The Doom of Fallowhearth

by Robbie MacNiven

  “Kathryn?” she said slowly. Kathryn’s eyes rolled as she gazed around the shrine before fixing on Dezra’s. Dezra saw recognition there.

  “Dezra?”

  Dezra embraced her, kissing her softly. It was over. She had Kathryn back, and nothing else mattered. She laughed, Kathryn smiling back at her, before drawing her in for another kiss.

  “It’s going to be alright,” Dezra said.

  “I know,” Kathryn answered.

  There was a shuddering blow against the shrine doors. Voices rose up from outside. The moment of sanctuary, of pure relief, evaporated.

  “I’ve been dreaming, Dezra,” Kathryn said urgently. “Terrible dreams. I don’t know what was real and what wasn’t.”

  “You were cursed by something,” Dezra said, looking into Kathryn’s eyes, looking for any last traces of that golden light. “A powerful practitioner. Their magic is old and dark, older and darker than mine, but foreign to me. I do not know from which elements it draws its powers, but it is strong with the ways of Umbros, and possibly Lumos.”

  Fear gripped Kathryn’s expression as the memories came back hard and fast. She said a single word, shivering. “Arachyura.”

  Dezra nodded. “Where?”

  “Beneath the town. Tunnels. I don’t know where exactly. They took me after… after I tried the Black Invocation. I’m so sorry, Dezra. Can you forgive me?”

  “I am the one who should be asking for forgiveness,” Dezra said, gripping her hands once more and trying to reassure her with a smile. “From the day we met you were nothing but kind to me. I have repaid you by leading you down a dark path.”

  “No,” Kathryn said, planting her forehead softly against Dezra’s, looking into her black eyes. “It isn’t a dark path. It’s simply a different path. Your path. Let no one tell you otherwise. I have seen you heal wounds and make scars disappear. I have seen you cure diseases and give comfort to the grieving. Nothing about that is dark, or wrong.”

  Dezra closed her eyes, fighting the turmoil within. Every word Kathryn said lightened her soul and gave her hope, but hope had been a stranger to her for so long that it felt unnatural. It had started to grow difficult for Dezra to view the paths she trod as a positive force any more, not when everywhere she turned she was met by hatred and disgust. Even if what Kathryn said was true, that wasn’t how others would see it.

  “You have your whole life ahead of you,” she told her. “You will be the wisest, greatest ruler Forthyn has ever had. These lands need you. Terrinoth needs you.”

  “And I need you,” Kathryn said. “I love you.”

  There was another crash, and the doors to the shrine shuddered. Dezra heard an imperious voice shouting at the townsfolk to make way. She opened her eyes and looked at the tomb-keeper.

  “Is there another way out?” she demanded. “A back door?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The yard entrance. But the only way beyond that is the lich-gate, and it leads onto the street. You will be seen.”

  “No, we won’t,” Dezra said, turning back to Kathryn and grasping her shoulder. “Do you remember the hex nebulum?” she asked. “The mist shroud?”

  “Yes,” Kathryn said, with a smile. “It’s how I made it out of the castle last time.”

  “I thought as much,” Dezra said, feeling an unexpected jolt of pride. “Speak the incantation with me. We’ll get out of this together.”

  Before she could begin, there was a great cracking sound. The shrine doors crashed inwards, the lock shattered, the timber bar splintered into pieces. Kathryn and Dezra surged to their feet as bodies flooded in through the open door, chain mail, helmets and blades gleaming in the light of Dezra’s flames.

  These were men-at-arms, not townsfolk. They thrust the tomb-keeper to one side, and he fell to the stone floor with a cry. The wind rushed in with them, billowing Dezra’s cloak and Kathryn’s gown as the sorceress pushed her lover protectively behind her.

  The onrushing men came to a clattering halt as Dezra raised her hand, her green-yellow flames igniting around her clenched fist. Her racing heart caused the exhaustion brought on by her recent spellcasting to burn away in an instant.

  “If you value your immortal souls, you won’t take another step closer,” she snarled.

  Fear and anger, the same looks she’d endured all her life. The looks she wanted nothing more than to protect Kathryn from. They wouldn’t take her, not after what they’d both been through. She wouldn’t lose her now.

  One of the men was smirking. He thrust past the others until he was standing directly in front of Dezra.

  “So, the three idiots were right after all,” he declared, voice echoing back from the shrine’s ceiling. “The Lady Kathryn was abducted by a fell sorceress. And a pretty one at that.”

  “There was no abduction,” Kathryn declared loudly, half pushing past Dezra. “And this is no fell sorceress. She is my mentor, and I love her!”

  “My lady,” the man said, offering a short, meaningless bow. “My name is Captain Kloin. I’ve been sent by Baroness Adelynn to retrieve you and return you safely to Highmont. Immediately.”

  “I won’t go,” Kathryn said, moving past Dezra, her posture tall and commanding. “You can go back to Highmont and tell my mother that. Tell her I renounce my titles, and the heirship to Forthyn. Tell her I am leaving these lands and that I won’t be returning.”

  Kloin looked unmoved by her words, his expression sneering and dismissive. Dezra didn’t try to move in front of her again – she had seen this on rare occasions before, the flash of her abilities to command. The strength and conviction of her noble lineage shining through. It only made her love Kathryn more.

  “With all due respect, my lady, you are not yourself. You have been snatched away by this witch, held Kellos-only-knows where for the past month, and are no doubt possessed by some sort of curse or delusion cast by this monstrous creature. My duty is clear. I have no choice other than to take you back to the baroness. I pray you will not make me use force.”

  “If you lay a hand on her, you die,” Dezra said, her icy glare fixed on Kloin. “And that’ll just be the beginning of your suffering.”

  “Don’t make this mistake, captain,” Kathryn urged. “You serve my family, so you serve me. Do as I say and stand your men down. Let us pass in peace and this will all be forgotten.”

  “You are not yourself, my lady,” Kloin repeated, not breaking eye contact with Dezra. “I’m sorry it has come to this, but you’ll thank me later. As will the baroness.”

  For a second, absolute stillness settled over the shrine. Then Kloin spoke again.

  “Take them.”

  Dezra shouted a curse-word as the wall of armored men surged in on them, once more conjuring nightmares into the thoughts of the onrushing figures. These weren’t tired, confused townspeople, though, and their shock lasted only a few heartbeats. Dezra snatched Kathryn’s wrist, throwing her towards the back of the shrine, shouting at her to find the door to the graveyard as Kloin charged them, his sword drawn. She wasn’t going to let him reach Kathryn. Men like him had tormented her for long enough.

  She brought her knife up, another short incantation on her lips, but this time she was too slow. Kloin was on her, hatred in his eyes as he thrust his sword home. The blade jarred off the rib bones that decorated the exterior of her corset and plunged into her stomach, a lance of icy pain that forced her to bend forward and scream. Kathryn staggered, the disbelief on her face giving way to horror.

  “No,” Dezra heard her shout. Kloin’s face was inches from hers, his breath rancid, his eyes burning with a fierce triumph.

  “Unless I’m much mistaken, I’ve just become the first man to kill one of the Borderland Four,” he said, grinning before twisting his sword and ripping it free. Dezra’s legs gave way and she fell. Pain paralyzed her thoughts. Her hands clutched at the wound in her stomach, th
e pale flesh turning a bright, vital red as blood pumped out between her fingers. More choked her throat, spilling from her dark lips.

  Then Kathryn was with her, kneeling by her side, clutching her in her arms. The movement drew a fresh, strangled cry. She tried desperately to form words through the blood gagging her, looking up at Kathryn with terrified eyes.

  “Step away from the witch, my lady,” Kloin ordered, standing over the fallen couple. Blood, running thickly from his sword, had started to flow through the cracks between the shrine’s flagstones. He reached out a hand to snatch Kathryn’s shoulder, but she snapped a phrase at him, and he took a step backwards with a yelp of pain, as though he’d been stung or shocked. None of his men moved, uncertain whether they should try to seize Kathryn by force or not.

  “Don’t speak,” Kathryn told Dezra urgently, ignoring Kloin and clutching her close. “Just hold on. Hold on to me for a few more moments, and it’ll all be alright. I promise you. I promise.”

  Dezra could only let out a deep moan, hands slippery and red. It hurt, by all the gods, how it hurt, a pain deep inside her, like a shard of pure ice that she couldn’t pull free, no matter how she clutched and grasped at it. Her mind knew that she was dying, but her body was in panic, still desperately fighting against what was coming.

  Her vision blurred. She was vaguely aware of Kathryn saying something, holding her close. Everything sounded as though it was underwater, or coming from another room, muffled and woolly. She managed to drag a breath in through her nose, spitting more blood, the taste bitter and choking at the back of her throat. The pain made her writhe, driving out her thoughts, her fears, her regrets. Kathryn was still holding on, a white-knuckled death-grip.

  It was too soon. That was one of the only things Dezra was able to focus on. Too soon, after so many years alone, to be torn away from the woman she loved. The ache of it was as great as the agony of her wound – she didn’t know where one ended and the other began. She felt betrayed by the fates themselves, the subject of a sick jest. To have found Kathryn again and be torn away was more than her thoughts could bear.

  And then something strange began to happen. Her vision cleared. She could see Kathryn’s face above her, grief-stricken but determined, her lips still moving. Her body stopped shaking and she realized, little by little, that the pain that had been so overwhelming before was receding. At first, she thought it was the final stage before death, that slow, numb moment where eyes glazed and struggles grew still. But her body wasn’t giving up. She could breathe again. Blood was no longer clogging her mouth. Her hearing returned with a pop, and with it she caught the tail end of what Kathryn was saying, the last words of an incantation Dezra had once, reluctantly, taught her.

  Blood pattered down on Dezra’s face, blood that was now falling from Kathryn’s lips. Horror filled her as she realized what was happening. She tried to speak, to beg Kathryn to stop, but her voice had deserted her. Kathryn smiled down at her and slumped backwards.

  Dezra scrambled up onto her knees. Her hands were still sticky with her own blood, and her body felt weak and drained, but the pain was gone – only echoes of it remained now, in her mind and in the core of her being. The wound, she realized, was closed.

  And, like a cruel joke, it had opened up in Kathryn. Blood was spreading in a crimson stain across the center of her cloak and the white tunic beneath, blossoming like a brilliant red flower. More blood ran from her mouth, streaking down her perfect, pale cheek.

  “Kathryn,” Dezra said, now kneeling in turn over her, grasping her. “You didn’t! How could you?”

  “I told you,” the baroness’s daughter whispered, a small smile on her red lips. “I told you it would be alright.”

  “This isn’t alright,” Dezra said, snatching the front of the bloody tunic and ripping it open. The wound in Kathryn’s midriff pulsed, fresh and fatal, identical to Dezra’s. Stolen from her.

  “The participes mortus,” Dezra said, her mind racing, horror even greater than before besetting her. “You can’t use it like this! It’s too much! It will kill you!”

  Now Kathryn was the one struggling for words. She clutched Dezra’s wrist, grip like a vice.

  “You taught me so much,” she managed. “But… the greatest lesson, was that death is never an end. Only a beginning.”

  “No,” Dezra choked, her eyes filled with tears. “I love you, Kathryn. Don’t leave me. Don’t go to Nordros without me.”

  Kathryn’s voice had dropped to a struggling whisper. Dezra leant her forehead against hers, hearing that last, dying breath. “Light, in the heart of darkness.”

  The grip on Dezra’s wrist loosened, and her eyes unfocused. She slumped in Dezra’s arms.

  For a while there was nothing, nothing but the sound of sobbing, echoing back from cold, uncaring stone.

  Then Kloin spoke.

  “By all the gods,” he spat, taking a step forward. “You vile witch! What have you done to her?”

  Dezra stayed bowed over Kathryn’s body, shaking, her sobs turning to silence. An agony worse than any she had felt before had gripped her, a shard of ice driven into her body and her soul. It ached, ached worse than the fatal wound she had been dealt, and she didn’t know how to make it stop. She leant forwards, planting her lips on Kathryn’s forehead, a soft, unwilling goodbye. Kloin raised his sword.

  “Answer me!” the captain barked.

  Before the blow could fall, Dezra rose. She looked up, eyes meeting the captain’s once more, and even his arrogance and his anger quailed. Her face was a tearful, bloody mask of pure hatred.

  She raised her hands and screamed. The sound transcended the mortal plane – it was a roar of purest, unadulterated agony, and it ripped through the shrine with a force far greater than the storm. It struck Kloin and his men-at-arms head on, like a million wicked razors. Their flesh was slammed against the far wall in a gory shower – only the bones remained untouched. As Dezra’s howl peaked, the doors to the shrine, banged shut by the sorceress’s unleashed power, exploded into a million splinters.

  The remains of Kloin and his retinue collapsed. The scream died in Dezra’s throat, leaving it raw, her whole body shaking. The soft matter that had once clad the bodies of the men-at-arms dripped slowly down the walls on either side of the obliterated doorway.

  In the terrible stillness which followed a single body moved – the tomb-keeper. Perhaps shielded by his faith in Nordros, he had been flung back against the wall. He was alive, though, and seemed dazed but unharmed.

  Dezra lowered her arms, panting. Her whole body ached with the aftereffects of the vicious spell, but she no longer noticed – the pain went far deeper now. She tried to still the shaking as she looked at the annihilation she had unleashed, a razor-curse of titanic power. Then she cast her eyes down at Kathryn. She was laid out on the floor as though for burial, her face white and peaceful, a contrast to the red that stained her stomach.

  “Forgive me,” Dezra said to her. That icy shard of sorrow was still buried within, still aching, but in the last few minutes it had become something more. Its chill had spread, the cold death-grip of Nordros empowering her. If her lover was gone, her god had given her the strength to avenge her. That was what mattered now. She raised her hands once more.

  The bodies of the men-at-arms shuddered. They were nothing but red, raw bones now, but at Dezra’s unspoken command they reknitted, standing up with an awkward gait. Their armor and clothes hung from them, still dripping. Then, with a clatter, they came to attention, grasping swords and polearms that moments earlier had been posed to hack Dezra to pieces.

  Kloin was still at the forefront, his red skull grinning at Dezra, flecked with scraps of meat. Dezra stood before him, looking at his sword, at her blood that still glistened on its edge. Then, slowly, she smiled at him.

  “You are right, Captain Kloin,” she said to the crimson skeleton. “I am vile. Dezra the Vi
le. And your soul will serve mine now, for the rest of eternity.”

  • • •

  “I’m going to find Lady Damhán,” Durik told Carys. He could wait no longer, but nor did he wish to abandon his post undeclared. At the very least, the baroness’s advisor needed to know that there was something dark afoot in the town, if she hadn’t sensed it herself already. “Promise to me that you’ll stay here?”

  “The clans make no promises except on blood,” Carys said. “I thought you would know that by now.” Durik bit back an angry reply – he was on edge, he realized. That wouldn’t do. He forced himself to be calm, to embody the skills of a hunter. He was increasingly sure he’d need them before the night was out.

  “Then… just please stay here. Lock the door behind me. I will return soon.”

  “Fine,” Carys said unhappily.

  Durik took his spear and headed down to the main hall. It was deserted, the fire out, the torches burning low. The abandonment only increased his unease. He took the stairs to Lady Damhán’s chamber.

  There was no response to his first knock. His second drew an ugly croak from within.

  “I’m asleep, fool. What is it?”

  “There is something happening in the town,” Durik said against the door, wondering at how ill Lady Damhán sounded. Had she fallen under some sort of sickness in the past day? Durik felt his skin prickle. “Something dark walks abroad in Fallowhearth at this very moment. I fear the castle may be threatened.”

  “I have felt nothing,” Damhán’s voice answered. “I did not know you were a warlock as well as a pathfinder, Durik.”

  “We can both feel it. Carys and I,” he said, again forcing down an angry retort. He needed to focus.

  “You’re only still here because you insisted on staying with that idiot clan girl. Perhaps she should be your first priority, rather than wandering the castle halls and passages in the dead of night.”

  Durik fought the urge to smash the bedchamber door down. Without another word, he turned on his heel and descended towards the front doors of the keep. It was clear Damhán intended to be as unhelpful as usual. He had to find someone, anyone, who could at least explain why the castle seemed practically deserted.