by Scott Kaelen
With a grin, he shrugged out of his pack. He fished into his pack and produced a long coil of thin rope tied at one end to a hefty grappling iron.
“Step back.” He coiled the rope around his arm and stepped to the wall. Treading on the loose end of the rope, he sized up the battlements and began to swing the hook. He released it and it sailed upwards, clipped the edge of the wall and continued on before arcing down and snagging onto the walkway above. He tugged on the rope to ensure the grappler was firmly stuck, then hoisted his pack back onto his shoulders.
“Ladies first?” he said to Jalis.
“Why, thank you, sios. So kind of you to offer.” She took the rope, sprang nimbly onto it, then made her way up the wall.
Oriken watched her ascend until she scrambled over the top. He turned to Dagra. “After you.”
Dagra didn’t reply. His face was set as he stared up at the wall. He took hold of his Avato pendant and pressed it to his lips before grabbing hold of the rope. He began to hoist himself up, the fronts of his boots finding purchase in the ruts between the stones. Oriken could hear him grunting with exertion by the time Dagra hauled himself onto the battlements.
The wall had the slightest of slopes as it tapered towards the top, but it scarcely made the climb any easier. With Oriken’s long limbs and the weight of the pack on his back, his shoulder muscles were begging for mercy by the time he reached the top. Sweat trickled down his face as he hoisted himself through the crenellations. Without pausing to rest, he pulled the rope up and began winding it into a coil.
Dagra squatted beside him, a troubled look on his face.
“Hey,” Oriken said, “we’ll get the job done. We’re freeblades. It’s what we do.”
With the rope and hook stashed in the pack, Oriken stood straight and took his first clear look over the Gardens of the Dead and the city of Lachyla far beyond, and he understood Dagra’s concern.
Oriken rubbed a hand over his stubble as he looked at the countless rows of headstones within the graveyard’s vast expanse. Cracked clay vases stood or lay near their grave markers. Partially-collapsed stone statues dotted the bleak vista, the arms and heads of some gathered at the bases of their plinths. Rarer were the larger statues of bronze, standing as sentries beside ornate crypt entrances. Leafless husks of trees that should have been in full bloom at this time of year cast shadows like reaching fingers across the ground. The stain of centuries blanketed everything.
“Lost for words?” Jalis asked.
“For once,” he admitted.
The rise and fall of the grave-studded terrain led all the way to far-distant walls encasing the dead in a rectangle of tall stone. The distant battlements were tiny from here, but the wide, central Litchway bisecting the graveyard stretched all the way to a second portcullis in the centre of the far wall.
The Litchgate. Oriken recalled its mention in the stories.
As dismal as the Gardens of the Dead were, the city beyond was something else entirely. Heavily fortified walls surrounded the cityscape. The nearest buildings were hidden from view behind the graveyard’s perimeter wall, but as the ground gently rose beyond the portcullis, a main thoroughfare snaked between rows of domed, slanted and crenellated structures towards a grim fortress. The castle’s bulk dominated the cityscape, crouching atop a low hill like a colossal, implacable sentinel, ready to lurch into action at the first sign of intruders.
“And here we are,” Oriken muttered. “Hello, Lachyla Castle.”
“Not the most welcoming of sights, is it?” Jalis said.
“Hard to believe it ain’t among Himaera’s top recreation spots.” Oriken glanced at Dagra. “And you thought Caer Valekha was bad.”
“It was.” Dagra’s face was a stoic mask..
The base of the hill upon which the castle nestled was dotted with myriad buildings, smaller than the castle but still formidable, gathered like high-born worshippers around a shrine. As the trickle of buildings spread further from the city’s heart, they became shorter and less regal-looking. The spires and domed roofs might once have looked beautiful in a city that teemed with life, but now they were ghosts of forgotten grandeur; pockmarks of blight, swelling from the land itself. Oriken had to admit, Lachyla could be the bleakest place he’d ever set his eyes on.
From his vantage point, misty blankets of golden-tinged ocean to the east and west showed that Lachyla sat upon a tapering peninsula. He could imagine sheer cliffs dropping away beyond the defensive wall into the frothy depths of the uncharted Echilan Ocean.
The edge of the world, he thought, once again recalling how he and Dagra had clung to the steep sides of Mount Sentinel and gazed out at the same ocean.
He turned at the crunch of footfalls to see Jalis and Dagra heading along the battlements towards a winch tower. Gathering his gear, he jogged to catch them up. The tower’s slanted oaken roof had warped with age and weathering, but was mostly intact. Beneath it was a winch mechanism with a long, iron handle on one side. The end of the coiled chain disappeared through a gap in the stone floor above the side of the portcullis.
“It doesn’t look too rusty,” Jalis observed. “We’ll give it a try on our way out, save us from scaling back down and having to leave the grappler behind if it gets stuck.
Oriken grasped the handle in both hands, tensed, and heaved. It shifted, turning the chain around the spool with a dull chink-chink-chink as the chain scraped against itself, and a creaking groan from the portcullis as it protested to being awoken from its long sleep.
“I reckon we’ll manage to get it open,” he said, dusting his hands onto his trousers.
From the winch tower, a set of stone steps led down into the graveyard. Oriken followed Jalis down to the arid ground, with Dagra dragging his heels behind. They crossed to the crumbled Litchway and stood before the portcullis. Oriken cast a sidelong glance through the iron bars to the open heath beyond, and for a moment felt as if he were a prisoner, trapped inside the words of the Taleweaver, transported to a time that perhaps should have stayed locked within the words of the old stories. Nudging the sensation aside, he watched Jalis as she produced an age-yellowed parchment from the pocket of her leggings and began to study it.
“Look here,” she said. The men gathered around. She touched a fingernail to the map and traced a line north, to a point three-quarters of the way up. “It should be straightforward enough. We follow the main path to this point.” She dragged her finger across to the right and tapped at the X marked by their client. “Then a short jaunt to the side, and we’re there.”
“If we didn’t have that map,” Dagra said, a stony expression on his face, “we’d have to comb our way through the entire graveyard.”
“You can thank Cela for that when we return.” Jalis motioned ahead. “For now, our prize beckons.”
Oriken gently squeezed her shoulder, then set off along the central pathway. Jalis and Dagra fell in at either side. As they walked, a notion slowly crept up on him and he opened his senses to his surroundings.
I’m right, he thought. A seed of concern nested itself in the pit of his stomach. Not only were the trees dead and blackened, they were covered in fungal pustules. There were also no shrubs in sight other than the occasional brittle tumbleweed.
Can’t hear any creatures scuttling around. Should be able to hear them even if we can’t see them. Whatever this place once was, it should have long ago been claimed by the animals and grasses, not be devoid of them. No hoppers, no flies, no birds. Dead trees and no grasses whatsoever. What the fuck?
“There’s not a sign of life in the whole blighted place, Dagra said. “Except for the three of us.”
Oriken frowned. “Yeah, I was about to—”
“There’s a scent on the air,” Jalis said, her gaze shifting across the rows of tilted grave-markers.
Oriken could smell it now, too. It wasn’t just the musty scent of long, desolate years, nor merely the hint of saltiness from the nearby ocean; it was something else, something alm
ost unnoticeable but nonetheless there. He sniffed, narrowed his eyes.
Sweet, like a perfume that lingers long after the girl who wore it has left the room.
“This feels wrong,” Dagra said. “Nothing’s alive here. Just mold covering everything, and even that’s all dried up.”
“You know the legend,” Oriken said. “Maybe there’s a seed of truth to the Blighted City after all.”
Dagra snorted. “A fitting name for a place, if ever there was one.”
Oriken barked a laugh. “Yeah, and these so-called Gardens of the Dead, they’re a…” He rubbed a thumb over his stubble and glanced at Jalis. “What’s that word you use? None-secateur? Yeah, that’s it. This whole place couldn’t be any deader. They got that right. But Gardens? Stupid name for somewhere that ain’t got one blade of grass.”
Jalis gave him a bemused look. “It’s great that you’ve once again paid attention to my home tongue, but I think you’re looking for non sequitur. Secateurs are garden shears. In a sense, though, you’re right. These Gardens definitely don’t need their shrubs pruned.”
“Well, blight or not, it was a long time ago.” Oriken looked across to the rooftops of the sprawling city. “Now that we’re this close, it’s still a little tempting to take a look around.”
Dagra huffed. “Even you can feel the wrongness here, Orik. Don’t tempt fate more than we already have. I’m no coward and you know it, but I remember the fear I felt as a boy towards this place, and I don’t need to enter the city for that fear to come flooding back. Being surrounded by these heathen crypts and gravestones and statues is already enough.”
“I’m just saying, is all. Hey, Dag, you don’t have to clutch your pendant so tightly. You don’t need the Dyad when you’ve got us.” Oriken winked at Jalis. Her lips twitched in a brief smile.
“I’ll take the Dyad and the two of you,” Dagra said. “Strength in numbers.”
“Yeah— Whoa.” Oriken stopped as his eyes landed on something protruding from the dirt a few yards off the Litchway. He stepped across and stooped for a closer look. A collection of small bones was half-encased in the cracked earth, unmistakeably a human hand. “I guess they didn’t bury them too deep around here.”
“What is it?” Dagra’s voice had a hard edge.
“Remember that house where we bumped into those cravants?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when I say let’s just keep walking, do yourself a favour and listen, this time. You’re already on edge enough, we don’t need you going into a full-blown panic attack.”
Dagra scowled and turned away. “Noted.”
They continued down the Litchway until the wall dividing the graveyard from the city came into view in the distance, its portcullis lowered like the gate at the entrance had been. Oriken glanced over his shoulder at the towers and battlements of the heathland wall, barely visible behind the raised crypt entrances, larger-than-life statues and skeletal trees.
“We must be nearing the Chiddari crypt,” he said.
Jalis folded the map and slipped it into her pocket. “There are quite a few crypts around here. I suggest we split up and check them separately.”
Dagra shook his head vehemently. “Forget it. There’s no way I’m going into one of those places alone.”
Jalis stifled a sigh. “I don’t mean for us to go into them, Dagra. I’m saying we should check the names above the entrances and on the statues of those that have them.”
“Oh.” Dagra cleared his throat. “All right. Fine.”
Oriken regarded their bearded friend. Truth was, Dagra’s bravado had waned more and more the deeper into Scapa Fell they’d come, and now, here in the graveyard, it was all but gone. That wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. He clicked his fingers before Dagra’s face and fixed him with a stern look. “Hey. Come on. Snap out of it. I get you’re having god-issues right now, but do your friends a favour and try to pack them away. Let’s get those name-plates checked, like Jalis says.”
“Fuck off,” Dagra muttered. He lifted his eyes to meet Oriken’s gaze and gave a sharp nod, then turned on his heel and wandered away towards the nearest crypt.
Oriken shared a look with Jalis before striding away to check the dozen or so crypt entrances in the immediate area. Reaching the first, he stretched to inspect the stone carvings above the entrance. A crack ran vertically through the stone, right through the centre of the name Hauverydh. The crypt’s accompanying statue lay on the ground near the entrance, its stone face pitted and worn, its hands clasped at the breast; whatever it had been holding had eroded or fallen away long ago.
Oriken passed between headstones as he strode for the second crypt. Some of the grave markers had fallen, some were sunken or leaning at angles, while others remained fully upright. The engravings on several contained the name Chiddari, or what seemed to be a variation of it.
“Getting close over here!” he called.
Reaching the crypt, he stood before its statue and checked the faded name on the plinth. Cunaxa Tjiddarei. The weathered features were those of a proud woman, clasping what appeared to be a small hammer and chisel to her breast. The bronze statue stood askance, leaning forwards as if about to take a bow in congratulation of Oriken discovering her resting place.
“Yep,” he called. “This is it!”
“Well done,” Jalis said from behind him, making him nearly jump out of his skin.
“Stars and fucking moons, Jalis!” Oriken hissed. “Don’t do that!”
She grinned. “Sorry.”
As Dagra approached, Jalis took the oil lamp and tinderbox from her pack and set to work striking sparks to a swatch of char cloth. Once the material caught, she touched a sulphur stick to the flame and used it to ignited the lamp.
When the lamp was lit, Dagra said, “Give it here.” His expression was haggard, but he looked more determined.
Jalis eyed him. “You sure?”
“No. But do it anyway.” He took the lamp and led the way to the Chiddari crypt’s black entrance.
CHAPTER NINE
NOTHING WITHOUT FEAR
“Let’s get this business finished.” Dagra raised the lamp shoulder-high and peered into the stairwell. The flame flickered, casting a glow onto rough-hewn walls and stone steps. Beyond the light’s reach, the pit of the burial vault yawned an ominous invitation.
Steeling his nerves, he pressed his Avato pendant to his lips and stepped into the gloom, taking up a slow, deliberate pace. One step, two… His boots crunched softly in the dirt upon the worn stone. The hushed breathing and scuff of footfalls from his friends followed him into the depths.
“Don’t worry, Jalis,” Oriken said. “Anything gets past Dag, I’ll keep you safe.”
Jalis laughed. “You’re a brave journeyman saying that to a bladesmistress when she’s behind you in a tight space.”
“How does the saying go? Keep your blade sharp, but your wit sharper.” The amusement was rich in Oriken’s voice, but Dagra knew he was masking his own uneasiness.
As he reached the next turn in the stairs, Dagra froze. “Suffering gods.” The lamplight illuminated the right-angled walls, causing shadows to dance across the stone. With his free hand, he grasped the handle of his gladius.
“What is it?” Oriken asked.
“Nothing. I just… It’s okay.”
“You should put the legend out of your mind,” Jalis said.
“That’s not what bothers me.” No, he thought. It’s the dark. That, and the crushing weight of the earth overhead. And the fact that we’re descending into a place that’s more bereft of the gods than the whole of the Deadlands.
He peered anxiously around the corner and down into the darkness. As far as he could tell, the stairwell was empty.
“I’m acting like a little girl imagining ghosts,” he muttered, forcing himself to continue the descent. Except if anywhere has ghosts, it’s this heathen crypt.
Beyond the next turn, the steps touched onto level ground that stret
ched into a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. Wooden supports ran the length of the walls between squares of hewn stone. Bunches of dusty cobwebs dangled from the corners of the crossbeams. The dank, penetrating darkness, coupled with the musty odour that drifted from the corridor’s black throat, sent a chill down Dagra’s spine.
“Curse the Dyad,” Oriken said as he was forced to stoop into the cramped space.
Dagra scowled. “Please don’t curse while I’m praying.”
Oriken inclined his head further, dipping his features into shadow except for his smirk.
“Seriously, I’ve heard the same ridicule from you since we were kids, and it’s never worth the debate. Now is especially not the time to make me defend the forces upon, beneath and above Verragos that I know are real, which you deny more and—”
“All I said was ‘curse the Dyad.’”
“Bah.” Dagra glanced up. “I hope you’re not too busy cursing to keep an eye on the spider webs.”
Oriken paused, then moaned. “Stars. There had to be spiders down here, didn’t there? I could’ve placed a wager on it.”
Dagra pressed onwards, with Oriken following close behind. Before long, an archway came into view, a portal into whatever heathen horrors lay beyond. With all his senses fixed on the black arch, he almost jumped out of his skin and nearly dropped the lamp when Oriken’s yell pealed through the corridor. Dagra’s heart pounded as he spun around to see Oriken prancing around and flapping his arms wildly, swatting at the brim of his hat and shuffling backwards into a bemused Jalis.
She grabbed him by the waist, no doubt to stop him barrelling into her rather than to steady the blundering fool. Despite her petite frame, she easily stopped their lanky friend in his tracks.
Oriken’s movements had kicked up a blanket of dust, and a fine haze hung throughout the corridor, dimming visibility that much more. His hair sweaty and dishevelled as he pulled the hat off, Oriken stared aghast at the cobwebs that clung to the brim and indented crown. With a cringe, he began to swat them away.
