by Bruce Blake
The sound of water tumbling over the fall and into the lagoon kept him moving. He had to get Elyea, spare her from these sights. He plunged through a thicket of trees and emerged on the shore of the lagoon to see the waterfall cascading over a rocky outcropping thirty feet above into water murky with silt and mud kicked up by Elyea’s bathing. She stood in the middle of the shallow pool facing away from him, water up past her waist, wet hair clinging to her freckled back.
“Elyea,” he called urgently. She turned to him, arms crossed in front of her bare breasts, and he remembered her face in his dream-agonized, sweaty. “We have to go.”
“But I’m having such fun,” she said with mock pout. “I love the water, it makes me feel free.”
She dropped her hands into the water, then threw them up over her head, splashing droplets into the air to sparkle in the rising sunlight. Khirro glanced at her breasts, but the memory of his dream, and of the children in the walls, kept his eyes from lingering.
“Now, Elyea. We have to go now.”
She covered her chest again. “Has something happened?”
“I’ll tell you when we’ve left.”
She’d waded only two steps toward shore when the first corpse floated to the surface: a girl of about eight summers, naked, her swollen body white and puckered with seaweed tangled in her hair. Others followed: a boy a little older, an infant. Elyea gasped. More corpses appeared bobbing on the waves created by the waterfall, and body parts-arms and legs and heads.
“Elyea! Hurry!”
She didn’t move. For half-an-hour she’d bathed with these things hidden in the mud beneath her feet and now she could only stare. The corpse of an infant girl, bald and sweet as a cherub even in water-bloated death, brushed Elyea’s leg. She screamed.
Khirro plunged into the water, heedless of the body parts bumping his legs. Corpses and severed limbs covered the surface of the lagoon, a few of them adults with lips and nipples purple against their bulging white skin; most were children.
So many children.
Elyea had stopped screaming by the time he reached her. She stood, eyes wide, hands clamped over her mouth as convulsive sobs shook her. Khirro forced a hand under her arm and dragged her toward shore, fighting his own panic as he cleared the way of corpses. Each step brought more bodies and limbs into their path, touching Elyea’s skin no matter how he tried to protect her. Fear and disgust stiffened her legs, made her difficult to move. Khirro glanced shoreward and saw his companions staring at the grisly scene.
“Find her clothes,” he yelled.
Shyn and Ghaul went immediately to the task as Athryn waded into the water, extending his hand. Elyea screamed again as the head of a young boy floated against her leg, dead eyes open, staring up at her. Khirro kicked it away but lost his footing. His grip slipped from Elyea.
Water closed over his head, murky fluid found its way into his mouth. He pushed against the bottom of the lagoon but his hand sank into mud and held him, sucked him down. The corpse of a boy in his teen years floated over him, hands seeming to grasp for his chest and the vial hidden there. Khirro kicked and struggled as the corpse sank toward him.
The boy’s eyes opened.
Bubbles exploded from Khirro’s lips as he yelled; the lagoon rushed in to fill his mouth. The corpse face loomed inches from his, its cheeks tinged blue; an eel-like fish slithered out of its nose and into its mouth. The corpse’s hand groped his chest: searching, caressing. Then a hand on Khirro’s shoulder pulled him up until his head broke the surface of the water. He spat and choked, expelling the rancid fluid from his mouth, his lungs. He looked into Athryn’s masked face and for a moment thought he’d been rescued by yet another corpse.
“Come on, Khirro,” the magician urged.
He released Khirro and swung his cloak over Elyea’s shoulders as she shivered violently. Khirro struggled to his feet, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as they moved to the shore, the waves their steps created setting the corpses bobbing and bumping against one another.
“Her clothes,” Shyn said coming to their side.
Elyea stared at the lagoon and Khirro looked back, too. The body parts and dead children had begun to sink back into the depths, their bleached bodies going under as though recalled to their watery graves
“Keep them,” Khirro said to Shyn. “We’ll stop for her to dress when we’re away from this place.”
A minute later, the surface of the lagoon was clear, all of the bodies, arms, legs and heads settled back like silt after a spring rain. Elyea watched until they were gone, then turned to Khirro.
“Did you know?” she asked, her voice so quiet he had to lean close to hear. “Did you know this would happen?”
Khirro shook his head.
“No. There are other things in the village. Things you don’t need to see.”
He looked into her eyes and saw the last fragment of her strength disappear. He scooped her into his arms as her knees gave way and hugged her close, her body shivering against his.
Athryn put his hand on Khirro’s shoulder.
“Let us go.”
Khirro nodded.
“Which way?” Ghaul asked, voice unshaken. Nothing on his face, in his voice or demeanor suggested the grisly sights affected him. It made Khirro both envy and pity him.
“West,” he replied steering Elyea away from the lagoon.
They moved in silence, allowing Elyea to dictate their pace as the sun rose above the trees. With some distance between them and the lagoon's corpses, they paused for her to dress. She moved slowly, distracted from the task, but they waited patiently; even Ghaul gave her privacy to clothe herself.
Shyn took the lead when they struck out again. Elyea walked beside Khirro, her arm around his waist for support.
“Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him on the cheek. Khirro shook his head.
“No need to thank me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“And I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“A messenger from the Isthmus fortress, my Lord.”
From his balcony, Therrador contemplated the city spread before him-his city. Curls of smoke rose from the chimneys of bakeries and smithies; people crowded the market and public houses. The city did a booming business during wartime, its population swollen by those seeking shelter in the capital, afraid for their lives. Beyond the walls, tents spread across the plains, set up by merchants from near and far come to fleece coins from the burgeoned populace.
“Send him in,” Therrador said without looking away.
He breathed deep, smelled the bread from the bakeries and the oily odor of the blacksmiths’ forges. The streets bustled, clean and tidy near the palace. The distant strains of a musical troupe floated on a breeze cooler now than it had been-summer had finally broken.
“My Lord.”
Therrador turned to look at the messenger and it took him a moment to recognize Sir Matte Eliden, a knight of at least sixty summers who fought beside them when Braymon won his crown. The six years since Therrador last saw him had not been kind; he looked every one of his years and more. The knight’s watery blue eyes always looked like they might spill tears into his neatly trimmed white beard at any moment.
“Sir Matte,” Therrador said, consciously adding a note of delight to his voice. He descended the short marble stair from the balcony and embraced the old knight. “You look well, old man. What news from the front?”
“The enemy’s ceased storming the wall, my Lord.”
“That’s good news. Push enough of them from ladders and they lose their taste for climbing, eh?”
Sir Matte neither smiled nor nodded.
“The siege continues from afar, hurling boulders and hellfire at the wall. We return the same, but for every one what falls, two more take their place.” He glanced around the room, eyes watering, then leaned forward and, in a quieter voice, said: “We fight an army of the dead, my Lord.
“So I’ve heard,” Therrador nodded and put his arm around the old knight’s shoulders, guiding him to a seat. “Rest, good sir. Would you like some wine?”
Sir Matte wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “We ran dry of ale a week ago. I’d welcome a tankard.”
“I’ll make sure the situation is remedied.” Therrador clapped his hands sharply and a squire appeared at the doorway. “Bring Sir Matte a flagon of ale, and a cup of red for myself.” The squire bowed and left. Therrador took a seat across from the knight. “Tell me, how is morale amongst the troops?”
“It’d be better with more ale, my Lord.”
“I’ll send some kegs back from my personal stores. How is it otherwise?”
The knight shook his head, sighed. “It taxes them, fighting an army of dead men. And there be the matter of the king.”
“What do you mean?”
The squire re-entered the chamber, a pewter mug of ale and a goblet of wine on his black tray. Sir Matte had the ewer to his lips before it left the servant’s hand. Therrador waved the youth away and took a sip of wine as he watched the knight drain half the tankard, ale dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Ah,” he proclaimed lowering the mug, froth in his mustache like icicles hanging in the eaves of a house. “That’ll put the hair back on yer balls.”
Therrador laughed in spite of himself. “Even your saggy old balls?”
“I’ll let you know.” Matte took another swig, then his face became serious. “Some of the men are worried the wall won’t hold.”
“We both know the wall will stand. It has done so for a thousand years, it will for a thousand more. But you mentioned the king. What of it?”
Sir Matte set his tankard on the table with a thunk.
“With the king by their sides, the men remembered why they fought against those monsters. Now he’s gone, and none know if he’s dead or not.”
“He’s dead,” Therrador said, voice flat. He swirled his wine in the silver goblet, weighing his words. “Braymon left instructions I should rule if he fell.”
The knight paused, mug lifted half-way to his lips. “This shouldn’t be kept a secret, my Lo… your grace. The men need to know for whom they fight.”
“And they shall, Sir Matte.”
He stared past the old knight, remembering Braymon, the battles they fought and the good times they shared. The plan was going perfectly so far, but he had to admit, he missed the man in spite of the wrongs he’d done him.
“I’ll come, bring ale for the men, and I shall bring them a king.” He moved his gaze to the knight. “You have given me an idea, Matte. They can watch as I become their king.”
“What do you mean, Ther… my liege?”
“My coronation will take place at the Isthmus Fortress. The men protecting the kingdom will see first hand for whom they fight.” Therrador smiled and raised his goblet; Sir Matte banged his flagon against it and drained the remaining ale.
And the Archon will see I have done as promised. Therrador’s smile faded from his lips. Gods help me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
They traversed hills and valleys, plunged through thick stands of trees twisted with brambles and ivy slowing their progress, but now the land flattened, the trees thinned and travel became easier. Each step carried them farther from the grotesqueries of the ruined village, each mile from it bettering their moods. Elyea slept fitfully, calling out sometimes, but she calmed. Khirro dreamed of the mud child the first few nights, but the image faded with distance until it no longer disturbed his sleep.
It was Khirro’s turn to scout, a task he didn’t relish, but only Elyea was excused from the duty-against her will. As he walked, he hummed a working song his father sang in the days before the accident, distracting himself from his discomfort. He didn’t remember the words-something about an aching back and a good harvest-but the melody remained. No other sounds disturbed the forest: no animals, no wind, no chirping birds or buzzing insects. Khirro stopped, listening when he thought he heard something, the melody halted halfway through a verse, but only the same silence that dogged them from the time they landed in the haunted land came to his ear. He held his breath, waiting.
The sound was quiet but, in the silence of the forest, it couldn’t be mistaken. A groan made by the throat of a man.
Khirro looked over his shoulder. His companions followed too far behind to be seen or heard. He hesitated, unsure if he should investigate or wait for the others.
What would a soldier do?
Ghaul or Shyn would continue, he decided. He drew a deep breath, seeking courage in the air entering his lungs.
The noise again, ahead and to the south. Louder this time.
What if it’s a giant?
The giants’ sounds had been similar to a man’s, but this… If not a man, Khirro couldn’t guess what would make the noise. But could there be men in the haunted land?
Not friendly ones.
Khirro drew the Mourning Sword and pulled the shield from his back. Fear tingled his limbs but the past weeks had taught him to accept it and move forward. Without fear there was no bravery, no courage. One didn’t dispel the other, they were inseparable, like fire and air.
He crept forward, choosing his steps carefully. Another moan, closer. He adjusted his grip on the sword. Some nights Shyn practiced with him, helping improve his skills, but as he advanced, the sword held out in front of him, it felt like it didn't belong in his hands.
Sounds behind him-his companions catching up. The moaning man must have heard because he spoke, removing all doubt as to the nature of the noise maker.
“Wha…? What’s that? Dolum, did you hear something?” His voice was weak, tired. No one answered his question. “Who goes there?”
Khirro filled his lungs and thought about waiting for the others, but if he did and it turned out to be a trap, they’d be trapped along with him. He’d known the time to prove himself a soldier would come, might as well be now. Bellowing his best war cry, hoping to both frighten his adversaries and alert his friends, Khirro sprang forward at a run. He only covered ten paces when he saw the voice’s source.
Five men languished before him, each held immobile in the earth, one buried to his chin, the least to his waist. Khirro halted. Without doubt, two no longer lived: one’s entrails had been pulled out by something as the quickearth held him helpless; another stared skyward sightlessly, swollen tongue lolling, face purple. The eyes of the man sunk to his chin were closed, but Khirro didn’t know whether he lived or not.
“Who’s there?”
The man buried to his chest, one arm pinned at his side, struggled to look over his shoulder. All the men wore Erechanian armor.
“What happened?” Khirro asked as he crept around the edge of the trees.
“Quickearth. Thank the Gods you’re here. Most of my troop has perished, eaten by the very earth on which we walk.”
“How many?”
“Twenty.”
Khirro stopped, stared at the man and his four companions. “‘But there are only-”
“The others are gone. The ground devoured them like a beast.” A battle axe lay on the ground beside the man, blood dried on its edge. “There was no sign of the quickearth until we were upon it, then it sucked us down like a hungry animal.”
Khirro crept to where the soldier could see him; the man’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you doing here?” Khirro asked warily.
“Find a branch and pull me out.”
“But you-”
“Hurry,” the man snapped. “When the earth is done with the others, it will take me, too.”
Khirro hunted through the underbrush, careful to stand on stones and roots and not touch the bare earth. He found a sturdy looking branch and extended it toward the man, but it didn’t reach. As he pulled it back looking for a place to stand closer, he heard voices. His companions had arrived.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said as Elyea came int
o view. She halted immediately, eyes fixed on the unusual scene before her. “It’s quickearth. Careful where you walk.”
The others came through the trees behind Elyea. She stopped them where she stood and passed on Khirro’s warning.
“What is going on here, Khirro?” Athryn asked, his flesh colored mask giving the illusion he had an elongated, drooping face.
“These men are trapped in quickearth. I’m going to try and get them out.”
“Use your head,” Shyn called. “Why would Erechanian soldiers be here if not to find you?”
The branch Khirro reached out toward the bound man wavered in the open air between them. The man glanced over his shoulder, then back at Khirro. A line of sweat glistened on his brow.
“Well?” Khirro asked holding the branch beyond the man’s reach.
“I don’t know who you are.” The man shook his head too enthusiastically. “Please, just get me out.”
“He’s a liar, Khirro,” Ghaul said. “Leave him for the birds.” He looked at Shyn, snorting a laugh in his direction.
Khirro’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Tell me why you’re here and I’ll help you.”
The man’s face drooped. He looked at his comrade buried to his neck, then to the man whose entrails were spilled on the ground.
“Therrador sent us to find the man who assassinated king Braymon. But I don’t care about that now. I want to live. I’d gladly turn a blind eye, even on an assassin, if only you’ll help me. I’d-”
The arrow pierced his throat, cutting his plea short with a fine spattering of blood spraying across the ground. The loamy soil gobbled it up as the soldier slumped forward like a rag doll. Khirro looked past him at Ghaul holding his bow at arm’s length, the string empty. He lowered it and their eyes met; Khirro said nothing.
