowing as best as his body would allow.

  "Take care of yourself Morningstar," Barstow replied. "Just because you're out of Root doesn't mean you aren't a wanted man. Be glad Rappett pays better than the new Constable." He laughed again, smacked Silas on the shoulder, and climbed back aboard his cart. He didn't look back as he rode away.

  Silas stood on the side of the road and looked around. He knew he was about a half hour's walk from the Root gate; not near far enough to be safe from soldiers or passerby who might recognize him. He was on the road to Elling, and the Baden wasn't far. In fact, he was near where he had gone swimming, and ruined his life.

  "Ruined?" he asked himself. "Or saved?"

  He didn't remember much, but he could piece enough together to know that at one time he was as much of a monster as the rest of his army. It was bad enough that he had aided in the capture of the Cursed. It was worse that he had ordered the deaths of more people than he could count, and that there had been a time when he had considered it only collateral damage.

  Murderer.

  The voice was in his head again. He tried to drive it out by thinking about his next steps. Get to Elling, learn as much as he could, try to remember who he was, stop him from killing any more innocents. He knew it wouldn't be that easy, but it was a start.

  Murderer.

  It was a different voice this time. A woman's voice. He closed his eyes, and his mind carried him back to the shore, watching the large ship set sail for the unknown lands on the other side of the sea.

  "I didn't know," he said.

  "What did you think would happen?" the voice asked. "Your own son. How could you?"

  "It shouldn't have been that way. It was supposed to be impossible." Silas stumbled forward along the side of the road, his eyes still closed, his head somewhere else.

  "Amman knows your heart. He saw how cold and hard it had become. How you saw nothing but loyalty and duty to a tyrant. He wanted to teach you a lesson."

  A lesson? He remembered. A lesson in loss, and grief, and guilt. A lesson in pain and suffering worse than anything he had endured as a soldier. A lesson he wanted only to forget, and had forgotten until he had run out of coin and been locked away.

  Murderer.

  His son had been Cursed.

  Murderer.

  He had found out.

  Murderer.

  He had ordered his death.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Eryn

  Eryn read the last line of the journal again and again, her heart beating faster with each repetition. It couldn't mean her curse. Could it?

  She dropped the book and looked at Malik, standing in front of her with tears in its e
yes, its expression pleading.

  "Plleeeeeassseee," it said again. "Huuuurrtttss."

  "I don't know what you want," Eryn shouted. The book had made her afraid, more afraid than even his soldiers.

  Malik jerked his head back at the noise, and started sobbing louder. "Pllleeeassseee."

  "By Amman, say something else!" She picked up the book and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and fell to the floor, open to the final entry.

  The monster looked down at it. A tear fell from its eye, landing below the writing. His hand moved out and pointed at the knife. "Killlllll," it said, the sound a flood of sorrow. "Killllll."

  She opened her eyes wide. It wanted her to kill it! She looked at the knife. She had killed his soldiers, and she had killed Master Lewyn, but they had been trying to harm her. This monster, this... thing that used to be a person, it hadn't tried to hurt her.

  She did the only thing she could think to do.

  She ran.

  Malik's head turned to follow her past, and then she was scrambling up the slope of dirt that led down into its lair and out into the forest. She looked down as she went, following his large footprints back to where she had lost her things. She would stop to pick them up, and then she would run, as fast and as far as she could. She knew so little about the world outside of her village, and all she had seen so far had been pain and sadness. What kind of world did she live in?

  She looked back while she ran, expecting Malik to burst out of its hole and chase her down, to catch her and crush her in those massive grey hands, angry for refusing its request. She decided that if it did catch her, she still wouldn't kill it, assuming the knife could even get through that tough skin. It was one thing to kill an enemy, it was another to kill an innocent.