Nether Kingdom

by J. Edward Neill

  Our luck will end.

  Any moment now.

  Below Undergrave Hill, a thousand steps removed from the Wolde, she and Archmyr strode into the empty encampment. Fire-pits pocked the earth, and a sea of moldering tents stretched like sad monuments toward the sky. Rows and rows of swords, spears, and other instruments of death lined racks on the sides of every path. Dead men dangled from crude gallows, Thillrian and Roma alike.

  “How are we alive?” she whispered to Archmyr halfway through the camp.

  “Keep walking. If they change their mind, we won’t be,” he answered.

  The stink of the place gagged her. Rotting meat. She choked the smell back. Excrement. Death. If she walked a steady line, it was only because she feared what would happen should she leave Archmyr’s side.

  “We’ll go north,” Archmyr told her as he rounded a pole from which a dead Thillrian hung.

  She slunk after him. “You mean you will not go back to…to wherever it is you came from?”

  “Thillria’s my home. I’ll never go back to Roma or Furyon. Too many will wish me dead again.”

  “The same for here, no?”

  “At least here they’re still afraid of me.”

  He marched faster. Barefooted, she staggered behind him. When he finally stopped at the camp’s far western edge, she bent beside him and clutched her knees.

  “Please,” she panted. “My stomach aches. I need to eat.”

  He gestured to a nearby fire-pit. A small flame smoldered, above which a skewer of meat sizzled. She sprinted to it and helped herself to a quick meal, not minding it when the meat scalded her tongue, nor caring whether it was rat-flesh, or worse. As she squatted in the dirt and chewed, Archmyr unstrung two horses from their posts and stuffed armloads of supplies into the saddlebags.

  “Is that wise?” She sensed the Wolde creeping down from the hillsides, watching us.

  “You’d rather walk?”

  “They are coming,” she nodded at the soldiers filing down off Undergrave Hill.

  “I know. But not likely for us.”

  Snatching up two more skewers of meat, she ran to a horse and allowed him to help her into the saddle. Even weary as he was, she understood why men feared him. His was an unnatural strength, and he lifted her up as though she were a feather.

  She stuck her satchel between her legs, and in a half-breath she was riding. Behind her, Archmyr kicked his stallion into a hard gallop. Mud sprayed and puddles burst beneath her horse’s hooves. To flee the Wolde camp felt as exhilarating as first seeing Father Sun again.

  The Undergrave fell behind her. Her tension lessened with every crash of her horse’s hooves against the earth. Once the Wolde fell safely out of sight and ten thousand dead trees lay between them and her, Archmyr slowed the pace. The world felt different away from Undergrave Hill. Sallow lay in silence, though not as eerily so. The midmorning sun burnished the grassless loam, and the skins of every tree shined silver.

  At length, after realizing I might live at least another day, she considered herself. Her legs were white with ashes, her rags a gust of wind away from falling off, and her calves striped red in a hundred places from riding through the thickets. She felt a mess, ugly as an urchin from Lyrlech’s lowest gutter.

  Trotting just ahead, Archmyr looked her over with a grin. “Here.” He plucked a colorless cloak from his saddlebags and tossed it to her.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.” He smirked for the thousandth time.

  “Even so.”

  He rode ahead. She sagged in her saddle, a faint shadow falling across her face. She did not know why it made her sad, but she sensed her alliance with the Pale Knight would not last beyond a few hours more.

  I will be alone again.

  Where will I go?

  She rode in silence for a long while afterward. The Pale Knight led her through a dozen valleys, treading northward around stone hillocks and thickets packed with leprous, silver-skinned trees. With each tree passed, each lump of lifeless earth surmounted, she found herself deeper in thought.

  How to find Marid?

  How to know if Garrett survived?

  Hard to think.

  Hard to breathe.

  At midday, the sun blazed down upon her. She could hardly remember the last time she had perspired, but now the sweat beaded her entire body. Eyes slitted against the searing sun, she dropped her hood over her forehead.

  “Where are we going?” she piped up.

  In a skeletal tree’s shadow, Archmyr reined his stallion to a halt. “I’ll leave you with the first Thillrians we find. There should be plenty not far ahead. We’ll find their trail. Easy.”

  “Will they hurt you?”

  “No.” He licked his teeth. “You’ll tell them I’m no trouble.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we’ll see each other no more.”

  His answer stung her. She knew he owed her less than nothing, but a pit opened in her stomach all the same. “What about the Wolde?” she worried.

  He shrugged. “It’s possible they’ll stay in Thillria and cause trouble. But it won’t be easy for them. I emptied the garrisons at Muthem and Dray weeks ago. All the conquering will have to be redone, and without me.”

  She gulped before asking her next question.

  “Who are you…really?”

  “You already know my name,” he said as his horse pawed the mud. “What else is there?”

  “You said we met before, but I remember nothing. Why did Grimwain let you control his army? In the Undergrave, how did you defeat him? He was an Ur, and an ancient swordsman at that. You looked like you could have killed him whenever you wanted.”

  “The things I could tell you…” His voice went dark and distant. “There’re no good tales of Archmyr Degiliac, only son of Shivershore’s most hated lord. Grimwain knew it. He knew what I did in Furyon, in Graehelm. He resurrected me for a purpose. He knew my pride would never let me fail.”

  “Explain.” She shivered.

  He glowered skyward, then looked at her. She feared he might change his mind and slay her on the spot, but his swords stayed put. His gaze went elsewhere, and when he spoke she swore she felt a draft sweep through the dead, dry trees.

  “I was no manner of human.” He looked sick when he said it. “I was the creature all the warlords wanted on their side, but no man would ever befriend. Hundreds died at the end of my swords: warriors, maidens, even children. Thousands, nay…tens of thousands died beneath my armies’ blades. We were awful men. I was the worst. My soldiers bathed in blood and plundered the beds of dead men’s wives by night. But there were no women for me. None. Graveyards were all I dreamt of, burning fields of rotting carcasses far as the sunlight stretched. Had the Furyons asked, I might’ve slaughtered the entire world. And I’d have done it gladly.”

  He looked her over, his eyes briefly gone black. She shivered again and shrank lower in her saddle.

  “And now I wonder,” he mused. “Was it the Ur all along? It was my hands did the deeds, but now it feels like it was Their bidding.”

  “I know what it was,” she dared. “Leastways a little bit.”

  “Oh?”

  “You have the old blood.”

  “Unlikely,” he scoffed.

  “No. I am sure of it. I have known others. I see it in you. Men fear you and they never know why. The shadow follows you. You have the old blood. It explains everything.”

  “As you like,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

  She understood his indifference. Many men bragged of deeds grand and sinister, but she sensed only the truth dripping from his jaws. He’s killed as many as he claims, she believed. No wonder the Wolde cowered.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said after a time. “I won’t hurt you. It may not avail me in the afterlife, but I’ll kill no more. I’m done with it.”

  “I want to believe you,” she offered.

  “Do you?”

  “If you w
anted, you could have killed me days ago.”

  “And I didn’t.” He looked astonished to remember it. “Imagine that.”

  He prodded his stallion and thundered off into the trees. Exhaling her fear, she bade hers do the same.

  During the next hours, she rode in his shadow. He led her through countless dry thickets and oceans of spiny brush. She watched the Gluns grow flatter and felt the air become cooler. Her bottom felt numb, her belly empty again, but she complained none. Survive, she thought.

  Find a new reason to live.

  Midday became afternoon. Afternoon became evening. Stars pricked the sky, and though she dreamed of Saul, Garrett, and Marid, she dwelled just as much on the Black Moon’s disappearance, Grimwain’s death, and the utter absence of the Nightness. None of it felt real. None of it felt possible.

  And then, at night’s edge, she passed beyond the bounds of Sallow’s lifelessness, crossing the line between her wintry death and the rest of the world. The skeletal trees and scabrous brush ended, and a living forest sprang up before her. Archmyr halted at its edge. His half-starved stallion chewed great mouthfuls of brittle grass. She would have exulted, but for her hunger, her soreness, and her roaming mind.

  “I have more questions.” She reined up beside him.

  “I’ve few answers.” He shrugged. “The Thillrians are near. I’ve seen their tracks. It won’t be long.”

  She sat up in her saddle. She had the far-fetched hope the tracks were not Thillrian, but rather Garrett’s.

  “You’re looking for someone.” Archmyr nodded into the trees.

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Whoever they are, they may still be alive. I released hundreds a few days ago. The Wolde caught only a few.”

  “The Wolde could never have hurt this one.” Her heart fluttered. “He was…unkillable.”

  Archmyr smirked. “I should’ve known it. You’ve a lover. Whatever man could wrest the girl-witch’s heart must be special indeed.”

  “I am not the girl-witch. Not anymore.” She hoisted her chin high. “My name is Andelusia. And no one wrested my heart. I gave it freely.”

  A thin, almost agreeable grin worked its way onto the corner of his mouth. She caught it in the moonlight, shining briefly before it paled.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “I hope you find him. For defeating the Ur, you deserve that much.”

  “You defeated them. Not I.”

  “I’d have never lifted a finger if not for you,” he said. “I’m selfish. Always have been. But you…the way you wept…like you were weeping for the entire world. Blame me for everything, but never say I wasn’t merciful at the end.”

  She shivered. She remembered the Ur, their shadow bodies and white eyes. She recalled the feeling of the Black Moon falling, its nothingness swallowing everything. Father…one word short.

  “I would have given up,” she said.

  “If not for your lover?”

  “Yes. But now he’s lost. He could be anywhere.”

  For once, Archmyr’s smirk was nowhere to be seen. He patted his stallion’s neck and stared into the darkness of Sallow. What unknowable thoughts writhed in his mind, she could only guess at.

  “Were things different, I’d help you find him.” He breathed deeply of the night. “But I can’t. The Thillrians are near. I smell their fires. I’ve a life to stretch as far as I can before the Ur have me again. The only stretching my countrymen would give me is my neck.”

  She felt unexpectedly sad. “So this is goodbye?”

  “For certain.” He reached into his saddlebags and withdrew a bundle. “Here. Take this. A blanket, a loaf, and an oiled lantern. The horse is yours. Use it well.”

  She prodded her stallion nearer to his and accepted the bundle. After a moment of stillness, she reached out to touch the Pale Knight’s shoulder, but thought better of it. Beneath the cold starlight, he seemed more shadow than man.

  “Where will you go?” she asked.

  “Everywhere. Nowhere.”

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  “I imagine not.”

  “If the Wolde attack us, will you come to our aid?”

  “No. But I’d not be needed. Mother Thillria is too hard a land. They’ll flee to Roma if you resist them.”

  She braved no more questions. She was too tired, too hungry, and she wished not to test his patience.

  “You need rest,” he remarked. “And you’ll have it. You have water, bread, and meat. Light your lantern and guide your horse through the trees. Find the Thillrians.”

  She slumped in her saddle. “I would rather camp here tonight. I am so tired, and—”

  “I’m not camping here,” he said. “I’m riding. Far and fast I’ll go. It’d be no life for a girl-witch, even one so strong as you.”

  “But—” she stammered.

  “You’ll be fine. When the Thillrians ask, tell them you followed a ghost, and that the ghost is long gone. I’ll consider it a favor. For not letting the Ur in.”

  Glumly, she tinkered with her lantern and stoked it to life. Its light was bright and warm, a small sun in my hands.

  I should say more. He ruined everything. But then saved it.

  Few will ever know.

  The Pale Knight spurred his horse and trotted away. As he folded into the darkness, he looked back one final time. “Find what you’re looking for, witch-girl. Live a long life. And whatever you do, find a way to be dead before a hundred years pass.”

  She mouthed a goodbye, but he was already gone. The night devoured him, and she knew she would never see him again.

  Dreaming

  In a field warm and green, Andelusia awoke. Dawn’s light skewered the darkness, carving away the night’s remnants. The prairies, having skirled at her stallion’s ankles for the last seven days, lay behind her.

  From her bedroll beneath the open sky, she shielded her eyes and squinted at distant Muthemnal. She spied the sprawling city in all its glory: the mess of pale buildings at its bottom, the endless banners azure and grey, and the rocky cliffs crowned by Castle Maewir. She glimpsed two outlying farms gutted by fire and a graveyard darkening a far patch of fallow earth, but otherwise nothing. Like the war never happened here.

  “Is the lady a’right?” asked Ilmun, one of the few folk left in her troupe of travelers. “You looks mighty worried.”

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “Just tired. And in need of a bath.”

  Ilmun showed his usual, dauntless smile. No matter his age, his creaking bones, and the horrors of war he had endured, nothing seemed able to bring him down. “We’re all tired, m’lady,” he said. “But soon enough we’ll be bellies full and elbows-deep in our mead. Why, soon as we get in, you ought to sell that handsome horse and buy you a house. That’s what Ilmun would do, were he you.”

  Ilmun’s optimism cheered her, as always it does. Including him and herself, only six remained in the troupe, the rest having found their families and friends on the journey from Sallow to Muthem. She tried not to envy the luck of those who had departed, for there were also those who had been like her, those with loved ones nowhere to be found.

  “No time for house-buying today.” She smiled for Ilmun’s sake. “Straight to Maewir for me. The new Duke is a friend of mine. I need his counsel, and soon.”

  Ilmun shrugged. “You and everyone else, like as not. If I’d a guess, I’d say his halls are stuffed with widows and orphans.”

  Right again, she knew. With Ghurlain dead, Ghurk would have assumed the role of Muthem’s lord and protector. She had heard the rumors already: hundreds of cityfolk slain and thousands more displaced. Fallout from the Pale Knight’s invasion falling on poor Ghurk to fix.

  To think such a man saved us.

  “Shall we go?” She stood and stretched.

  “Aye,” said Ilmun. “Best idea you’ve had all morn!”

  She gathered up her satchel and downed a meager breakfast of hard bread and warm water. Soon after
ward, she, Ilmun, and four other weary souls made for Muthemnal. The sky was clear, the heavens bright and blue, but they shared few words during the slow trek across the fields. Rather than ride, she tugged her stallion’s reins for another girl, a peasant widow from the lands west of Sallow, who sat in her saddle.

  The outer sprawl of Muthem drew near. The day was already warm, her sunburned skin already flushed. She led the troupe into Muthem’s outskirts, where countless refugees milled, broke their fasts, and awaited help that might never come. She supposed she looked like a ragged crone, scorched and scrawny as kindling, but no one seemed to notice. The camps outside of Muthem proper were swollen with parties just like hers. I am but one of thousands.

  “Hello?” She wended her way between tents and shanties. “Have any of you seen a warrior, tall and lean? With a scarred hauberk and a black sword? Garrett? Garrett Croft? He might be traveling with a lad named Marid. No? No one’s seen him? What about a man with a bushy beard and broken leg? Saul. Saul of Elrain is his name.”

  It was the same here as everywhere else. No one gave her the answers she wanted. Returning to her troupe after a dozen tries, she was greeted by sad, sympathetic smiles.

  “You’ll find him,” promised the poor widow atop her stallion.

  “Aye. Don’t go and give up.” Ilmun patted her shoulder.

  She tried not to be downcast. She was alive, after all, and the Nightness, the Ur, and Grimwain were gone. She picked up her pace and led the way to Muthem’s outermost gate, whose portcullis was up, and whose great wooden doors were wide open. She peered to the streets and finer dwellings beyond. Everywhere were crowds, and everywhere lively conversation.

  The rumors were rampant.

  The Wolde has fled.

  “Well then.” Ilmun announced on the far side of the gate. “I think ‘tis the end of the road for me. I’ll fetch me a tankard or three before I dash home to Missus Ilmun.”

  “You never said you were married.” Her eyes went wide.