by Scott Kaelen
Living in Minnow’s Beck was hard enough on the girl, and in the last year Wayland had learned of a couple of the village men taking advantage of Demelza’s situation. At first, in her naivety, she had allowed it to happen. That changed after Wayland became involved. There was nothing in the Founding Laws that permitted him to punish the men, but still he had taken each into a quiet corner and persuaded them to stay well away from her. But Demelza was not his greatest concern today. Not by far.
Onwin stood, serious-faced, on the short grass of the village green. His lips flapped as he looked from Lingrey to Tan, drawing half-hearted nods from his captive audience. His bow dangled from his fingers. A sheaf of arrows were slung over his shoulder and on top of his cloak.
Always likes to be different, that one, Wayland thought. Even if it means being impractical.
He and Onwin were the same age. The hunter could have been promoted to Warder if he hadn’t spent his life holding delusions above his station. Onwin considered himself the equal of Wayland, while showing Eriqwyn and Linisa a grudging respect tinged with mild disregard. Despite his lofty attitude, he was one of the village’s most capable hunters, but the wrong rash decision could spell trouble for the entire group.
Lingrey, the hardest-working and most weather-beaten farmhand in the village, leaned like a crooked post beside the seasoned hunter, a pitchfork held easy in his hand, its curved tines beside his grey hair. Wayland knew something of the farmhand’s past, and agreed with Blachord’s recommendation for him to join the group. He also agreed with Fahrein’s suggestion of Tan, although, as he observed the blacksmith now, something about the young man bothered him.
Tan wore a decorative gladius he had forged himself a couple of years back. It was a fine piece to look at, but swords were of little use in their isolated existence and the gladius was more of a bragging right for the young blacksmith. Wayland hoped Tan would find the nerve to use the weapon against the outlanders if it fell upon him to do so.
Although seeming to be listening to Onwin’s continued monologue, the blacksmith was stealing glances towards the pale-skinned, raven-haired Shade. Wayland sighed inwardly as he empathised with how distracting the sultry seamstress could be, especially now. She was dressed in attire that was borderline scandalous for village-wear, even in this warm season, and utterly unsuitable for their mission. For a seamstress – and the village’s finest, at that – Shade didn’t waste much material on herself. As she stood alone and gazed pensively towards the wooded hills beyond the village, she seemed unaware of Tan’s glances. Wayland would bet a day’s catch of food that she knew the blacksmith’s eyes were on her, and that she secretly revelled in it.
Every member of the group needed to remain focused, and, in that regard, the seamstress could be a problem. Not only for Tan, but possibly also for Eriqwyn, he thought, knowing the First Warder as well as he did.
Shade was one to be kept at arm’s length or risk being burned – or consumed – by her fire. There was no doubt that the woman was a feast for more than merely the eyes. Today she wore her typical gossamer finery – a silken ankle-length skirt that clung to every tender curve, and a silken sash draped over one shoulder and wrapped around the middle of her torso, leaving her abdomen and one breast almost entirely exposed. Despite the late morning heat, thunderheads were rolling in from the ocean and would be overhead before long; while the rest of the group wore hooded cloaks in preparation for the storm, Shade would be drenched to the bone. Whatever role she played here, the lack of a weapon showed that she had no intention of being involved in combat, which was all well and good but might cause her to be a liability. Wayland hoped that once her role was done – leading them to a supposedly secret passage into the graveyard – the seamstress would head back to the village alone.
I’d swap all of them for Linisa, he thought. Sensing Demelza looking up at him, he glanced at her wide-eyed expression and gave her a conciliatory wink. She seemed to relax a little. Failure will mean consequences that affect the whole village, but success will mean consequences for each man or woman’s conscience. I’ll take that burden, but I mustn’t falter by trying to ensure Demelza does not share it.
Several villagers were gathered at the far end of the green along with a number of the hunters, all looking over at Albarandes Manor and the small group that waited before it. Linisa and her twin sister Laulani’s buttercup-coloured hair caught the sun as they emerged from the crowd to cross towards the manor. When they reached him, Wayland greeted them with a feigned smile.
“The hunters are not happy at being excluded,” Laulani told him.
He stifled a sigh of exasperation. “The choices were not based on who can hunt animals for meat and skin and bones, but on usefulness and having the mettle to brave the Forbidden Place and catch a group of outlanders.”
“Not catch,” Linisa said. “Kill.”
Wayland inclined his head in acquiescence. “This isn’t about mindless animals, it’s about fellow humans, regardless of them being outlanders. The decision is not ours, but Adri’s and Eriqwyn’s. Our leader and First Warder have spoken. Whether we like it or not, the safety of our home is paramount.”
Reluctantly, Linisa nodded. “Eri requested some torches.” She passed him a thick oilskin filled with enough torches for each member of the group. Accepting it, he slung the bundle over his shoulder.
“Linisa is prepared to join you, should Eri change her mind,” Laulani said. Her long hair was tied back with a leather thong, unlike her usual loose, flowing style. “As am I, even though I’m not a hunter.”
“Eriqwyn? Change her mind?” Wayland barked a soft laugh and glanced from Laulani to Linisa. “You may yet be needed, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. For now, just as we can’t afford to lose hunters, the village also can’t be left without a Warder.” He shrugged. “Besides, I doubt you’ll be missing much, Lini. I’d let you take my place, but you know I’m a sucker for the shit jobs.”
The twins’ expressions showed that they appreciated his attempt at levity, but Linisa was clearly ill at ease at not being included. But it was a necessary and sensible decision, and she knew it.
Linisa glanced into the manor’s garden. “Here she comes.”
Eriqwyn was striding down the path towards them, a hunting knife and a sheaf of arrows at her hips, and her bow in hand. Wayland opened the gate for her to pass through, catching her eye as he did so.
To Linisa, Eriqwyn said, “Minnow’s Beck is in your hands. Perhaps, when this is over, the two of you can have your planned day at the beach, but not today.”
Linisa shrugged. “The storm would have ruined it anyway. Be careful, Eri.” Her eyes flicked to Wayland. “Both of you.”
“It’s just three fortune-seeking outlanders,” Eriqwyn said.
“It isn’t the outlanders we’re worried about,” Linisa said.
“It’s the Forbidden Place,” Laulani finished.
Eriqwyn nodded. “That’s why I’m taking the others.” She looked at Linisa and lowered her voice so that Wayland could barely hear her. “As callous as it may sound, Lini, they’re all disposable. Warders are not. You know I’d have you at my side otherwise.”
Wayland inclined his head to Laulani. “We appreciate your offer of support too, Lani.”
“We understand,” the twins said in unison.
“Then time is of the essence.” Eriqwyn’s eyes softened a touch as Linisa caught her gaze. Turning to the remaining members of her group, she called out, “You all know why you’re here. I will brief you on the finer points as we go. We are heading directly towards the southern reaches of the eastern wall”—she turned a brief but hard glance on the seamstress—“where Shade has informed me is a passage into the graveyard, which will save us the much-needed time wasted on village politics. We have three objectives, to be accomplished in this order: dispatch the outlander threat, return the deadstone to its crypt, and lower the portcullis before leaving the graveyard. None of us want to go in there – it
is the Forbidden Place for a reason, after all – but your bravery will be recognised and remembered. Our success is imperative. I’ll be setting a brisk pace, and I expect all of you to keep it. Now, let’s move!”
“Ayup!” Lingrey croaked, quite unnecessarily.
Wayland gathered up his bow and glanced at Demelza. Her chest was rising and falling as her breath came in short gasps. “Don’t fret, lass,” he said. “You remember what we discussed?”
She nodded.
The portentous, creeping shadow of the black eastern sky rolled towards them, and the knot in Wayland’s heart tightened as he set off to catch up to the First Warder.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
STRUMPETS AND SOVEREIGNS
“Dagra! Hey!” Jalis slapped her unconscious friend across the cheek. After a moment, his eyes fluttered open to unfocused slits. “Ah, finally,” she breathed, then clicked her fingers before his face. “Come on, Dag, get it together. Look sharp.”
He groaned and lifted his head. “Huh?”
Taking his arm, she hauled him to a sitting position. “You had me worried,” she told him, casting a relieved look to Gorven and Sabrian.
Sabrian smiled. “We told you he’d be fine. It’s not easy to be anything other than that in Lachyla.”
“Uh,” Dagra proclaimed. “What happened?”
“You passed out is what happened.”
“I did what?”
“After you saw your chest.”
He grunted and scratched his beard. “It’s usually the ladies who swoon when I open my shirt.”
Gorven took Dagra’s other arm and helped Jalis bring him to his feet. “Best you sit down a while.”
Dagra nodded and sank into the nearest chair.
Sabrian passed him a glass of water and cleared his throat. “Ah, I hope this doesn’t sound selfish of me, but would I be right in gleaning that your other friend, Oriken, has some tobah?”
Dagra frowned. “Did you pick that out of my mind? I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
Sabrian looked humbled. “My apologies.”
“He’s trying to give it up,” Jalis said. “Done quite well, actually. But, yes, he’s got some.”
“Ah, then I shall have to ask him later if he would allow me to indulge for the first time in twelve decades.”
“Starting that again would not do you any favours,” Gorven advised. “Your physiology is not what it was.”
“True.” Sabrian nodded. “But one roll wouldn’t kill me.”
Gorven turned to Jalis. “What say we leave Dagra in Sabrian’s fine hands and return to Oriken and Krea? Let Dagra recover his strength while they finish their discussion. Shall we?”
Jalis looked at him. They’d left Oriken behind because Krea claimed she had something vital to show him. Jalis didn’t like it, but, despite Krea’s evident physical aptitude, Oriken was a big boy and could hold his own. Besides, though she didn’t fully trust these people, Jalis’s instincts told her that if they wanted her and her friends dead, it would have happened already.
Reluctantly, she turned to Dagra. “Will you be okay?”
“Aye,” Dagra rumbled. “If Sabrian’s got more to say, he can say it.”
Jalis gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’ll figure this out. We have to.”
Gorven led her to the front door and opened it to a storm-darkened street. A fine rain and a warm breeze filled the air, but the whorling mass of black clouds was quickly drifting towards the city. Jalis slung her arms into Oriken’s coat. The cuffs reached to her fingertips as she fastened the clasps at the front.
“Dagra doesn’t seem so ill now,” she said as she followed Gorven onto the street.
“It’s the change,” Gorven explained. “We were all like that to begin with.” He wiped a hand across his rain-misted face. “I have to say though, he’s coping with it quite well.”
Jalis grunted. “I understand what you’re saying, but you have to realise that we can’t just leave him here. There must be something that can be done.”
“That’s your wishful thinking talking, Jalis. And I think you know it. Dagra is doing exceptionally well, considering, but don’t let his apparent health fool you. You saw his healed chest.” He paused, then said, “When it first hit the rest of us, back in the beginning, the city became chaos. Some thought it a blessing, at first. But imagine the elderly, the children… the babes. Those poor things. There is ugliness to this strange existence, without doubt.”
She mulled over his words with growing horror, whispering, “Oh, my,” as they entered the plaza. What a cruel fate. A mist of rain shimmered through the open area, with the towering shape of King Mallak in his dramatic pose ruling over the emptiness. The darkened statue gazed into the muddy sky like a fabled stormcaller of old. “What happened to them?” she asked.
Again, Gorven paused, considering his reply. “For many, their tales were tragic. Although the oldest regained the health of their younger days, they were still physically old and wrinkled. Some had been blind or nearly blind. Their sight returned. It was a miracle, or seemed like one at the time. There were joyous moments, but for some it didn’t last. The torment of having the vitality of youth returned, but being trapped in an aged body compared to the luckier of us, it was too much for them. Some committed suicide.”
“You said that wasn’t possible.”
“I said nothing of the sort, young lady. What I said is that it is difficult to die here. Not impossible. It wasn’t just the elderly that wanted none of this limbo existence; there were others, of good age when the change occurred. Whole families, even, in some cases. Some helped each other to die, decapitating their loved ones. When that didn’t work, they set the pieces on the pyre, which, up until then, had only been used for burning the horses and livestock.
“They listened to their children and parents, husbands and wives, scream in the flames and burn till they were charred husks. Only then did we feel their departure. Others wandered into the ocean, never to re-emerge. Still more decided to walk out onto the heath to whatever fate or destiny awaited them. With each who left, we who remained in Lachyla felt their consciousness fade away, with not one exception. Some believe they died a true death, others suggest the distance freed them, breaking the bonds which kept them in limbo, allowing them to return to mortality, as it were.” Gorven scoffed. “More wishful thinking, considering the proof to the contrary.”
They reached the alleyway they’d walked through on the way to Sabrian’s. The narrow space had darkened since earlier, and wind gusted ahead of them into the high-walled channel.
“I don’t understand,” Jalis said, speaking loudly into the wind. She was horrified and perplexed at Gorven’s story. Each of his comments begged for further clarification.
“They didn’t understand, either,” Gorven said. “Some knew they would survive when they left the city. Others knew they were leaving to die. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what we believe, does it? There is only one truth out there, and only one truth in here. The former is death, the latter is not.”
A knot tightened in Jalis’s chest. The temptation was still strong for the three of them to just leave, but it was Dagra’s choice, not hers, and she had to let him reach it himself.
“Life in Lachyla is not as bad as it may seem to someone from outside,” Gorven said as he caught her bleak expression. “There are adjustments to be made, it’s true, but those of us who accepted those adjustments have done our best to give meaning to our lives. Most of us, at any rate. We’ve had centuries to master the skills still required for maintaining a city: metalwork, mining, tailoring, building and repairs. And, with the abundance of time we were granted, we’ve explored spiritual pursuits; well, I should say those of us who still put stock in such things, of which I am not one. The truth of existence is a hot topic around these parts. Quite the trend, actually. The days I have spent ruminating over self-awareness and our purpose upon Verragos…” As they exited the alleyway, Gorven raised a hand to po
int into the whorling skies. “Indeed, some of us believe we’ve solved the mystery of the great Void, the stars, the moons, warts and all. Life, for those who choose to call it that, does not have to be boring here. It doesn’t have to be quite the bleak fate Dagra thinks it is.”
Jalis had journeyed throughout the three lands of the Vorinsian Arkh. She’d glimpsed the awe-inspiring mountains of the Ÿttrian Wedge and the city of Midhallow nestled between them, its towering Needle a thin line bisecting the sky. She’d sailed the Sea of Furies and travelled much of Himaera, including the Isle of Carrados where the monks brewed their wines deep within the Maze. By comparison, spending the rest of her natural days in one small area would feel like imprisonment, and extending those days to eternity would be nothing short of torture; not the worst of fates, admittedly, but the limitations would drive her to insanity.
She and Gorven turned a corner and the Chiddari Mansion loomed into view at the end of the street, its windows shuttered, its domed and angled roofs dark against the rainclouds. No sooner had Jalis glimpsed the antiquated structure, than the clouds decided to empty their load. She drew the collar of Oriken’s coat tight around her neck as the fat raindrops quickly drenched her hair, leggings and shoes. Gorven seemed to relish in the downpour, keeping at a steady stride as Jalis burst into a run for the mansion. Soon, she was through the iron gates and sprinting along the path towards the shelter of the entrance’s portico.
Oriken was sitting in the shadows of the eaves, a dispirited look on his face as he blew out a steady billow of tobah smoke. Jalis bounded up the steps and slowed to stand before him. As she regarded him, she drew her hair over her shoulder and squeezed it, letting the rain run from it in a rivulet.
Oriken nudged a finger against the brim of his hat. “I was trying to kick the habit,” he said despondently, “but now seemed a good time for reconsidering the notion.”
