Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Let’s keep moving,” Rigan said. “I don’t want Damian to put himself at risk needlessly.”

  To Corran’s relief, they reached the alley behind the workshop without incident. As they crossed the threshold, he found himself listening for Kell’s footsteps upstairs, and bit back a sob as the reality of their loss sank in. Rigan moved quickly around the room, closing shutters and lighting lanterns.

  Corran drew his cloak back and laid his brother’s body on a worktable. In the lamplight, Kell looked younger, despite the gray pallor of his skin and the blood streaking his face. Corran’s hands shook as he cut the rough ropes that bound Kell’s wrists and ankles. He felt his anger flare when he saw the true extent of the damage. “We were too easy on them.” His voice was harsh with unshed tears, tight with rage.

  Rigan came to stand beside him. He did not speak, and his uneven breathing told Corran that his brother was fighting back sobs; his face was so utterly wracked with pain that Corran had to look away. “We need to bury him tonight,” Corran said.

  “I know.” He reached out and took Kell’s hand. “I’ll draw a fresh bucket of water.”

  Corran laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “First, we bind up that leg of yours.”

  Rigan moved to protest, but Corran’s expression stopped him.

  “Sit,” Corran ordered. Rigan winced as he eased onto one of the worktables.

  Corran brought a bucket of fresh water and a clean cloth, along with soap, vinegar, and willow balm. Monster claws often carried taint or poison; the wound could go bad quickly. Corran handed Rigan the whiskey, and he took a swig from the bottle without hesitating.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “Didn’t feel it.”

  Corran kept his head down, focusing on the task to maintain his fragile control. He was close to breaking point, and he was sure Rigan was on edge, too. His brother stifled a cry of pain as Corran cleaned the wound. He used the willow balm last, to ward against infection, trying not to think about the fact that it had always been Kell who had mixed their salves and elixirs. He bound the gash with clean gauze.

  “Can you put weight on the leg?” Corran asked. He avoided looking at Rigan’s face. They might just get through the next few candlemarks if they didn’t look at each other, didn’t acknowledge the loss. Not yet. Not until we finish what has to be done.

  “I think so,” Rigan replied. He tried to take a step and his leg gave out, but he caught himself on the table and straightened. He took another step without falling, and then another. A sheen of sweat on his face testified to the exercise of will required.

  “Damian said you needed to rest.”

  “I’m all right for now.”

  “I am not losing both of you,” Corran growled.

  “I’ll take care of it—later. We have work to do,” Rigan said, pain evident beneath his steel resolve. “It won’t get any easier.”

  Corran found solace in the comforting familiarity of mixing the pigments. The smell of the ingredients and the motion of grinding and stirring anchored his shattered concentration. His thoughts were jumbled, his mind hazy with grief. Periodically, he listened for the creak of a riser or the sound of Kell’s voice, and every disappointment plunged him further into darkness.

  Rigan worked without speaking, crying silently, shoulders shaking. His hair fell to cover his face as he bent over his work.

  The tears Corran did not shed made his throat burn and his eyes sting. Memories returned, of the night he and Rigan had prepared the materials when their mother readied their father’s body for burial. Of another night, when the three brothers had worked together to bury their mother. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought, blinking until his vision cleared. But Corran knew the truth of it. It was going to be one of us, sooner or later, with me fighting for the hunters and Rigan with his magic. I just never thought it would be Kell.

  Rigan brought him the wash, redolent with hyssop, asphodel, and cypress, a mixture said to ease a spirit’s transition to the After. Candles added the scent of myrrh and rosemary. Usually, Corran found the blend of fragrances comforting, but tonight, comfort was nowhere to be found.

  Corran cursed under his breath as they stripped away Kell’s blood-soaked clothing, exposing livid bruises and deep gashes. It was a last favor to the dead to purify the body, to send them to the After ready to meet the gods, a sacramental dignity. Tonight, it just reminded Corran of how young Kell was, and how much life had been forfeited. The water washed away the blood and covered the smell of death. Corran moved through the process slowly, feeling like he had aged decades in the last candlemarks. Or maybe I’m just dreading what comes next.

  Corran turned to stare at the wall of undertaker’s tools for removing the organs of the deceased. He could not find the will to take them up. “I can’t,” he said raggedly. “Not after all they did to him. I just can’t.”

  Many of the dead go to the Gods without that done. I don’t want to remember him like that. Their mother had spared the three of them seeing the final step in preparing their father’s body, and Corran kept Rigan and Kell from that view as a last memory when she died. Now, just the thought pushed him beyond the limits of his strength.

  “They broke his ribs,” Rigan said in a flat, cold voice. Corran needed a moment before he could speak.

  “Hand me the cloth strips. We’ll bind them,” Corran said. “It’s too late for that.”

  Corran’s rage flared. “Do it!” Rigan stared at him for a moment and then complied. He lifted Kell’s slim shoulders as Corran passed the linen around and around the body. Corran’s hands shook, and his stomach tightened with pain and anger. Pale, silent, eyes hooded, Rigan looked like it took all his will to remain standing. Whatever he did back at the warehouse took a toll. He needs to heal, more than he’s letting on. When this is over, we need to talk. I don’t want to lose him to his magic.

  “Hand me the pigments,” Corran said. His voice sounded strange and distant. Rigan brought the bowls of red, blue, white, and black paste and set them next to Kell’s body. “Sing with me. I can’t do it alone. Not tonight.”

  Corran swallowed hard and dipped his thumb into the white pigment. His first attempt to sing the sacred chant was a dry croak. He took a deep breath and this time, Rigan’s quiet tenor joined him.

  The words of the death song had always given Corran peace, even when he had buried his parents. No solace was to be found tonight.

  Open the gate, for the fallen Make clear the path.

  Accept this soul, we beseech you.

  Lead this spirit in the paths of light To the Golden Shores.

  Protect it from the darkness And keep it from straying into the House of the Destroyer.

  For this soul has been blessed.

  This spirit seeks your protection.

  Hear me, gods and spirits, for I am he who digs the grave. All is ready. Gifts and offerings have been made And now deliver this soul To safe and final rest.

  Doharmu, attend!

  Oj and Ren, Eternal Mother and Forever Father, hear me! Open your arms, and accept this soul Safe and peacefully into the sanctuary of your Golden Shores. Let it be so. Let it be so.

  Corran and Rigan made their way through the death chant, and though their voices wavered and caught, they managed to complete the litany. Only when they were finished did Corran dare look at his brother, and saw that Rigan’s face was as tear-stained as his own.

  Rigan marked a sigil in ochre on Kell’s abdomen, a dark orange slash against his pale skin, the mark for ‘life.’ He drew another complicated marking with white chalk on the chest, just above the linen strips that bound Kell’s ribs, this time for ‘breath.’ Blue woad sealed Kell’s lips with another sigil, the sign for ‘spirit.’ The final rune was drawn in soot on Kell’s forehead, for ‘soul.’

  “It’s done,” Corran said, his voice tight. “I just wish we could say goodbye.”

  A strange look crossed Rigan’s face. “Maybe we can.”
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  “What are you talking about?” Corran said, uneasy at the look in Rigan’s eyes.

  Rigan stretched out his hand, palm down, over the first sigil. His eyes closed, his tear-streaked face tight with concentration. After a few seconds, the ochre sigil began to glow.

  “What are you doing?” Corran stared at the glowing rune.

  Rigan’s hand hovered above the second marking, and the white sigil glowed almost too bright for Corran to look at. Next, the blue mark that sealed Kell’s lips burned like the summer sky. Finally, Rigan held his hand steady above the soot mark on Kell’s forehead, and pinpricks of light shone from the darkness like stars.

  I’m sorry.

  The voice startled both of them. Kell’s apparition stood at the head of the table that bore his body. Corran stepped back, heart pounding. Rigan opened his eyes, his expression a mix of amazement and satisfaction.

  “Is it really you?” Corran managed to ask, though his mouth was dry.

  Kell’s ghost nodded. I can’t stay. But I wanted to say goodbye. And I’m sorry that I got caught. Thanks for— he gestured toward the preparations they had made for his corpse.

  Corran’s knees felt weak and his chest ached. “It’s too soon. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  Kell’s expression was somber. I don’t want to leave. The guards loosed the monster to cover up the killings. They’re using the creatures. Stop them.

  “Go in peace,” Corran said in a strangled voice. “We won’t ever forget you, Kell.”

  Kell smiled sadly and the look in his eyes told Corran that everything he wanted to say and couldn’t was already understood. Love, forgiveness, grief—acknowledged and shared. Kell looked as if he were about to answer, but the image began to waver, fading. Corran could not make out the words Kell’s lips formed. The image winked out, just as quickly as it had appeared.

  Rigan slumped to the floor.

  “Oh, gods! What did you do?” Corran dropped to his knees beside his brother, realizing that throughout the exchange with Kell’s ghost, Rigan had said nothing. “Come on!” Corran urged with a note of desperation in his voice. Rigan lay still, deathly pale and unresponsive, breath slow and shallow.

  “Dammit! I’m not losing both of you! Come on, Rigan! Stay with me.” He felt for a pulse, and found one, though his brother’s erratic heartbeat and clammy skin fueled his panic.

  Corran grabbed a bucket of cold water and a bottle of whiskey. He doused Rigan with the frigid water. To his relief, his brother sputtered and roused, blinking through the icy rivulets that ran down his face. Corran knelt and forced Rigan’s mouth open, trickling the strong whiskey between his lips. Rigan gasped, turning his head, and motioned for Corran to stop.

  “What did you do?” Corran demanded.

  “I learned how to summon spirits as well as banish them,” Rigan replied in a hoarse whisper. “It’s like confessing the dead, only a bit different. I’ve been using it to find out more about how magic is being used to conjure the monsters. The spell works, but there’s a cost.”

  “What kind of cost?”

  “A thread of my soul.”

  Corran stared at Rigan, speechless and stunned. Finally, he found his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you risk yourself?” How many threads are in a soul?

  Rigan’s gaze held the same pain Corran felt. “Because we all needed one last moment together.” He broke down, sobbing. Corran folded him against his shoulder, holding him close as he had not done since Rigan was a small boy, letting him cry, as Corran’s own tears ran hot down his cheeks. Finally, his brother pushed away, and dragged his sleeve across his eyes.

  “Come on,” he said, not daring to look at Corran. “We’ve got to finish this.”

  CORRAN AND RIGAN took turns carrying Kell’s shrouded body and their shovels to the cemetery. The body cart was still missing.

  Just in case, they’d brought weapons. We’re in so deep at this point, there’s no turning back. If the guards catch us with Kell’s body, we’ll hang. Might as well hang for being armed, too.

  Behind them, the horizon glowed. The fire in the warehouse had spread, and in the distance, Corran could hear shouts as Wrighton mustered to fight the blaze. Add that to what was still aflame from the riot near the harbor, and it would be a wonder if half of Ravenwood was not in cinders by morning.

  Just a day before, that possibility would have terrified Corran.

  Funny how loss changes your perspective. “At least the guards have something better to do than search the graveyard,” he muttered, grateful for the distraction.

  Moonlight lit their way. Once they were within the cemetery, Rigan lit a lantern, shuttering it to dim the glow. The cemetery was empty, even of the restless spirits and bobbing orbs that sometimes watched their work.

  “If we bury him with the Undertakers’ Guild, someone will notice,” Rigan warned.

  “I know. We’ll have to put him in the back.”

  Even in the dim light, Corran could see the anger in Rigan’s face at this final indignity, burying their brother in a pauper’s grave.

  “What if we put him with Mama and Papa?” Rigan asked. “If we’re careful removing the sod, it might not be noticed.”

  Corran nodded. “All right. Let’s get it done.”

  Corran laid Kell’s body gently on the grass, then closed his eyes and swallowed. As long as he did not think of the shrouded body being Kell, he could function. Picking up a shovel, he began to dig.

  Rigan stayed above on watch. Corran was surprised Rigan could walk, let alone consider digging the grave. I’ve got to get him to rest—to do whatever he needs to heal—or I’ll have lost them both.

  When the grave was ready, Rigan handed Kell’s body down to Corran, who laid their brother out on the cold dirt before saying a final farewell. Together, he and Rigan filled the grave, and the slip and crunch of the shovels in dirt was the only awful sound in the still night air.

  They finished, and Corran moved to pick up his cloak. Rigan hung back. “What are you doing?” Corran asked.

  Rigan set a bowl at the head of the grave with a candle in it. “How much do you want vengeance?”

  “With every fiber in my body.”

  “What about your soul?” Rigan asked. Corran met his gaze.

  “If that’s what it takes. Yes.”

  “Then there’s one place we can turn. Because we won’t find justice from anyone else.”

  The thought of praying to Eshtamon, the ancient god of vengeance, had occurred to Corran, but he had pushed it aside, unwilling to drag Rigan into more danger. Now, he saw calm acceptance in his brother’s gaze, the same cold practicality he felt inside, the knowledge that there was nothing left to lose.

  “All right,” Corran replied. “But we don’t have a priest.”

  Rigan produced a small tray for the offerings, and a few stoppered bottles of incense from a pouch beneath his cloak. “I grabbed a few things while you were getting ready,” he said. “I remember what the priest said when he made the vow over the suicide’s grave. Even if I get a few of the words wrong, I think the Old Ones care more about intent than form.”

  There’s no going back from this, Corran thought. But what do we have to lose? The guards will figure out Kell was among the dead when they find the cart. They might be after us already. And if they don’t hang us for trying to save Kell, it will be for Rigan’s magic or me being a hunter. At least, this way, our deaths have purpose.

  “What now?” Corran asked, coming to stand at the head of the grave.

  Rigan set the tray at the foot of the grave, and dug into his pouch for a few silver coins and a ring that had been their father’s— offerings to the Old Ones. He walked widdershins around the grave, then reversed his course. Rigan lit the candle in the bowl and stood, raising his face to the sky.

  “Eshtamon, lord of the crossroad and the gallows, hear me!” he shouted. “God of the lost and the wronged, hear my prayer. The blood of your children, the Wanderers—ou
r mother’s people—runs in our veins.” Rigan reached into one of the pouches of incense and sprinkled some of the powder into the candle flame; it sizzled with a reddish glow, and spread the unmistakable smell of myrrh onto the wind.

  “Bring vengeance on the ones who took our brother from us, and who caused the deaths of your Wanderers. Punish them, lord of thorns, with your iron teeth and sharp claws. Make us the instrument of your vengeance, and let us rend their flesh and break their bones. Use us to heap lamentations on their heads and destroy their souls.”

  Corran felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night wind as his brother raised the silver blade in his right hand. A swift cut, and blood ran from the wound he made in his left forearm. He held his arm over the candle, face expressionless, and let the blood drip.

  “Once, for the asking. Twice, for the hearing. Thrice—let it be so.”

  A gust of wind blasted through the cemetery, swaying the trees, nearly taking Corran and Rigan off their feet. They blinked, and a figure stood at the foot of the grave, the silhouette of a man, with a presence that Corran knew in his gut was not mortal.

  Corran and Rigan sank to their knees. Corran kept his hand close to his knife, alert to a trick, and noticed that Rigan did the same.

  “Speak.” The bass rumble of the Elder God’s voice echoed from everywhere all at once.

  “M’lord,” Corran replied. “We ask to be the instruments of vengeance on those who took our family from us.”

  “You are a hunter, and the one who called me is a witch. You already fight for vengeance. Why do you trouble me?”

  “There is no justice,” Rigan answered, daring to raise his head. “So many dead, and no power cares to stand against the monsters. Give us justice—for our brother, our mother, our father, and for your Wanderers—and we will be your weapons.”