by Scott Kaelen
“Whoa there, friend.” The tall man raised his hand. “We’re on your side.”
“Deceivers as well as outlanders.” Wayland snorted. “I know your names.” He glanced to the short, bearded one. “Dagger.” Then behind to the woman. “Chalice!” he called, then turned back to the lofty one. “And you are the Orc King. Don’t look much like an orc to me. Nor a king. But what do I know? Your greatest folly was in venturing to this place.”
“Hey,” the Orc King said with a shrug. “You know the old saying. When from the Folly—”
“Not now, Oriken,” Chalice hissed.
“Hm. Oriken, is it? Fair enough. Can’t blame Demelza. She’s not so good with names. Now, I’m afraid you have to die.”
“You won’t pull off more than one shot before the rest of us rip you to shreds,” Dagger said. “You must know that.”
Wayland nodded. “And yet I have no choice.”
Oriken leaned forward. “There are always choices.”
“Why?” Dagger lowered his sword. “What have we ever done to you?”
Wayland’s heart was thudding in his chest. He’d hurt his fair share of men in the past. It was a part of village life. But he’d never killed a man, and the bearded fellow that stood before him now, asking his question in earnest, was no mindless creature, not even a gobshite in need of a painful lesson. These three were not animals to be slain for meat and skin and bones. But if he were to let them go…
“You should never have ventured into the Fell,” he told Dagger, training the arrow across to him. “Outsiders are not welcome here.”
“You’re not wrong, on both counts,” Dagger said.
“Your knowledge of us threatens our existence.” Wayland flicked a glance across the three of them. “You have to die.”
A wry smile creased Dagger’s scraggly beard. “Now there’s a point I’ve been reckoning with lately. So, are you going to do it?”
A man of solid muscle stepped up alongside Chalice, dressed in the armour of the bygone days. He planted the tip of his longsword between his metal-clad boots and fixed his eyes on Wayland.
No matter, Wayland thought. I’m already a dead man. “It’s nothing personal,” he said. His hands were trembling for the first time in decades. “I can’t allow—”
“If you’re here to kill us,” Dagger snapped, “then get the fuck on with it. But don’t insult us by trying to excuse the fact.”
A figure ran into Wayland’s sight. Nearly naked from the waist up, there was no mistaking Shade as she darted across the street behind the two men.
Dagger lunged forward. Before Wayland could react, the bearded man doubled over, his sword clanging to the stones, and pitched to the ground, an arrow jutting from his upper back.
“No!” Oriken dropped to his knees beside his companion.
Taking a step back, Wayland glanced across to see Eriqwyn at the street’s edge, notching an arrow to her bow as she brought it to bear on Chalice.
“My first shot was meant for another,” Eriqwyn said. “But that one can wait. The safety of the village is paramount.”
She pulled back on the bowstring. As the armoured knight stepped before Chalice to shield her, a flash of movement behind Eriqwyn caught Wayland’s eye. The arrow flew, and the bow dropped from Eriqwyn’s grasp. The projectile clattered against the knight’s ringmail. A stupefied expression creased Eriqwyn’s face, and her gaze dropped. A slim shaft of steel protruded from her breast.
Oh, goddess, Wayland thought. Please, no. Helplessly, he watched as the steel slid from the First Warder and she dropped to her knees. Behind her stood a young girl dressed in black, a slender blade in each hand, her eyes as midday blue as she coolly regarded him.
The whole tableau was thrust into brightness as sunlight streamed down. Down the sights of his arrow, Wayland cast a baleful glare upon the raven-haired girl as she squinted against the sun. He loosed his arrow. A blur of motion and a clang of metal, and it ricocheted away from her. He snatched at his sheaf, fixing a second arrow to his bow even as a slash of pain flared in his neck and a wetness trickled beneath his collar. He fired, and this time the arrow thumped into the girl’s chest. She flinched, then flashed him an entirely mirthless grin.
He clasped a hand to his neck, his fingers brushing against something small and hard that slipped from his flesh and fell to the ground. Blood pumped between his fingers. His senses swam.
“You,” he spat at Eriqwyn’s attacker. “You are not our cousins!”
The raven-haired girl sneered. “No, boy, we are your elders, and you are interfering children who are long overdue a punishment.” She nudged a toe against Eriqwyn’s shoulder, and the First Warder toppled sideways.
“Eriqwyn!” he cried, his voice a hoarse croak.
He watched Chalice run to her fallen friend. His head reeled as he watched her crouch before the bearded man. Wayland blinked, then glanced at the ground at his feet, at a tiny knife that lay within a spray of slick crimson. My blood, he thought. Huh.
“Hey, shitface.” Oriken sprang to his feet, dodged around his friends and hammered a fist into Wayland’s face.
The world turned in spiralling flashes, then all was still. Wayland opened his eyes. Eriqwyn was inches away, the side of her head resting on the flagstones, her expression calm.
“Queenie,” he whispered.
A small gasp escaped her lips, then her face blurred and the daylight dimmed to black. The street was soft beneath Wayland’s cheek. Soft and warm…
This can’t be happening, Oriken thought as he stared helplessly at Dagra, at the spread of blood that darkened his shirt around the shaft embedded in his back. Despite all they’d been through, the moment felt surreal.
Dagra shifted his face to the side, and blinked.
“He’s alive!” Oriken squatted beside him, looking desperately to the Lachylan onlookers as more of the cityfolk came to stand beside Krea and Ellidar. “Help us!” he pleaded of the knight, then looked beseechingly to Jalis beside him. She shook her head. It’s a killing blow, her expression said, and you know it.
Dagra loosed a shallow groan. “Oriken…”
“I’m here. Lay still.”
Ellidar dropped to a knee at Dagra’s other side. “Are you ready?” he asked. Dagra nodded weakly.
As the knight reached for the arrow, Oriken grabbed his arm. “What are you doing? You pull that thing out and you’ll kill him!”
Ellidar held his gaze calmly. “I think you know I won’t.”
The knight’s meaning was not lost on him. He looked bleakly to Dagra, whose eyes flicked to meet his gaze.
“Do it,” Dagra whispered.
“No,” Oriken protested, but his resistance slipped as Jalis pulled him away.
“It has to happen,” she told him.
“Hold him down for me,” Ellidar commanded her. She knelt and placed her hands firmly on Dagra’s shoulders as the knight tore a strip from Dagra’s shirt, wadded the material into a ball and shoved it into Dagra’s mouth. He grasped the wooden shaft and wrenched upward. Dagra’s muffled scream lasted only an instant as the arrow slid free, then he went limp.
“He sleeps,” Krea said, stepping to Ellidar’s side. “That is all.”
Ellidar nodded as he rose. “He will live.” With a nod to the two fallen assailants, he added, “As will they.”
“Is that what you call it?” Oriken squared on the knight. “Life? What the fuck good is that to Dagra?” He gestured down the street to the subdued remnants of fighting, and out to encompass the whole of Lachyla. “This isn’t his home. These aren’t his friends.” He barked a terse laugh. “Your king called this city a ledge of the Pit itself. He wasn’t wrong.”
Krea stepped between them and looked sternly up into Oriken’s eyes. “Shouting at the world right now won’t get anyone anywhere. Take your friend to my mansion. Remain there with him if you must, or return and help us put this mess in order. It makes little difference to me; the situation is controlled and the
Mother is calmed. Go.” She slipped a key from her leggings and handed it to him.
“Oriken.” Jalis took hold of Dagra’s arm, who even now was already stirring. “Help me get him to his feet.”
Oriken glowered at Krea. “You could try showing a little compassion,” he told her, moving to Dagra’s side. “It wouldn’t change anything, but it wouldn’t hurt.”
“That’s a lesson you can teach me later,” she countered with a tight smile.
Oriken and Jalis lifted Dagra to his feet, and he spat out the wad of material. As Oriken bent at the knee to wrap an arm around his friend’s waist, he caught Ellidar’s eye as the knight moved off. “Thank you,” he said, though gratitude was not at all among his current emotions.
By all rights, he ought to be dead, Oriken thought to himself, casting a sidelong glance at Dagra’s haggard features. And yet, despite his protestations, he realised that he was thankful – thankful that his old friend was still with them, in whatever horrific form of life – or non-life – he had slipped into.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ROTTEN LUCK
Demelza ran down the long alleyway alongside the towering western wall of the city, briefly quickening her pace as she passed each connecting pathway between the buildings to her right. It was quiet here with the commotion of activity muted and far behind her – quiet enough that the sound of something sliding and scraping across the rubble brought her skidding to a halt.
From around the corner of the next adjoining pathway, a ghoul crawled into view through the dirt, scratching at the ground to drag itself onwards, its backbone trailing behind it like the tail of a snake. Demelza let out a small scream and clasped her hand to her mouth. Stumbling back, she tripped over debris and landed hard on her rear. With fumbling fingers, she pulled an arrow from her sheaf as the ghoul’s milky eyes locked onto her. It snarled, and its fingers dug with sudden urgency in a bid to reach her.
Her scalp tingled with terror as the creature closed the distance. With shaking hands she fitted the arrow to her bow, drew back on the string and let loose. The ghoul showed no reaction as the arrowhead sank into its shoulder. It snatched for her foot and she pulled it away, scrambling backwards and climbing swiftly to her feet.
As she stared at the bloated features, the air around the ghoul shimmered, becoming denser. She pressed her back to the wall, keeping her focus on the rotten thing as its eyes melted, glowing dimly from within. The flesh over its ribs began to bubble and smoke. With a gurgling moan, it dropped its face to the ground. The stench of roasting meat assailed her and she swallowed the rising bile. The ghoul ceased its movements, all but one hand clutching lethargically at the cracked paving.
Quelling a whimper, Demelza darted past the ghoul and onwards, all the way to the perimeter corner. Gravel scraped beneath her shoes as she slid into the wall and used her momentum to sprint on, not stopping until the wide main street came into view, the dividing gate’s towers high above. Pausing at the building’s edge, she peered around the corner and down the long street. A few of the strange people crossed back and forth in the distance, stooping to grab fallen ghouls and drag them away. Taking a deep breath, she dived for the portcullis and scrambled beneath the spikes, crawled across the mud to the inside wall and stared out at the expanse of graves. It was only then that she allowed herself to cry, but quietly and just for a moment.
The immense vista was empty, just as it had been when she first entered the place. Sunlight streamed across the rain-wet pathway and the muddy puddles, making it all sparkle. Taking breaths to calm herself, she brought to mind the faces of the group that she hadn’t felt a part of – the First Warder, Waynan, the round-bellied hunter, the blacksmith, the old farmer man, and Shade. Lost in her thoughts, she glanced to the side and gave a start at the sight of a tall, hunched figure standing beside the wall with its back to her. Clutching her bow, she rose slowly, wiping her muddied hands over her leggings and frowning at the figure’s dirt-cakes cloak and raised cowl.
Ain’t one o’ them dead’uns, she thought. Then she saw the four curved spikes beyond the figure’s hood. “It’s the farmer,” she whispered to herself. “Hey!”
He half-turned, paused, then completed the movement.
Demelza recoiled from the sight. It was the old farmer, but half of his face was torn away, his clothes and cloak a bloody mess, and what was left of his insides trailed down his trousers like a string of sausages. His grey eyes looked at her.
She took a step backwards. “I… I’m leavin’ now,” she stammered. “You, er…”
His teeth gnashed in mimicry of how he used to smack his lips, and he shuffled forwards a step, using his pitchfork as a crutch. “Dead,” he said, raising a hand to touch the side of his head. “Can… feel it.”
Demelza did cry then. Not a stifled sob, and not for her, but for the farmer man. His pale eyes looked sad and in pain. She made to move towards him, but he raised his hand.
“No,” he drawled, then pointed his fork northwards across the graveyard. “You go. I… Ayyy…”
With a wail, Demelza threw her bow to the ground and ran, ran onto the broken pathway and kept running, not looking back, not even once.
The sound of a door slamming shut and a click as of tumblers turning roused Tan from his slumber. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember anything. Groggily, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his hands and knees, gazing around at the shadowed room. A sliver of sunlight knifed down across the carpeted floor of an ornate but small chamber with closed doors on two sides and an open door to his right.
He touched his fingers gently to the back of his aching head and felt a lump below the crown. He remembered bringing up the rear behind Demelza while Wayland scouted ahead. The next thing he knew, he was waking up here.
“Tan…”
The sibilant voice came from beyond the open door. He pushed himself to one knee and peered through, his brow furrowing in confusion at the sight of the bottom steps of an elaborate staircase.
Am I back in the village, he wondered. Have I been taken into Albarandes Manor? “Who’s there?” he called.
A figure stepped into the doorway.
“Shade?”
She trailed a hand up the door frame and leaned upon it.
“What’s going on?”
“You were hurt. I dragged you in here to safety.”
He climbed to his feet. “But the—”
“Shh.” She smiled. “Everything is fine. It is over.”
“But…” He trailed off as his eyes took Shade in. Her hair clung wetly to her face, encircling her beauty. Her wet garments revealed her near-nakedness with almost as much detail as if she wore nothing.
She turned her back to him. His gaze drifted down the dark strands of hair that trailed her back, still further to the curves of her waist, the diaphanous material clinging to her buttocks and falling in neat folds down her thighs. She paced slowly away from him, and he watched, the madness of the city outside all but forgotten.
With liquid grace she turned back to face him, her hips swaying. “Come,” she said, curling a finger to beckon him through.
Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t place it. Warily he followed her, his eyes flicking to right and left to see the darkened interior of an entrance hall, much like what he had glimpsed several times beyond the double doors of Adri and Eriqwyn’s house.
“What’s going on, Shade?”
“What is going on?” She smiled sweetly. “The mission is over. The outlanders are dead and Eri has returned home. There is no rush. We are not in danger here. Let us take advantage of the moment.” Her hand was atop her thigh, and she traced it up over her side to squeeze her breast. “You like what you see, don’t you?” It was an observation, he knew, not a question.
He lifted his eyes to hers. For some reason his heart was thumping wildly. He nodded.
“You would like more of what you see, yes?” Shade drifted close to him, her fingertips light on his should
er, her back arched, her chest rising and falling as she pressed her hips against his.
“But we have to—”
She touched her finger to his lips. “Shh.”
“But—”
“Do you want me, Tan?” Her lips brushed against his cheek. The warmth of her breath upon his skin made his heart thud louder.
“Yes,” he said, wincing at the squeak as his voice cracked.
“Then you should take me,” she whispered. “But first, there is someone I would like you to meet.”
“Who?”
Shade stepped away and turned her gaze up the grand staircase, an open smile blossoming upon her face. “Hello, Aunt Elimae,” she called.
An elderly but attractive lady stood at the top of the stairs, a hand upon the polished banister, her other hand toying with a circle of starstone in a fine pendant at her neck. She smiled down at Shade, then turned to regard Tan. “Hello, young man. Welcome to House Galialos.”
“Gali—” He frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t…”
“You don’t need to,” Shade purred. “Don’t be rude, Tan. Say hello.”
“Er… Hello?”
Aunt Elimae laughed sweetly as she descended the stairs. “Oh, but you’ve put him ill at ease, the poor thing. He’s confused. Likely concussed from the blow to the head. Shade, dear, you should explain that you call me Aunt only as a term of affection.”
“Yes, of course.” Shade turned her dark brown eyes on Tan. “Aunt Elimae is over three hundred and fifty years old,” she said casually. “Which couldn’t really make her my aunt, now could it?”
Tan took a step towards the double doors. “What’s this about? What kind of game are you playing with me?”
There was a rustle of movement further down the entrance hall. From the shadows came a third woman, almost the double of Shade. With the same graceful motions, she swayed along the hall and paused beside the foot of the stairs to rest her hand upon the varnished post.
