The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  The lyakyn’s black eyes stared at him with malevolence, sizing him up. It hissed and crouched. Its maw opened as wide as its shoulders, and it burst into motion towards him.

  He slashed his sword in a wide arc. The freshly-sharpened blade sliced the tips off the monster’s reaching, taloned fingers, but the momentum unbalanced him and he pitched to the grass. He rolled onto his back as the lyakyn sprang at him. It landed with its feet spread to either side of his hips, then lunged its head forward and screamed into his face. Its uninjured hand swiped down. The talons raked across Maros’s chest. He relinquished his grip on the cumbersome greatsword and smashed his fist into the lyakyn’s belly, and again into its shoulder. It reared, arching its back as its scream tore through the night.

  Maros shoved it hard, and the creature staggered backwards. He grabbed his crutch and hauled himself to his feet, the pain in his leg distant and dull in the face of survival. He hammered a punch into the lyakyn’s face, knocking it off balance. As it fell to its back, he took the moment to scan the ground for his sword, but the creature was quickly up and whirling to face him. Claws outstretched, it sprang forward. Maros jabbed the crutch into the monster’s open mouth. Its teeth snapped shut around the hard wood, and it grasped hold of the makeshift weapon. He heaved the crutch into the air with the lyakyn attached, swung the monster high over his head, then slammed it to the grass. Pulling the crutch free, he gave it a quick flip and, as the upper prongs pointed downwards, snatched it from the air and thrust it down onto the lyakyn’s face. One prong plunged between its gaping jaws, the other into its eye. Maros put his weight onto the crutch, and the lyakyn’s face broke inward. It released a screeching, bubbling death-cry, twitched, and lay still.

  “There’s another!” Wymar cried.

  Maros ripped the crutch free and spun about to peer into the heath and see a second lyakyn creeping around the edge of a night-darkened out-building. It was larger than the first, marking it as a male.

  “Interrupt your play-time, did we?” Maros roared. He bent to retrieve his greatsword from the ground, and brandished it at the creature. “Come on, then! Let’s have at it!”

  The lyakyn sprang forwards. Maros prepared to meet its attack. Maros readied himself, but before the monster had taken half a dozen steps, an arrow punched into its chest. It slowed and paused, its jaws wide open as its black eyes switched to a point beyond Maros.

  He beamed a wide grin. “Henwyn, you beautiful bastard.”

  A second arrow thrummed past him and sank into the creature’s chest beside the first. It staggered to its knees, raised its hands and face to the sky, and loosed a screeching roar.

  “Glad to be of service,” Henwyn said as he strolled to join Maros.

  Hefting the greatsword, Maros hefted it over his shoulder and hurled it forwards. The blade and handle spun over each other as the weapon whirred through the air. It plunged tip-first into the lyakyn’s belly and sank in deep. The creature fell backwards.

  Leaning his hands upon the crutch, Maros sucked in several deep breaths and glanced at Henwyn.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “Aye,” he panted as his heart slowed to normal. “Aye, I’m all right. Just out of practice.” His chest stung from the creature’s claws. His leather vest was sliced and bloody. He turned a black gaze to the wall of the fort where Wymar cowered against the stones, his trembling fingers belting his trousers around his waist.

  “You.” Maros raised the crutch and stabbed the dripping prongs towards the mill owner. “From now on, you need a shit, you damn well make sure it’s safe first. Seeing you with your trousers down once is more than enough for a lifetime.”

  Wymar’s eyes were wide as he gulped and nodded. “What if there are more?” he stammered.

  “I’ll check,” Henwyn said. As he set off to the out-building, Maros heard him mutter, “I should'a done it when I checked the perimeter.”

  Wymar looked like he was on the verge of crying. “The mules are round the other side! I can’t hear—”

  “One thing at a time, man!” Maros snapped. “Henwyn? Talk to me.”

  “No immediate danger,” Henwyn called as he emerged from the darkness, carrying the greatsword. “But in a year or so there might be, if they’re lucky.” In answer to Maros’s questioning look, he added, “Hatchlings.”

  “Oh, great. Wymar, how about you be a good fellow and fetch my other crutch from inside.” Wymar stared at him without moving. “Whenever you’re ready,” Maros added flippantly.

  The mill owner hurried away and within moments was back with the second crutch, his mouth moving in nervous anticipation as Maros took it from him.

  “Pass him my sword, Hen. Let him be good for something while we check the mules.”

  Henwyn handed the greatsword to Wymar. “Don’t cut yourself.”

  Wymar wrapped his hands around the long handle, and Henwyn let go. The blade’s tip plunged and bit into the ground.

  With a shake of his head, Maros hobbled away. “Let’s have a look at these babies, shall we?”

  Henwyn walked at his side as they crossed to the out-building. Its wood-and-thatch roof was overgrown with vegetation, and a rotten door stood warped in its fixtures within the crumbling wall.

  “What about the mules?” Wymar called after them.

  Maros ignored him and swung around to the rear of the structure. A sizeable chunk of the wall lay in a mossy heap. The faint scent of decay drifted from the dark interior, and he caught a glimpse of movement within. He took a cautious step closer and peered into the shadows. In the farthest corner a trickle of grey light filtered in through the warped door. A tiny squeak was answered by a second. A cadaver lay within the rubble, its ribs jutting out, a fly buzzing around its face. It was another male lyakyn.

  Behind the corpse lay a nest of leaves and branches. Snuggled upon them, three small bodies squirmed against one another. The clefts of the baby lyakyns’ jaws opened and closed, emitting pitiful squeaks and clicks. The tips of a few teeth showed through the gums on the nearest of the hatchlings, the strongest-looking of the trio.

  They’re just weeks old, Maros thought. Their mother only attacked because she was defending the nest. Frankly, I would’ve done the same if that miller came shitting in my personal space.

  He regarded the dead male. “Guess this one lost the battle for supremacy, and now he’s meat, possibly for his own children.”

  “What about the mules?” Wymar urged. He gripped onto the handle of the greatsword, its tip plunged into the dirt at his feet.

  Maros suppressed a groan and nodded to Henwyn to go and check on their transport.

  Wymar tentatively approached and peered at the hatchlings as they squirmed upon their nest. His lip curled in disgust. “Kill them.”

  “No need,” Maros said. “They likely won’t survive long, not now their mother’s dead.” He felt a tiny stab of guilt at killing the mother, but he pushed it aside. He considered the cluster of dwellings several hours north along the road, and knew he’d probably done the peasants there a favour by removing the adult lyakyns from the area.

  He recalled the young boy who’d taken Maros to be a monster. “Funny how one feller’s perception of monstrous can differ so greatly from another’s,” he said quietly. “Am I hideous to look at? Maybe to some. Am I dangerous? Undoubtedly, if you know which buttons to press. So what makes me different from these babies?”

  The mill owner wisely ignored Maros’s rhetory. Instead, he said, “Let me put them out of their misery.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because they’re monsters!”

  Maros scoffed. “Dangerous? You could put your finger in those jaws and at worst it might tickle. A fenhawk could make easy pickings of the lot of ‘em. Or a fox, or wolf. They’re no danger to you.”

  “But the mules—”

  Maros pointed towards the wriggling forms in the nest. “Those things couldn’t harm a mouse right now. As for you, worst case is you’d wake t
o find ‘em suckling your teats. I can see how that might be harrowing for an upstanding feller like yourself, but let’s be honest, Wymar. You’ve already exposed your complete lack of dignity, so a little more won’t make a difference. Best advice I can give is that you sleep with your trousers on.”

  “But—”

  “They’ll die, but not by my hand.” Maros glared a warning at the mill owner. “I don’t murder defenceless creatures unless they really piss me off.”

  Wymar’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to find the words to argue.

  “Here’s the deal,” Maros growled. “You make your charges more realistic and I’ll waive the temptation of telling all and sundry about your dignity.”

  Wymar blustered. “That’s blackmail!”

  Maros grinned. “Call it what you will, my fine friend. Dignity or dari, one’s as good as the other to a dead miller.”

  Henwyn cleared his throat and stepped around the side of the building to join them. “That’s as may be, boss, but I’m afraid we’ve a more pressing issue than dari right now.” He turned to Wymar. “The mules are dead.”

  Twenty minutes later, Maros bit into a shank of mule meat as he considered their predicament. The loss of the mules meant he had to either return home on foot or continue deeper into the Deadlands on foot. Quite honestly, he thought, that might not be so bad. Being in the back of the wagon for hours nearly killed me. But it would extend their journey time, and he had no idea how many days of travel were still ahead. Henwyn, he knew, would stay at his side. As for the mill owner… “Hmph.” He tore off another mouthful and tossed the bone into the fire.

  Wymar, who had been subdued since the encounter with the lyakyns, pushed himself to his feet and wandered over to the gear stashed in the corner.

  Henwyn regarded Maros from the other side of the flickering campfire. “What’s the plan, boss?”

  Maros swallowed the bland meat. “Onwards.”

  “Right. Well, since we’re already packed, we can leave whenever. Still a few hours till first light, but I doubt I’ll be wanting any sleep.”

  Maros grunted. “Me neither.”

  Henwyn looked around, but Wymar had slunk out of the ringfort. “What about him?” he asked quietly.

  Maros shrugged. “We’ll see.” He grabbed a crutch from the floor and hauled himself to his feet.

  “Leaf should be well on her way to the Bay by now,” Henwyn remarked.

  “Aye, she should be. If the headquarters send her home empty-handed, or as good as, I’ll be taking a trip to Brancosi myself. A few of those quill-pushers at HQ owe me some favours.”

  As he limped towards the broken entrance, Wymar stepped inside and froze as he spotted Maros. In his hand was one of Henwyn’s arrows.

  Maros frowned at the arrowhead. Dashes of blood were on the tip. They could be remnants of one of Henwyn’s previous kills, but Maros knew the veteran, and knew he was meticulous. “Oh, aye?” he said, turning an accusing scowl on the mill owner. “What have we here, then?”

  Wymar said nothing, but the guilt was plastered all over his red-cheeked face.

  “What in the rutting Pit have you been up to?” Maros pressed.

  “I did what you wouldn’t do.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I killed the monsters.”

  Maros sighed. “They were babies.”

  “They were abominations!”

  “Aren’t we all?” Maros shook his head wearily. “I told you not to kill them, and you went right ahead and did it anyway.”

  Wymar thrust his chest out indignantly. “You’re not in charge here.”

  “Actually, I am. But you’re free to leave, which might be in your best interests; there’s no telling how long before I develop the urge to go stabbing a puling little defenceless shit.”

  Henwyn paced across to join them, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  Wymar squared on him. “You can forget about trying that placating crap on me. I’m not—”

  Henwyn jabbed a punch into Wymar’s nose. Maros beamed a satisfied smile as the mill owner crumpled to the floor.

  Wymar climbed groggily to hands and knees, then sat down, a stupefied expression on his blood-splattered face. He touched his fingertips to his nose, spat on the ground and glared at Henwyn. “You fucking cu—”

  Maros slapped a hand onto Wymar’s shoulder and leaned down to look hard into his eyes. “Now, now,” he chided. “My man here has the patience of Ederron, but you found his limit and he was right to put you on your arse. It’s tough that your mules are dead; tough for all of us. And yes, I do know how much those beasts are worth, and it’s less than you were charging me for this foray into the wilderness.”

  “I’ve halved the cost of everything! You’re only paying thirty silvers now. My mules are worth more than that. And as for my wagon—”

  Maros squeezed his fingers into Wymar’s shoulder, just enough to see him wince. “If you weren’t such a dari-pincher, you might have brought a bodyguard or two to watch over your belongings at night. But hindsight’s a rotten thing, ain’t it? Now, the way I see it, you’ve got two options. One, you head back to the Folly on your lonesome. You could be there in a few days if you push on and watch out for monsters. Two – and I’ll probably regret giving you this offer – you continue into Scapa Fell with me and Henwyn and we’ll at least keep you alive, if a little bruised, unless your manners improve. What say you, miller? Fancy your chances alone? I’m almost hoping you say yes.”

  Wymar shrugged Maros’s hand from his shoulder, or at least tried to. Maros removed it anyway and hauled the man to his feet.

  “Look,” Maros said. “You and I have got off to a bad start. While there’s certainly no love lost between us, I’d rather the tavern and the guild stay on good terms with the mill. Me and Henwyn are continuing on. I have no choice, but it’s up to you what you do.”

  “It doesn’t look like I have a choice, either,” Wymar muttered into his blood-caked hand.

  Henwyn passed him a rag. “I didn’t want to do that,” he told Wymar. “But, like your worker, Renfrey, you should learn to not let your mouth run away with you when you’re talking to veteran freeblades. The safety of Alder’s Folly – and, by extension, your mill – is largely up to us. We don’t ask for much except a little common decency. Show us that, and we’ve got your back. Understood?”

  Wymar held the rag to his nose and nodded.

  Maros shared a glance with Henwyn. “Good. Then we’ll salvage whatever we can carry from the wagon.” He locked his gaze with Wymar. “While me and Hen are doing that, you should get some sleep if you’re able. It’s a long and much harder road ahead now. And, Wymar…”

  The mill owner peered up at Maros with watery eyes.

  “Don’t take any of my man’s belongings in future, especially to do something I’ve expressly told you not to. You might have noticed I have anger issues. With that in mind, as long as you shoulder your share of the gear and take note of Henwyn’s advice, I won’t leave you out here as a feast for the crows.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AN EPHEMERAL FLAME

  In her private wing on the ground floor of Albarandes Manor, far from her sister and mother whose quarters were upstairs, Eriqwyn awoke to a tap-tap, tap-tap on her bedroom door that led directly out to the garden.

  “Come in,” she called, rising from the pillow to rest on her elbows.

  The door clicked open and Linisa stepped in, holding a flaming torch which she set into an empty sconce on the wall. A dark green blush prepared from crushed leaves shadowed her eyes tonight.

  Eriqwyn gave her friend a warm smile. “Lini. Come to wake me for my patrol?”

  Linisa’s black-dyed lips twitched as she returned the smile. “I’ve just finished checking the village. Thought I’d give you a call on my way back to the guardhouse.”

  “I forgot you were on duty tonight.” Eriqwyn pulled her quilt aside, sat up and swung her feet onto the doe-hide rug beside the b
ed. “Have you been getting presents from the miners again?”

  “They’ll never win me over with the pigments they find, and they know it.”

  “They’ll never learn either,” Eriqwyn said as she stood and stretched her muscles into wakefulness. “How goes the watch tonight?”

  “Quiet, as usual.” Linisa sank into a chair beside the dressing table. “I did see Demelza leaving the village again earlier.”

  Eriqwyn sighed as she slipped the straps down from her cotton shift. It slid to her feet and she stepped out of it, her skin prickling with the coolness of the night. “I don’t know where that girl disappears to all the time. I caught her on Dreaming Dragon Brae.” She recalled Demelza’s curious reaction to Eriqwyn saving her from the sarbek.

  Linisa leaned back in the chair. Her gaze lingered casually on Eriqwyn’s nakedness. “Tan brought a stock of new arrowheads to the guardhouse earlier.”

  “About time,” Eriqwyn said, taking a pair of leather Warder leggings from the dresser drawer. Her voice took on a mocking tone as she pulled them on, one leg at a time. “I suppose he tried to impress you with his manly blacksmith muscles.”

  Linisa chuckled. “Not me. He only falls for those who charm him into making them things their husbands lack the skill for. Tan doesn’t know how to manipulate, and he doesn’t know when he’s being manipulated.” As Eriqwyn selected a long-sleeved tunic and pulled it over her head, Linisa added, “I have a rest-day after my shift. Lani and I are going for a dip in the ocean. Care to join us?”

  Eriqwyn smiled. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll let you and your sister enjoy some peace and quiet alone. Maybe next time.”

  Linisa nodded. “You know where to find us if you change your mind.”

  “I do.” Leaning in, Eriqwyn placed a kiss on the Warder’s cheek. “Thank you, Linisa.”

  Eriqwyn selected a pair of woollen socks and hardy boots. She crossed to the bed and began pulling them onto her feet.

  With a sigh, Linisa clapped her hands to her thighs and rose from the chair. “Well then, First Warder, I’ll get back to the guardhouse and leave you to your patrol. Which route are you taking tonight?”