The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  “Ha!” Maros clapped a hand to Henwyn’s shoulder, dropping the man down an inch as Henwyn’s knees buckled. “Fewer truer words were ever said, Hen. Who did you hire?”

  “Mill owner. Wymar.”

  Maros grumbled.

  “Aye, I know. I tried others before him, but none wanted to risk getting stranded past the fringes of the Fell with nowt but backwater hamlets thereabouts. Wymar was the first not to overly object. With greed as a motivator, no doubt.”

  “How easy the folk around here forget about the freeblades who do ‘em a good service just by existing in this town. When it comes to returning the favour a little—”

  “That’s not all, boss.”

  Maros issued a low growl. “What else?”

  “Wymar’s somewhat pissed that his workload’s been thinned out between the rest of his staff for what’ll likely be a good few weeks.”

  “What on Verragos is he dribbling about?”

  “Renfrey,” Henwyn said, by way of explanation.

  “Bah, that little weasel? I barely touched him. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, it seems he got home right enough after I poured that bucket of dirty water over his head to wake him. But, when he’d slept the ale off, he found that his finger was bust.”

  “His finger?”

  “So, he’s off work for a bit.”

  “Aye, and Wymar’s taking full advantage of it. I see how it goes. What’s the damage?”

  “He wants ten silvers for the work loss.”

  “Ten! That drunken shit Renfrey can’t be earning more than one silver a week!”

  Henwyn shrugged. “True, but mill owner claims that redistribution of work’s making added costs, plus covering damages for loss of skilled labour, reducing production levels, as it were.”

  “Skilled labour. I’ll give him skilled labour. Fine, ten silvers to the thieving bastard. And what about the wagon?”

  “Aye, well, Wymar’ll be driving us himself, plus he’s talking about food for the mules, wear and tear of the wagon wheels—”

  “Cherak’s furry cock!” Maros gripped the fence. The muscles in his arm bunched as he squeezed the timber.

  “Easy, boss,” Henwyn warned as the fence began to splinter.

  “Right. Right. Cut to the end, Hen. I’ll stay calm.”

  “Fifty silvers.”

  The timber ripped from the fence. Maros tossed it aside. An unamused smile split his face. “Violence makes me calmer.” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis.

  “Aye,” Henwyn sighed. “I’m just glad you had something other than me in snapping distance.”

  “Fifty silvers is a full ten percent of this job. That’s the whole lot going to Wymar if they don’t find the jewel, or it’s half my cut if they do. Gods, man, it would’ve been cheaper to buy a pair of mules for you to drive and a cart for me to ride in.”

  “Tried that, too.” Henwyn shrugged. “You know how few mules are around town. No one was willing to sell. Turn the tables around and I can’t say I blame ‘em. Can’t even blame Wymar for wanting to keep an eye on his beasts rather than trust ‘em in our hands.”

  Maros sighed. “Ah well, anything for friends, right? You go tell that thief of a mill owner that for the price he’s asking we’ll be setting off before sundown this evening. He’s got four hours to get his shit together and we’re on the road. I didn’t get this far in life by not trusting my guts, and my guts are saying that Jalis and the lads are in danger.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PATIENCE AND PRAYERS

  The early evening sun drew ever closer to the distant horizon as Dagra and his friends descended into the valley. The phantom spires and towers of the distant city sank from view, followed by the wall itself and its portcullis. It would take another hour to reach the wall, but night would be upon them shortly after. Dagra looked to the east, narrowing his eyes as he regarded a lone gawek tree nestled at the base of the rising land. Its twin trunks were curled around each other, the high boughs casting a long shadow onto the valley’s side.

  “We’re not stepping inside that gods-neglected place till morning,” he said. Seeing Oriken’s expression, he added, “No, it’s not up for dispute. I’m not setting foot in there unless we’ve got plenty of hours of daylight ahead of us. It’s bad enough we have to wander into some crypt, but I’m not spending ages trying to find it within a huge, dark graveyard when there’s no need.”

  Oriken shrugged. “It’s deserted, Dag. I don’t see the problem.”

  “Dagra’s right,” Jalis said. “We don’t know what’s in there. There could be a lyakyn nest for all we know. Or cravants that have adapted to living in ruins rather than among the trees. Or there could be ancient traps laid about that we wouldn’t see in the dark.”

  “That,” Dagra said hoarsely, “and the spirits of all those heathen dead that are probably haunting the place. Forget it. I call for making camp till tomorrow. We’ve come this far; what’s the rush?”

  “We’ll crest the valley and find a spot to camp,” Jalis said.

  “We may as well shelter under that tree.” Dagra nodded towards the gawek. “It’s as good as anywhere in this accursed region.”

  Oriken shook his head. “We’re almost there, and you’re getting cold feet.”

  Dagra cast him a hooded glance.

  “It’s a sensible call,” Jalis said, altering course for the tree. As Dagra followed her, she glanced back to Oriken. “Come on, let’s call it a day and tackle it with fresh energy in the morning.”

  “Fine, fine.” Oriken twisted the brim of his hat and trudged after them. As they neared the gawek tree, he said, “At least let me scout the entrance before nightfall. I promise I won’t go inside alone.”

  “No. None of us go off alone. Not this time. Besides, the entrance is barred. We’ll have to use the grappler to climb over.” Seeing Oriken’s disappointed expression, Jalis cast him a pointed look. “There’s a saying in Vorinsia: Eagerness ended the Edel.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It’s a phrase coined by the Prime Ascendant of the time when Vorinsia conquered the southern lands of the Arkh, first Sardaya, then Khalevali. The nobles – or Edel in the Vorinsian tongue – of Khalevali and my homeland were too sure of their countries’ strengths and mounted a revolt against the stranglehold of the Vorinsian forces. The higher nobility was crushed, but the Arkhus called for leniency, allowing their surviving family members to leave their estates and fortunes with their lives.” Reaching the shade of the wide-reaching gawek branches, she added, “No heroics, Oriken.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss, boss.”

  “Less of that.”

  “As you say, boss.”

  Jalis flashed him a finger. “Malan-gamir!”

  Oriken smirked. “I’d be happy to accommodate you with that, siosa, but can it wait till we’re settled for the night?”

  Jalis reached up and swatted the hat from his head.

  “Hey!”

  As he stooped to retrieve it, she cast him a warning look. “The divine rod, dear Orik, points to treasure and trap alike. Be careful where you point yours. Now, take a bowl and see if you can find us some fresh berries.”

  “I’ll use my hat.” By his tone, it was clear she’d hurt his feelings.

  “We’re not eating from that battered old thing,” Dagra said. “Bogberries taste bad enough without adding your stale sweat and hair into the mix.”

  Oriken shrugged and took a bowl from his pack..

  “Pass me the crossbow, lass,” Dagra said. “I’ll go with him.”

  Oriken glanced at him as he retied the pack. “That’s a bit excessive.”

  Dagra chuckled as he took the crossbow from Jalis. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t shoot you just for disobeying our leader.”

  “Don’t you start,” Jalis warned.

  Dagra inclined his head and gave her a discreet wink before turning to follow Oriken. Though he’d joined in the levity, it had
done nothing to quell his inner turmoil.

  Dagra leaned against the intertwined trunks of the gawek tree and looked across the silver-dusted nightscape. Wispy clouds dulled the rising orb of Haleth to a wan glow in the star-studded sky. Beyond the stones of the highway, pockets of marsh were signposted by tiny dots of fae-fire that glimmered upon the heath. All was quiet except for the subdued chirp and chirr of heath-hoppers, the distant croak of a frog, and Oriken’s soft snores.

  Dagra rested his elbows on his knees and, for what seemed the thousandth time since entering the Deadlands, he willed his thoughts to reach the gods. Blessed Aveia and Svey’Drommelach. Prophet Avato. Wise Ederron. Hear your devoted in his time of need. Shield him beneath your wings as he steps toward the darkness, and let your divine goodness extinguish the evil amid the shadows. Give him the strength to go where you are not, and from there to return to your domain. If it be your will, guide him home that he can serve you still, or, if it be your will, guide his soul to Kambesh to be reborn.

  As Dagra finished the prayer, Oriken snorted in his sleep and smacked his lips. Dagra glanced towards him and froze, his heart jumping into his throat. A squat, bipedal pale figure was leaning over Oriken, its featureless head pressed to the blanket over his torso, its handless blobs of arms padding at the wool. Dagra stared, transfixed by the featureless oddity

  Shaking himself from the trance, he whispered Oriken’s name. Although the creature showed no obvious aggression, he didn’t want to spur it into action by shouting. A basic rule of the wilderness was to never underestimate unfamiliar fauna or flora. Oriken mumbled and began to snore softly.

  Dagra took up his gladius and moved into a crouch. He crept forwards, but the creature was intent on nuzzling its face into the blanket. Drawing close enough, he thrust the sword. The blade sank deep into the creature, but it scarcely jerked. He withdrew the blade and stared open-mouthed at the lack of blood on its white skin, his jaw dropped further as he watched the wound seal itself.

  “Right, you little bastard,” he muttered, and launched a sideways swipe into its head. The gladius sank into the soft flesh with little resistance, but as the blade passed through, the tissue formed instantly back together. The creature raised its head and stood upright. It stepped away from the blanket, turned its faceless head towards Dagra, then plodded away.

  “Orik! Wake up!” Dagra rose to his feet, his eyes on the creature as it faded into the night.

  Jalis stirred and sat upright. A throwing dagger appeared in her hand as she scanned the darkness.

  Dagra grabbed Oriken’s shoulders and shook him roughly. “Wake up, damn you!”

  “Ugh…” Sluggishly, Oriken rubbed at his face and cracked his eyes open. “Did someone slip some mandrake into my tea?”

  “You didn’t drink any tea,” Jalis muttered, returning the throwing dagger to its pocket.

  Oriken lifted his head from the bedroll and glanced around. “What gives, Dag?” he said groggily. “Something out there?”

  “Yes! No. I don’t know. There was a…” But the strange creature was gone.

  Jalis gave him a wilting look. “Did you doze off and have a dream?”

  “No! I swear there was something…”

  “Hey!” Oriken pushed himself to a sitting position and stared at his blanket. “What’s this white shit all over me? Dag? I’m not joking, you better not have—”

  “There was a creature!” Dagra protested as Oriken snatched the covers away. “It was a… Ah, I don’t know!” He gasped in exasperation.

  “Disgusting.” Oriken pinched at his shirt. “It’s gone through.”

  “Let me see.” Jalis leaned over and raised his shirt to expose his torso. Three blobs of the sticky substance matted the hair at his abdomen, with red circles showing through the slime.

  “What in the…” Oriken grabbed the blanket and wiped the ichor away. “It feels numb.”

  Dagra’s eyes were drawn to the blanket. The parts of the wool where the creature’s head and arms had touched were beginning to disintegrate.

  Jalis had spotted it too. Hastily she drew a waterskin and a pouch from her pack and poured the water over Oriken’s middle. With the corner of the blanket, she dabbed as much of the sticky residue away from the sores as she could. From the pouch she took a moist leaf and placed it over the larger of the three wounds. “Nepenthe is the best treatment we have right now. With luck, the creature wasn’t venomous.”

  Oriken nodded his gratitude and glanced at Dagra. “What did it look like?”

  Dagra shrugged. He described the strange creature as best he could, but neither Oriken nor Jalis had an idea what it could have been.

  “We’ll have to be extra vigilant.” As Jalis took two more leaves from the pouch, to Dagra she said, “Well done for spotting it in time. There’s no telling what damage it might have done to Oriken while he slept. I’m guessing whatever it secreted contains an anaesthetic.”

  Oriken blanched as Jalis pressed the nepenthe leaves to his sores. “I owe you one, Dag. Look, I’m sorry for yelling.”

  Dagra grunted. “Forget it. Go back to sleep. I’ll take a longer watch and wake you in two hours. I want to do a quick walk-around anyway. If I catch sight of that thing without you in the way, I’ll cut it to pieces.”

  “Thanks,” Oriken said. “I doubt I’ll get back to sleep now, though.”

  “Then don’t,” Jalis said. “Just rest. If you feel strange, tell Dag or wake me up.” She glanced at his arm. “How’s the wound from the cravant?”

  Oriken clenched and unclenched his fist. “Much better.” He rummaged into the bottom of his pack and took out his fleece-lined, nargut-hide jacket and pulled it on. As he secured the row of clips along the front of the jacket, he glanced from Dagra to Jalis. “Hey, I ain’t taking any chances.” He lay back and placed his hat over his middle.

  Jalis returned to her blanket, and within a minute had drifted back to sleep. Oriken clasped his hands behind his head and gave Dagra a brief nod. Sheathing his gladius and checking the loaded crossbow, Dagra set off to begin a patrol.

  Corpses, cravants, wildmen and weird white blobs, he thought. And, come morning, very likely the spirits of the ancient dead. He sent another quick prayer to the gods and their prophets that tomorrow would not be another test. It was now a waiting game to see if – and how – they would answer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WATCHERS AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  Oriken chewed half-heartedly on a tough strip of jerky as he traced a finger across the tender sores on his belly. The nepenthe had done its job; the skin was raw but healing to the beginnings of scabs, and the numbness had faded by the time his watch was over. He took one of three boiled quail eggs from the cup beside the fire and cracked it open. He regarded the tiny egg sullenly. They were all he’d managed to find the previous evening, despite following the call of the elusive quail. Along with the last of their salted rations, a tiny egg each and a bowl of bogberries was their entire breakfast. He popped the egg into his mouth and swallowed it in seconds.

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “if we do find any cravants in the city, I’m eating one.”

  Dagra screwed his face up.

  “Hey, there’s no telling when we’ll have our next decent meal. I’m just thinking forward.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jalis said.

  “What, think forward?”

  She gave him a withering look. “Cravant flesh is tougher than leather, unless you let it simmer for a full day.”

  Dagra wiped his hands on his trousers and stood up. “Don’t tell us that’s something you learned first-hand.”

  “Actually, it is.” For a moment, Jalis’s expression turned distant. “It’s something of a rare delicacy in Sardaya, or at least it was when I was a girl. The winged cravants could be a nuisance if they ever came down from the mountains. My father often took part in a monthly hunt, and sometimes he would bring home a shank of cravant meat for the maids to stew.” She
looked at Oriken. “But we won’t find any in the city because we’re not going in there. There’s no need. During my shift, I checked the map Cela gave Maros. The Gardens of the Dead are directly inside the gate, so we’ve no need to go into Lachyla itself.”

  “Hm.” Oriken snatched his swordbelt from the ground and stood up. “That’s a real shame. I was looking forward to having a wander around in there.”

  Dagra sighed. “Of course you were.”

  “We’ll discuss it later.” Jalis sprang to her feet and clasped her hands together. “First, boys, I believe we have ourselves a jewel to find.”

  The perimeter wall towered overhead, as solid as the ages but for the occasional crumbled merlon and broken pieces of finion on the ground below. Oriken felt small and insignificant compared to the ancient, implacable stones.

  “If there were archers on those battlements,” he said, “there’d be no getting inside, not even for an army, let alone a trio of freeblades.”

  “Good thing we’ve got the grappler,” Jalis said.

  “And a good thing we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Oriken replied. “Eh, Dag?”

  “You hope,” Dagra said quietly.

  Oriken glanced along the wall to the rotten remains of a rope that dangled from the crenellated ramparts. “Something here look out of place to either of you?”

  Jalis frowned at the threadbare rope.

  “Been there for a long time,” Dagra said.

  Oriken nodded. “But I don’t reckon it’s as old as the blight. And if that’s a fact, it means we’re not the first to venture here since the death’s head was stamped onto maps.”

  He turned his attention to the lowered portcullis, its spikes biting into the dirt between the crumbled flagstones. The rusted iron bars were each as thick as his wrist. He stepped up to peer between them, and stared open-mouthed at the sight beyond.

  “The word dead seems a little superficial right now,” he muttered.

  Jalis was at his side. “Oh, my,” she whispered, then took a step back. “Well then, Orik. Care to do the honours?”