by Scott Kaelen
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
UNHOLY COMPULSION
Swathes of rain whipped Eriqwyn’s cloak about her as she trudged through the mud. A tumbleweed, bouncing along between the tombstones, snagged on a tilted cross before tearing free and flying past Lingrey. Struggling against the wind and loping between graves with pitchfork in hand, the angular farm labourer could have passed for a Servant of the Slain, sifting a battleground for the fallen dead.
As she turned from the portentous image, Eriqwyn peered into the storm towards Onwin. The hunter tramped along a narrow pathway that ran parallel with the perimeter wall, an arrow nocked to his bow. She stumbled as her foot caught in the mud and was almost blown to her knee by the fierce wind. Steadying herself, she pulled her boot free from the mud and frowned down at the hollow it had created, the sides lumpy and risen, recognising with disgust the sunken shapes of a torso and pelvis.
“Merciful goddess,” she whispered.
She called out for Lingrey and Onwin to wait, but her voice barely carried in the ever-changing gusts of wind. The farmhand paused, glanced back and raised his hand in acknowledgement, but, heedless of her call, Onwin continued on. Eriqwyn stepped over the corpse and picked up her pace. She opened her mouth to call to the hunter a second time when he turned and waved for her attention. Onwin pointed ahead, but whatever he wanted her to see was blocked from view by a vault entrance. She lifted her gaze above the structure and saw the hazy shape of a large, domed roof a hundred feet beyond the vault. Tucked into the corner of the graveyard, with the stark, grey perimeter walls rising above it, she envisaged the manor’s archive map of the graveyard and recalled the crude circles that dominated each of the four corners. When she had been a Warder-in-training, the First Warder had instructed her about the ghouls within the Forbidden Place and given her a basic description of its layout; she remembered now that each of those circles represented a chapel. It was possible that the outlanders sought sanctuary from the weather beneath one of the domes.
Perhaps, she mused, but it is equally likely that they wait the storm out in one of the many vaults. I cannot second-guess myself. And what of the ghouls? I have seen hide nor hair of them so far, yet I know they are here.
She signalled for the hunter to wait, but he was already slipping from view behind the vault. “Onwin!” she hissed, not daring to shout too loudly in case the outlanders were in hearing distance. “Damned fool!”
A muffled shout rose over the wind from beyond the vault entrance. Sharing a glance with Lingrey, Eriqwyn broke into a run for the far side of the obstruction. She paused at the edge of the vault and peered around it. Onwin backed into view, then promptly slipped and plummeted into the mud.
In the corner of her eye she saw Lingrey point his pitchfork at the fallen hunter and shout something unintelligible. With her arrow taut in her bowstring, Eriqwyn stepped out from the cover of the vault.
“Blessed Valsana,” she whispered. The scene before her was from every villager’s worst nightmare. “On your feet!” she called to Onwin, loosing the arrow into the horde of ghouls that swarmed towards him. Turning on her heel, she broke into a stumbling run between the gravestones for the southern dividing wall. Through the sheet of rain her keen eyes sought and found the crooked line that ran from the wall’s base to its battlements. “Steps!” she called out. “To the ramparts!”
Whipping another arrow from her sheaf, she looked back at Lingrey to see him striding and slipping, thrusting the haft of his pitchfork into the mud as he went. She flicked a glance over her other shoulder and immediately wished she hadn’t; the ghouls were closing in, scores of the creatures streaming through the chapel’s high pillars from the shadowed interior, heading straight for her.
Heart and mind racing, she fixed her gaze on the narrow steps ahead, swallowing a scream as the rain and wind pushed her back, seemingly in alliance with the monstrous swarm. Her Warder training wavered as unwelcome thoughts spilled into her mind. They see me. They smell me. They want me. Goddess, give me strength.
And then she was at the wall, floundering up the rain-slick steps, clenching her bow and arrow in a fist and slapping her other hand upon the stones for purchase. As she scrambled onto the battlements, she spun and crouched, her eyes darting over the nightmarish scene. From her vantage point she could see far and wide to each of the perimeter walls. The grave-studded vista was filling with ghouls, spreading out not only from the closest chapel but also from the one beyond the Litchway at the far end of the dividing wall. Pockets of movement in the extreme distance told her that more of the creatures were pouring in from the northern reaches. Beneath the storm-black sky, the long, shadowed rectangle of the graveyard was a quagmire peppered with tombs and trees and vaults and ghouls; beyond the walls, nothing but a haze of rain. It was a diorama of death, disconnected from the outside world.
Beneath her, Lingrey loped through the mud a stone’s throw away from the steps. A single ghoul ambled into view beside the wall and paused. It lifted its countenance to Eriqwyn as if sniffing the air, then, with a rasping moan, it turned on Lingrey. Eriqwyn loosed her arrow. The projectile punched into the ghoul’s head and it pitched sideways into the mud. The farmhand ran past the fallen ghoul and slid to a halt against the wall. He glanced up at her, his expression haggard, then took to the steps. Behind him, the ghouls rose back into sight and lurched forward, snatching at his heels, pulling Lingrey’s mud-caked boots over the slick stone and bringing him crashing face-first to the steps. The ghoul fell onto him and sank its teeth into his rear. Lingrey cried out and kicked frantically, and the creature released its grip. As it slid to the ground, its talons raked down the back of the farmhand’s legs, dragging him to the base of the steps. He flipped over onto his back and swatted the fork at the creature’s face, then slammed his boot-heel hard under its chin, sending it careening away. He scrambled to his feet, but more of the ghouls were upon him.
“Lingrey!” Eriqwyn shouted. She reached for an arrow, but stayed her hand as she realised with sickening horror that too many of the monstrosities had closed around him, and wasting arrows on creatures that didn’t feel them was an exercise in futility.
Lingrey held his ground, spinning his weapon all around, swatting their reaching hands and holding them at bay. The pitchfork was a blur of motion as the curved tines slashed furrows from the ghouls’ ravaged flesh, but still they pushed forward as the throng grew.
One ghoul made its way onto the steps. As it neared her, she whipped out her hunting blade and swiped it into the creature’s face, sending it careening into the horde. She watched hopelessly as a taller ghoul lumbered between Lingrey’s swipes and grabbed him by the shoulders. Its lipless maw lunged for his face, and the rotten teeth sank into his cheek, pulling a chunk away. Lingrey thrust the ghoul back into the crowd and plunged the pitchfork into its chest.
“Ayyy-yup!” he screamed, and swung the stuck creature in an arc, the momentum lifting it from its feet. “Har!” With a flick of his wrists, the ghoul went sprawling from the tines into the mass of its brethren. “You shouldn’t oughta have done that!” he shouted at the fallen creature as he ran at it and rammed the fork’s spikes into its gore-filled sockets. As he whipped the weapon free, the horde closed in behind him and a score of hands clutched at his cloak and arms, wrenching the pitchfork from his grasp. They tore at his neck and face, and dragged him to his knees.
“Ayyyy…” A tumult of moans drowned the old farmhand’s last utterance to the world as the ghouls swarmed over him.
“I’m so sorry,” Eriqwyn whispered.
“Warder!”
Her gaze darted over the graveyard for the source of the faint call. A flash of movement on the eastern wall caught her eye. Peering through the rain, she saw a figure waving to her from between the parapets. It can only be Onwin, she thought. Two stretches of walkway separated the hunter from her, and a partially-collapsed tower rose behind the chapel’s dome in the corner between east and south walls. It would be perilous, b
ut the hunter might be able to join her if he could climb between the rubble. But she had to reach Wayland. All others were expendable.
“Onwin!” she called. “To me!”
The ghouls had taken to the steps. The nearest had almost reached the walkway. Delivering a swift kick into its face, she broke into a run for the central Litchtower.
A gust of wind whipped through the battlements and sent her sprawling to the wet stones, but she picked herself up and soon the drum tower came into view. Beneath it, flurries of ground-fog buffeted across the crumbled Litchway. She scanned ahead into the shaded interior of the Litchtower. Her eyes fell upon the winch mechanism nestled against the forward wall, and the seeds of a plan began to form in her mind.
She reached the tower’s side arch and passed beneath it, not slowing until she exited the other side. Fifty feet along the walkway the graveyard’s rear watchtower stretched higher than all the others, its width reaching out beyond the battlements. An iron door was set into the watchtower’s circular side. Coming to a halt halfway between the two towers, she leaned through the walkway’s risen sides and steadied herself between two merlons out for a view of the graveyard. Ghouls peppered the immediate area, ambling within the rising fog. Though the greater gathering of the creatures amassed closer to the western chapel, they were heading slowly but inexorably her way. She scanned the ground for Wayland and his team, her heart thumping as she looked from ghoul to headstone, from tree to vault entrance with no sign of them. I need Wayland, she thought, staunching her rising panic. As her gaze passed over a vault entrance almost directly ahead of her, a figure stepped into view with its cloak whipping behind it and its axe raised.
Thank the Goddess, she thought as Wayland lunged forward to smash his axe through a nearby ghoul’s face. Calling out his name, she waved her bow high. “Up here!”
He cleaved into a second ghoul, splitting the head in two before glancing up to her. After a pause, he raised his wood-axe and bow in acknowledgement. As two figures stepped out from behind the vault, a warning cry spilled from Eriqwyn’s lips before she recognised Tan and Demelza. Gathering his team to him, Wayland ran closer along a side path adjacent to the Litchway.
“Get to higher ground!” Eriqwyn pointed her bow towards the watchtower. “Can you get inside?”
Wayland glanced across, then shook his head. “No entrance!” His voice barely cut through the wind. He pointed to a section of wall hidden beyond the tower, and Eriqwyn caught the last of his words. “…steps further along!”
“Get to them! I’ll attract the ghouls’ attention. Reach the battlements and find a way into the city. I suspect the outlanders are in there, and they are still our priority.”
As Warder and blacksmith set off between the gravestones with Demelza in tow, Eriqwyn could only hope he had properly heard her. As the men paused to dispatch a pair of ghouls that staggered into their path, Eriqwyn nocked an arrow. Selecting a ghoul that faced the trio with its back to her, she gauged the wind, took aim, and released. The arrow tore through the air, pulled by the gusting wind, but found its target, plunging into the creature’s shoulder. It turned, seeking the source of the attack.
She waved her arm and shouted at the top of her lungs, “To me, you cursed dog! Get over here!”
The ghoul lifted its visage to the battlements and staggered towards her. As it passed another of its brethren, the second turned to follow.
“That’s it!” Eriqwyn yelled. “Come and see what I’ve got for you!”
More of the nearby ghouls paused in their meanderings and turned to face her as she continued to shout down to them, and one by one they waded through the fog to gather beneath her section of the wall. A glance to the east told her that the creatures that had swarmed from the first chapel were making for the Litchway in droves.
With a last glance at Wayland’s team as they weaved through the creatures for the steps, Eriqwyn eased herself out of the embrasure and back onto the walkway. She would have to trust in him to reach the safety of higher ground. Running back into the Litchtower, she cast a grim glare at the line of ghouls that headed along the battlements, then stepped to the tower’s forward wall to glance through a murder hole at the Litchway below.
Yes, she thought, seeing the creatures gathering before the gate. That’s it. Come to me. Moving to the winch, she slid a finger over the chains; they were rusty, but slightly slick with grease. Frowning in puzzlement but shrugging at her good fortune, she placed her bow on the floor and grabbed the winch handle. At first it refused to budge, but she planted her feet and heaved upwards and, with a grinding of metal on stone as the chains shifted, the handle began to turn. Slowly, the chains passed through their apertures in the floor to either side of the mechanism and inched their way upwards to coil around the barrel.
The outlanders have entered the city, she told herself. Given the potential for looting, that is their most likely target. They must have avoided the ghouls by staying on the Litchway and heading straight for the battlements. Thinking of Lingrey, she hissed a curse. As I too should have done.
Intent on turning the winch, she almost didn’t register the rasping moan as a ghoul shuffled into the tower’s small room, its outstretched hands reaching for her. She released the handle, whipped her dagger out and plunged it through the ghoul’s palm. As the broken nails of its other hand scratched at her head, she dug her fingers into its scrawny neck and shoved backwards, slamming it into the side of the arch. She glared into its dead eyes as it snarled and snapped, then with a cry of defiance she squeezed its neck and wrenched the creature and herself through the arched doorway. For a sickening moment she imagined them turning, her blade through its withered hand, their faces inches apart as they pirouetted across the walkway like some macabre dancing couple. With bile rising in her throat, she tore the dagger free and ducked beneath the ghoul’s reach to step behind it. She wrapped her arms around it, pinning the ghoul’s arms to its sides, and heaved it into an embrasure. She slammed its face to the stone and grabbed a fistful of its ragged clothing, then pushed it through the gap and watched as it plummeted into the teeming mass beneath.
Readying herself for the next of the ghouls that filed towards her, a sudden shout drifted over the wind from somewhere behind them. Several paused and turned, giving Eriqwyn the opening to peer along the ramparts, but beyond the ragged, rotten procession she could see nothing.
“Onwin,” she called. “Is that you?”
“Aye, Warder!”
The nearest ghoul was almost upon her. Grabbing it by the shoulders, she rammed a knee into its groin; decayed bones crunched from the impact, but the creature’s ghastly visage showed no reaction. She stepped back, planted the flat of her boot onto its chest and kicked it to sprawl at the feet of its fellows.
Swallowing the acrid taste that rose in her throat, she shouted across to Onwin. “Draw their attention! I’m raising the gate to lure them into the city. It’s our only chance.”
Onwin’s response was drowned beneath a fierce gust and an overhead crash of thunder that shook the stones beneath Eriqwyn’s feet. The ghouls paused, mouths agape as they lifted their faces to the sky. Eriqwyn ran into the Litchtower and resumed her turning of the winch. The hunter’s shouts slowed the ghouls and kept her from being their singular intent, but still a number of them continued for the archway. Switching glances constantly between the advancing ghouls and the mechanism, she watched as inch by slow inch the chains turned until several rows were coiled around the barrel.
Seeing the first ghoul step under the arch, she ran forwards with a snarl and thrust it backwards to slam into three more of the creatures, sending them all slipping to the stones.
“Cursed abominations!” she hissed. Returning to the winch, she turned the handle with as much speed as she could muster. Onwin’s shouts were not drawing all of the creatures to him, and the few beyond the arch were already back on their feet.
Surely that must be enough. “Onwin!” she called. “It’s done! Ta
ke to the roofs!” As the ghouls staggered into the Litchtower, she gave the winch one final turn, snatched up her bow and ran for the opposite arch, passing several gaps in the rear ramparts before skidding to a halt and hauling herself up into an embrasure.
Her jaw dropped as she glanced out into the rain-filled distance as, for the first time, her eyes fell upon the city of her ancestors. Its network of buildings and streets, alleyways and plazas blanketed the expanse within the metropolis’s high walls, the castle’s towers stabbing into the storm-black sky at the rear of it all, the fortress itself sprawling atop its hill like in the vellum sketches of her family’s archives. Sheets of lightning coursed over Lachyla amid a rumble of thunder, and for several seconds the cityscape flashed starkly between dark and light. For all the horror the Gardens of the Dead instilled in her, the sight of the true Forbidden Place almost brought her to her knees. As she stared at the scene, she understood what immeasurable wealth and grandeur, elegance and luxury Valsana’s curse had stripped away.
And yet somehow those elements still remain, her Warder senses told her. And not merely as vestiges. Something about the place was very wrong, more so than the horrible truths of deadstones and the deceased; everyone in the village had always known it, though only ever spoke of it in hushed and secret whispers.
Ghouls stumbled onto the walkway from the Litchtower, their yellowed orbs and empty sockets fixed on her. Steadying herself between the merlons, she eyed the gap between herself and the sloping roof of the nearest building – at least six feet across and as many down. Clenching tightly to the grip of her bow, she thought, I can do this. As the ghouls’ decayed hands reached for her, she leaped from the battlements.
Time slowed, a second becoming an eternity as she coursed across and down the divide, her cloak billowing over her head as she was buffeted by the strong winds. In that moment she saw herself plummeting to the flagstones, to the ghouls that spilled through the raised Litchgate and streamed into the city…
