by Scott Kaelen
Oriken regarded his friends. Jalis’s expression was grave. Dagra’s too, though that wasn’t saying much, given his current condition.
“This deadstone,” Dagra said to the girl. “Describe it.”
Demelza shrugged. “I dunno, but they’s in all the crips in the Forbidden Place. Them’s what’s shiny. I ain’t never seen one. Thank the goddess for that, I suppose.”
“She must be talking about the burial jewel.” Jalis’s voice was almost a whisper. “Good gods. The jewel is responsible for the dead walking around.”
“Aye,” Dagra rumbled. “And from the sounds of it, ours isn't the only one.”
The distant chirps, beeps and clicks of night creatures were faint against the crackling of the flames as the moment hung suspended. Oriken regarded his companions and the quirky waif who looked at them with wide-eyed innocence and a hint of something else that plucked at Oriken’s nerves. The revelation that there were more of the so-called deadstones in the graveyard called to his treasure-hunter senses despite the danger. It also acutely reminded him of his current hygiene issue. With a grunt, he pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the ground. Demelza stared at him, at the long cut on his forearm, the red welts on his abdomen, the assortment of old, pale scars from previous encounters mixed with the fresher scratches, and the dirt and gore that streaked over it all.
Oriken’s lip twitched at the girl. “Pretty, ain’t it? Welcome to my world.” He looked at Jalis and Dagra. “So, what do we do with her? Let her go and we could have a heathland full of villagers heading our way within the hour, carrying pitchforks and brands.”
“Are you suggesting we keep her prisoner?” Jalis said. “Look at her, Orik. What do you see?”
Demelza had inched closer to the fire which was now roaring quietly in full force. She hugged her arms against an errant breeze and met his gaze with her customary sideways glance.
What do I see? I see a girl, almost a woman, thin as they come and can’t pronounce her own name. Petulant, whimsical, and, if I’m honest, a borderline imbecile. And yet…
And yet the nagging doubt remained. He didn't trust her. Didn't trust all she'd told them, either. He and his friends were too far from anything they could call sanctuary to take chances. Even if they kept hold of her until the morning and let her go before heading north, she could still alert her people.
“It’s not that I’m overly worried about a bunch of peasants, Jalis,” he said. “I just don’t fancy watching my back for the entire journey home.”
Jalis’s brow creased in thought. “Maybe we should take a look at Demelza’s village from a distance, see for ourselves how much of a threat they are.”
“No, you mustn’t!” Demelza blurted. “Deadstones are forbidden in the Beck since the Neira's feller got hisself eaten. You should take it to the Keeler, toss it over the wall so it’s back where it belongs.”
“Back where it belongs,” Dagra mumbled.
“That’s the real issue, isn’t it?” Jalis glanced at Dagra, then at Oriken. “What do we do with the jewel now? Based on the words of someone we don’t know and who doesn’t owe us any allegiance, do we forego our bounty or complete the contract?”
“Those corpses didn’t follow us,” Oriken said. “They didn’t care that we took the jewel. I don’t know what got them rattled; I guess they just didn’t like us.” He shrugged. “Fair enough. I was hoping to head into the city, and I did have a plan to circumnavigate the whole graveyard, but the two of you have voted against me, so I can forget that. Besides, if going in there would attract an entire village of backwater peasants as well as the undead, it’s not worth the hassle. I say we take the pretty rock home and claim our reward, and to the Underland with this nonsense.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Not that they can say for certain that the jewels are responsible.”
“It sounds legitimate enough to me,” Dagra said. “And it only reinforces the legend.”
“Huh. Yeah. The legend.” Oriken shook his head. “And look what happens when people believe every story they hear. You’d have us put the jewel back with the Cunaxa woman, wouldn’t you, Dag? Well, you took it out; do you fancy volunteering to put it back in? You want to go back down into that crypt to Miss Jolly-Joking Jawless?”
Dagra fixed him with a haggard glare.
“No,” Oriken said, “I thought not.”
Jalis grunted. “I’m not happy with the idea of losing the bounty. We know what’s happening in the graveyard, and if that’s what the blight looks like then it’s been that way for centuries. Whatever we do isn’t going to make any difference to Lachyla.”
“Plus,” Oriken said, “we’re not planning on bringing anyone back to life.”
“Let’s hope our client also doesn’t have that in mind,” Dagra said. With a belch, he rose and wandered into the trees.
“Damn,” Jalis muttered. “He’s got a point. What if the old woman heard the same stories as Demelza?”
“They’re just stories!” Oriken threw his hands up in exasperation. “And the one she came out with”—he thrust a nod towards Demelza—“is one I’ve never heard before. It’s not part of the legend, that’s for sure.”
“Well, what does the legend say?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted. “Mostly it’s about the king – some fellow named Mallak Ammenfar, if I remember rightly.”
Down behind the tree-line Dagra broke wind, loudly. It was only the precursor for what followed, which was enough to make Oriken grimace in embarrassment, not only for himself but also for Dagra. Jalis’s expression showed she shared his sentiment.
“For the love of the goddess,” Demelza whispered, her eyes wide. “I ‘ope that’s not from the bogberries.”
Mercifully, the sounds quieted. That was violent, Oriken thought. Let whatever was in his system be out now, for all our sakes.
A thought occurred to him then, and he took a couple of steps closer to the girl, putting her within arms’ reach. She wrinkled her nose and craned her neck to meet his gaze, looking like she trusted him as little as he trusted her. “Demelza,” he said, “how do you know what you do about the Keeler? Er—” Damn it. He shook his head. “I mean Lachyla.”
She frowned, as if the question was dumb and the answer obvious. “’Cause that’s where the ‘cestors are from, ain’t it? We’s the Keeler-kin in Minnow’s Beck, from them what ‘scaped.”
Jalis raised her eyebrows. “Survivors of the blight?”
The girl nodded. “From them what ‘scaped,” she repeated, as if they hadn’t understood it the first time.
“Interesting,” Jalis said. “How many people are living in your village?” As Demelza’s frown deepened and her face scrunched in thought, Jalis glanced at Oriken and said in a low voice, “When did the blight happen?”
“Right at the start of the 400s, as far as I recall.”
Jalis pursed her lips. “Nearly three centuries ago. Depending on how many Lachylans escaped, there could be a bustling community tucked away among the hills and valleys.”
“Three ‘undred an’ thirty-three,” Demelza blurted, then shook her head. “No, thirty four with Jessa’s bairn.”
Oriken grinned. “Your reckoning of numbers is as sharp as Jalis’s blades.”
“Course it is.” Demelza looked insulted. “I ain’t stupid, you know?”
“Ah, no.” He cleared his throat. “Of course not.”
Twigs crunched underfoot as Dagra wandered into reach of the firelight. “Well,” he growled, “have you come to a decision?”
“I think so.” Jalis looked at Demelza. “It would be best if you don’t mention us to your village. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. We’re keeping what we’ve taken.” She held up a hand as Demelza opened her mouth to protest. “The deadstone, as you call it, is going with us. You should forget we met, and we’ll forget you were spying on us. We have no wish for trouble, but think about this: If we can withstand the attack of a massive horde of undead – many of which we tore
apart, by the way – do you suppose we’d fare worse against a few hundred villagers? We’re breaking camp with the dawn, then we’re heading back home. Stay silent, Demelza, and you’ll never see us again. Do we have a deal?”
The girl tilted her head petulantly.
“Do we have a deal?” Jalis pressed.
Demelza considered the question, then planted her hands on her hips. “All right. Deal.”
“Swear it,” Jalis said.
“Eh?”
“For the love of the gods,” Oriken muttered.
“To swear means to make a promise,” Jalis explained. “So, swear by the goddess that you’ll not speak of us to your people. Go on.”
“All right,” she said carefully, still looking unsure. “I swear by the goddess. I’ll not say nothin’ to no one ‘bout yous.”
Jalis shared a glance with Oriken before fixing a stern look on Demelza. “You do understand what will happen if you tell, and your villagers come sniffing into our business?”
Demelza nodded. “I already said I sweared.”
Jalis held her gaze. “All right. That’s settled. You’re free to leave.”
“Whoa.” Oriken stepped forward. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He barked a laugh and threw his hands up. “Fair enough.”
Jalis looked at the third member of their group. “Dagra?”
“Couldn’t care much either way.”
Jalis glanced sideways at Demelza, as if imitating her. “Are you still here?”
The girl stood perfectly still, looking like a cornered rabbit as her eyes darted between them. She took several paces backwards, turned, and broke into a run.
Oriken smiled wryly as he watched her fade into the night. “Bloody peasants. I’m off for a wash.”
Later, with a ragged towel around his waist, Oriken carried his freshly-washed clothing up the embankment from the stream, pausing at the top as he noticed Jalis was nowhere in sight. He crossed the clearing to the campfire, where Dagra snored softly beneath a blanket with his back to the flames.
Oriken shivered as an errant breeze curled around his drying body, causing goosebumps to prick his skin. The stream had been as cold as the Pit, but he felt better now that the dust and sweat and gore were scrubbed away. He could still detect a faint smell of death, but that came as no surprise; a quick wash in a shallow stream was a poor substitute for a hot, soapy, perfumed bath.
He dried off and dressed in his spare clothing before stretching his wet gear over sticks which he’d earlier plunged upright into the dirt, close enough to the campfire to catch the warmth from the flames.
As he pulled his boots on, a quiet rustling issued from the tall shrubs across the clearing. Snatching his sabre from the bedroll, he sighed as Jalis emerged into the firelight. Between the moonlight and the fire’s glow, she was awash with soft blue and amber; a lithe, lambent shape against the dark heathland.
“I was beginning to worry about you,” he told her. “Where were you? On a perimeter check?”
She cocked her head at him, a faint smile ghosting the fatigue on her face. “No, Oriken. I was taking a piss. Even women need to relieve themselves once in a while. We’re not all just pretty statues; some of us are made of flesh and blood, just like you men.”
Believe me, Oriken thought, I know full well what you’re made of. Flesh and blood, aye. Steel and starlight, too, among other things. “Ah,” he said, feeling his face flush. You’re a grown man, he admonished himself. For the stars’ sake! Talk about inappropriate moments.
Jalis crossed to their packs and busied herself with reorganising the equipment, all the while casting frequent glances into the shadowed heathland. Oriken regarded her casually as he took his nargut-hide jacket from the bedroll and pulled it over his shirt. The soft leather outer and the sheep-wool lining warmed him against the breeze coming in from the coast. Jalis looked his way, and they shared a momentary glance before she returned to her work.
The urge to leave right now was strong, despite it being the middle of the night. The Gardens of the Dead were an hour away; he had no doubt those creatures were still stalking the graveyard, but it wasn’t them that worried him the most. Mindless creatures, he could handle, and his rational mind had now absorbed that the corpses in Lachyla could walk and attack. There was no explanation for it, only the bizarre story from the peasant girl about a jewel bringing a toddler back to life.
More like brought to undeath, he amended with a shrug.
The details didn’t matter. The most you could expect from any creature was for it to hunt, eat, or fuck. Predictable. People, on the other hand, were wild cards; Demelza specifically felt very much like a problem. He doubted Jalis’s judgement this time. Usually he deferred to her; after all, she was a bladesmistress and she’d been at the freeblading game for much longer than he and Dagra. But letting Demelza trot away like that had been foolish, in Oriken’s opinion. Still, it was done now. In a few hours they’d be setting off, but first he had to take watch after Jalis, and he knew the shift would be a slow one.
Having finished the repacking, Jalis stood and checked her assortment of weapons – Dusklight at her hip, Silverspire strapped to her thigh, and the numerous throwing blades concealed within her apparel. “Now I’m going on patrol,” she said. “Keep the fire up for Dag. He needs to break his fever.”
“Sure.” Oriken’s voice sounded as drained as he felt. Stars, I’ll be asleep within minutes, and no mistake. He reached for the pile of deadwood and half-heartedly tossed a few pieces onto the fire. “Shout if you need me,” he called after Jalis.
She raised a hand in acknowledgement as she strolled across the clearing. At the top of the embankment, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder to flash him a smile, her eyes cool and serene, glinting with stars and flames.
There’s another portrait worth painting, he thought. He returned the smile with a thin one of his own, and she disappeared down the hill.
He lay on his back, pulled a thin blanket over himself and placed the hat over his face. The quiet babble of the stream, the subdued song of the heath and the hiss of wood on the fire were hypnotic, but he lay awake despite his fatigue, unable to push away the images of decomposed hands that reached for him through the fog, desiccated faces glaring at him with empty or gore-filled sockets, and a young girl casting him a sidelong glance. You’re not gonna have your way with me, are ya, mister?
It was a long time before he slipped into a restless sleep in which crimson shadows stalked him through ancient ruins as he crawled over a mountain of corpses while crows pulled at their eyeballs. The ivy-covered pillars of his nightmare pointed into a morning sky, drawing his attention to the scrutiny of the small smudge amid the clear blue – the perpetual Grey Watcher…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MEAT FOR THE BEAST
Wymar slapped his hands to his thighs and rose from the mound of blankets. “I need a shit,” he said, then crunched his way across the ringfort’s dirt-strewn floor.
“Fill your boots,” Maros muttered from his own makeshift bed of hay. “And thanks for feeling the need to wake me and announce it. Where’s Henwyn?”
Wymar shrugged. “Said he was off to catch something for the morning.”
As the mill owner stepped out into the darkness, Maros glanced at the campfire in the centre of the voluminous ringfort. Extra firewood was piled by the wall. There wasn’t much of a chill to the evening within the ancient stone structure, but if Henwyn snagged them a meal for the morning they’d need to cook it. It had been many years since Maros was last in a situation where eating raw meat was necessary to stay alive, and he was in no rush to do so again. As he considered trampling the flames to embers to conserve the wood, a cry pealed out from behind the fort.
“Weeping gods! Wymar?” He scrambled to get to his feet. The familiar pain tore up and down his leg, but he rose through it. Snatching up his greatsword and one of the crutches, he lurched out of the wide entra
nce and around the edge of the ringfort. The screaming drew closer and Maros stopped short as Wymar came half-running, half-hobbling around the circular wall, scrambling to pull his trousers up over his knees. The mill owner spotted Maros and promptly pitched over onto his face, his bare arse showing beneath his shirt.
“Have you lost your rutting mind?” Maros roared, brandishing the greatsword in one hand. “I could’ve split you in two!”
Wymar scurried on hands and knees across the grass until he got behind Maros, then rolled onto his back.
“Gah!” Maros turned his face from the sight. “For the love of the gods, man, put it away!”
“There’s a monster!” Wymar wailed, pointing at Maros.
“I’ve had enough of that shit for one day,” Maros warned, then froze at a sound behind him. He glanced back to see a shadow creeping around the edge of the circular wall. Oh, aye? What have we here? He gripped the greatsword as the figure slunk into view.
As tall as a human, the lyakyn’s wiry frame was bunched with muscles, though the small breasts and the tuft of hair between its legs marked it as a female. The long, gaping mouth ran like a fissure from its nose to its sternum. Two columns of needle-like teeth slid between each other like a deadly curtain as the jaws clenched and flexed apart, reminding Maros of the repulsive, meat-eating fabellasyr plant.
“Here to grant me my wish, are you?” Maros growled, visions of his previous encounter with such a creature stark in his mind.
