by Scott Kaelen
As the stench of singed hair and roasting flesh wafted in through the opening, Dagra stabbed his gladius into the creature’s shoulder. It staggered backwards onto its fallen packmate; the fires that consumed the first caught the second, and with an agonised shriek it scrambled to its feet and bounded towards the rest of the pack, sending them scattering back towards the trees. The blazing cravant loped around the side of the cottage and the cries of the pack faded as they disappeared into the woodland.
The pallet was smouldering, smoke billowing into the room. Oriken had saved her pack and bedding in time and was busy stashing their gear away.
“Through the shutters,” Dagra shouted, glaring from Jalis to Oriken. “Now!”
They grabbed their gear and Jalis climbed through the shutters behind Dagra. There was no sign of the pack-hunters, save for the one on the ground which no longer moved, small puddles of flames dotting its seared back. Oriken hauled himself through the open shutters, gasping in pain as he slung his sabre back into its scabbard.
“You’re bleeding,” Jalis said.
He glanced briefly at the torn shirt over his forearm. Grabbing the sleeve, he tore it from the shoulder and wrapped the cloth around the wound. “I can deal with it later. Distance first.”
As the three ran towards the Kingdom Road, Jalis thought grimly, A walk in the countryside, indeed. Above them, the sky was painted in swathes of stars, while behind them, growing ever distant as they fled across the open heathland, the inferno of the cottage roared into the night.
CHAPTER THREE
MINE, ALL MINE
“That’s right,” Wayland said as he crouched alongside Demelza. “Steady your breathing. Track the rabbit with the bow. Hold, draw, and target. Once you’re certain, release.”
From a short distance to the side of the Warder and the girl, Eriqwyn crossed her arms and watched both Demelza and the rabbit. She will miss, she thought with annoyance. Her body is tense, and her focus isn’t fully on the task. Stifling a sigh, she shook her head. I’m First Warder, I shouldn’t be wasting time with this one; getting through to that thick head of hers requires too much patience.
Fifty yards away, the half-obscured rabbit moved out from behind the shrub into the open. It paused, twitched its nose and turned to look directly at Demelza and Wayland. The girl loosed the arrow; it flashed before the morning sun and thudded into the grass several yards short of its target. The rabbit burst into movement. Demelza’s petulant scowl traced it as it darted across the heathland. Taking her bow from the ground, Eriqwyn started towards the pair.
Wayland’s eyes widened and he rose to his feet. “Ha! Would you look at that? You missed with the arrow, but it seems you frightened the poor animal to death instead!”
Eriqwyn turned. The rabbit had cleared a good distance in seconds but now lay stock still, its white belly nestled amid the short grass. She strode over to the fallen creature and nudged it with her boot. Kneeling, she placed a hand to its chest. Its heart had stopped, and its brown eye stared sightlessly up at her. Wayland was right; it appeared the creature had died from fright.
She took it by its tail and strode across to Demelza. “The kill is yours,” she told the girl, handing her the rabbit. “However, it doesn’t count towards your tally. You need better focus. Where was your attention? On the kill, or elsewhere? It seemed to me that half your mind was not on the task.” She looked at Wayland. “Demelza needs more practice with non-moving targets until she can learn to give her undivided attention.”
Wayland gave a brief shrug and a nod. “As you say.”
“Well, girl?” Eriqwyn tilted her head at Demelza. “Aren’t you going to retrieve the arrow Wayland was generous enough to let you use?”
Demelza’s eyes looked as doleful as the rabbit’s had in life, and almost as empty as they were in death as she nodded. Handing the longbow to Wayland, she ran off to retrieve the arrow.
As Eriqwyn sighed, Wayland softy said, “Ah, Queenie. You’re too hard on the girl. It’s true she’s not the brightest sunfish in the rock pool, but she’s not without skill.”
“A skill it is beneath the First Warder of Minnow’s Beck to waste time in finding.”
“And what of me? Linisa and I are second only to you as protectors of the village. Is it beneath a Warder to help a young’un become a hunter? Of course it isn’t. That’s how the cycle continues and the village remains strong.”
Eriqwyn sucked air through her teeth. “There’s no need to lecture me, old friend. I know all of this. But that girl…” She glared at the returning Demelza. “Cursed on the day she was born, that one. There’s something about her I neither like nor trust. And how often do rabbits just keel over dead from fright?”
“It does happen.”
“But twice in two weeks? To the same girl?” She turned and glared intently at Wayland, but softened as she met his calm gaze. “Continue with her training, but, please, be sparing with your progress reports; I have no desire to know how poorly she is doing, nor how many creatures she’s managed to scowl to death.”
Wayland smiled and turned to the girl as she stopped before them, the arrow in her hand. “What have you learned so far today?” he asked her.
Demelza’s wide eyes glanced from Wayland to Eriqwyn and back again. Her mouth worked soundlessly before she answered. “I learnt…”
Eriqwyn frowned. “Yes, girl?”
“I learnt that…”
Oh, for the love of the goddess, Eriqwyn thought.
“Consider the question,” Wayland said, his voice full of patience.
Demelza stared at the rabbit in Wayland’s hand, and after a long moment she nodded and said, “I learnt that the rabbit ain’t so smart as the Melza.” Eriqwyn stifled a sigh and turned on her heel. As she stalked away, she heard Demelza add, “It’s still dead, though.”
“A marsh,” Oriken grumbled as he pulled his boot from the bog with a wet suck. He glanced over the vista ahead, at the open flatland, the sparse, crooked trees, the tufts of reeds and marshgrasses that dotted the whole landscape. “That’s just what we need.”
Clouds had gathered and the air was becoming hazy with fine rain. The marsh was impassable unless they wanted to risk wading through, which, to Oriken’s mind, wasn’t going to happen. Our sixth day on the road and we’re not even half-way to our destination, he thought, frowning down at his mud-covered boot. Still, first obstacle so far, if you don’t include those fucking primates. Beneath the bandage on his forearm the scratch from the cravant’s claw was beginning to itch.
“We’ll have to detour,” Jalis said, lowering herself to the overgrown remnants of the ancient highway and pulling her shoes off. “You said south and west, right?”
“Uhuh.” Oriken rubbed a knuckle against his stubbled chin to keep from scratching at his healing arm. “The coast is a lot closer to the west than the east. From here I reckon twenty miles, give or take.”
Dagra huffed. “And what good does that do us?”
Oriken shrugged, grasped the crown of his hat and took it off. “If we head east we could end up adding days or a full week to our journey. Besides, I’d rather cross rocky coastline or beaches than wade through a bog.”
“West it is, then,” Jalis said, taking her boots from her pack and pulling them on. “There’s no sense in guessing how much distance the marsh covers. We’ll follow its edge as close as we can.” She reached a hand up to Oriken and he helped her to her feet.
“What if it leads right into the ocean?” Dagra asked. “Fat load of good that’ll do us.”
Oriken ran a hand through his mop of hair and replaced his hat, giving the brim a brief twist. “In that case, we turn back and head east. Why do you have to presume the negative, Dag? None of us are happy about this. You need to lighten up a little.”
Dagra muttered under his breath and glared across the bog-riddled heathland.
“What’s that you say?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” Dagra’s face was a brooding mask as
he stormed off westwards beside the marsh.
As they followed behind, Oriken glanced down at Jalis. “He’s too tense. If there were any damned shrines to the Dyad around here, we’d have him in a better mood in no time.”
Jalis nodded. “I’m beginning to see how much we asked of him in joining us. I didn’t appreciate his concern back in the tavern.”
“He’ll come around. His faith is stronger than anyone’s I know, much to my lifelong annoyance. It’ll get him through.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jalis said, “though it sounds to me like you’re putting faith in Dagra’s faith.”
Oriken snorted a quiet laugh. “You got me there.”
The afternoon stretched on. The rain continued, light but relentless. Jalis and Dagra wore their half-mantles with the hoods pulled up, and Oriken had shrugged on his nargut-hide jacket. He was warm, but dry. Dagra rejoined them and walked to the other side of Jalis as the three wandered along the edge of the marsh. Conversation was sparse and Oriken found himself wondering what was truly ahead of them. They were just a couple of days beyond civilisation, but, despite the familiar Himaeran landscape, Scapa Fell had an atmosphere all of its own. The openness of the region made him feel unconfined but also uneasy, as if the land itself was aware of their presence and regarded them as interlopers. Which, of course, was nonsense.
Perhaps Dag’s mood is rubbing off on me, he thought, then shook his head. None of them were strangers to travelling and seeing only wilderness from one day to the next, but knowing that they headed deeper and deeper into a vast, unpopulated region – a region avoided by the living and abandoned to the past – he couldn’t shake the apprehension that was beginning to creep in. Was there really a city on the other side of the Deadlands? If so, then surely it was a shell of a place, crumbling into the ground and consumed by vegetation.
As he trudged along, the rain increased and began to drum down upon the brim of his hat, With Jalis and Dagra walking beside him in their own silent thoughts, Oriken considered the legend of Lachyla. The city was shrouded in vague history and embellished stories, but four years ago Oriken had heard it told best by a Taleweaver passing through Alder’s Folly. The man had stopped for a night at the Lonely Peddler back when Oriken and Dagra were fledglings to the guild and new residents to Alder’s Folly, living in the guildhouse with Maros and Jalis and the rest of the freeblades while the Peddler was still owned by Alderby.
At the turn of midnight, the tavern’s common room was heavy with the smells of woodsmoke, ale and hard labour. The freeblades gathered on their tables near the single front door. Maros always had to duck and squeeze through that door, even before the lyakyn attack had crippled his leg, Oriken recalled with a stab of pity for his halfblood mentor and friend. The babble of conversation quieted in the common room as a stranger entered and glanced around. The middle-aged man was every bit as tall as Oriken. He strode to the bar, flicked the tails of his blue and tan greatcoat aside and sprang deftly to perch upon the service counter.
The enigmatic Taleweaver smiled within his closely-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard. His gaze drifted across the rapt faces of the silent patrons. His eyes were vital. His chin jutted only slightly in quiet confidence. As the hearthfire crackled, he smoothed the folds of his longcoat and began to weave his tale…
At the height of the Days of Kings, Lachyla was a vibrant and bustling fortress city, with more might and influence than any other in Himaera. Its people celebrated death with elaborate ceremonies in the lavish burial gardens. The towering walls of the graveyard were the city’s first line of defence, as had been proven decades before when an invading army had breached the gates – or so they thought – only to find themselves surrounded on all sides by archers. The warring days were on the wane, but the fleeting mortality of men can turn the great game of kingdoms in a single generation, as a new liege rises while the blood of the old lays slick upon the gameboard. The golden age of monarchs was destined for a calamitous end, thanks, in large part, to the actions of one man.
The last king of Lachyla was Mallak Ammenfar. In defiance of the tyrannical sovereigns of the era, Mallak was a just and fair ruler and quickly succeeded in forming alliances with his northern neighbours. In the early days of his reign, an uneasy peace prevailed across Himaera, but, as his tenure wore on, his diplomacy gave way to a rising paranoia. Intent on making Lachyla a self-sufficient city-state, he began to close the trade routes with the northernmost kingdoms, and restricted the travel of his citizens. Mallak neglected the Lachylan Kingdom’s farthest settlements and focused only on the sprawling, fortified city.
After the death of his mother, he became reclusive and spent much of his time in the castle’s lower sanctum. None knew what he did there, not even the queen.
Without the trade of Lachyla’s metals, gemstones and other valued resources, the northern kingdoms fell into decline and tensions grew across the whole land.
Finally, hopeful merchants and envoys attempting to visit Lachyla from its allied neighbours returned home with reports that the city gates were closed and unmanned. Beyond those gates, they said, Lachyla’s burial gardens and the grand Litchway – once a constant babble of quiet activity – stretched empty all the way to the city proper, with not a mourner nor a groundsman in sight. Entry was barred to all outsiders, even those Lachylan subjects from the outlying settlements and fortresses. Of the cityfolk within, none were allowed to leave.
The kings of Himaera left Lachyla to its own fate, deciding against war as they heeded the advice of their returning ambassadors. An unnaturalness had settled over the city. Even the birds altered their course to avoid flying beyond the walls, perhaps sensing the wrongness in the graveyard – the withered shrubs and grasses, the disturbed soil of the graves…
The king’s secret activities beneath the castle were witnessed by no mortal, but Himaera’s ancient deity, Valsana, had no such restrictions. The goddess of life and death reigned separate and supreme above all the gods of the Bound and the Unbound, long before the enlightened days of the Dyad.
Valsana saw the king’s actions as a lust for rule beyond his station, and she judged him guilty of reaching for godhood. Her vengeance fell on the shoulders of not only Mallak, but all who dwelt within the city walls.
She summoned the denizens of the burial gardens from their resting places. The ancestors swarmed into the city and tore into their descendants, who were too terrified to fight back. Soon, every man, woman and child within the city had joined their ghastly ranks.
When the king saw his city fall into chaos, he ordered the last of his guards to bar the castle doors from within. On that first night, as the moans of the dead surrounded the castle, an elderly serving lady’s heart gave in to the horror. She passed quietly into death, and rose just as quietly. One by one, each of the king’s servants succumbed to the inevitable, followed by his family, and finally his guardsmen until only Mallak remained. For the living, the castle was their final sanctuary. For the restless dead, it was an eternal tomb.
Mallak locked himself in the throne room and sat upon the jewelled seat, listening to his dead subjects and family as they scratched upon the doors. After a time, they wandered away and he was left alone. There was a table with a modest feast within the throne room, but the food was spoiled and the wine turned to vinegar, and the king knew despair as he realised the depths of the goddess’s curse.
Days passed, and with neither edible food nor water to sustain him, Mallak grew weak. He turned to eating the rotten fruit and drinking the spoiled wine, but his stomach could take neither and he vomited them back out.
Time lost meaning in the windowless throne room, marked only by restless sleep upon the cold stone floor. Parched and starving, Mallak vilified the name of the goddess for what she had wrought upon him.
Sinking deeper into delirium, the king understood the error of his ways. All he had wanted was to protect his city and his people from the poison of the other kingdoms, but that protection had suffocate
d them all. The Himaeran Kingdoms were not rife with enemies of Lachyla. The creatures roaming the streets and the castle corridors were not the true monsters. The real monster, he knew, had locked itself in the throne room.
“Valsana have mercy,” Mallak whispered, his voice little more than a dry croak. But no mercy came. He brooded upon the throne, drained even of despair. As the murmurs of the dead tormented him, King Mallak Ammenfar slipped from this life into the next.
The goddess had granted that which the king so craved. Her gift to him was the complete domination of Lachyla, with not even the finality of death to usurp him – because the only true ruler of eternity… is death itself.
“We need shelter,” Jalis said from beneath her hood, drawing Oriken back to the present. “The clouds are darkening, and the rain is getting worse.”
“If my eyes don’t deceive me,” Dagra said, “that shelter may be just on the horizon.” He pointed into the hazy landscape.
Oriken could just see the shapes of several small structures amid the blanket of rain. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Aye,” Dagra huffed. “Probably.”
As they picked up the pace, Jalis said, “At least, with no woodland around, there’ll be no cravants this time,”
Dagra grunted his assent. “Let’s not get complacent, though. There’s no telling what other surprises the Deadlands might have in store for us.”
Oriken’s stomach growled. A roof and rest for a while would be fine right now, but I’d prefer a roasted rabbit. Haven’t spotted a potential lunch the whole day. As they neared the buildings, his hopes for either dissolved. The three wooden cabins were in advanced stages of collapse, and several smaller structures were scarcely more than piles of rotting timber. Roofs had partially fallen, doors were missing or lying half-sunken into the ground, and the interiors were overgrown and water-logged.
