by Lucas Thorn
It was too narrow.
Too confining.
And had begun to twist sharply, forcing them to squeeze through ever-tighter spaces.
Then, just when she thought she couldn't take any more, she caught a cool change in the air. The lightest of brushes on her exposed skin, whispering hope into her ears. Telling her she wouldn't die in the gripping tunnels of an ancient fortress.
Melganaderna was the next to notice the change.
She arched her neck, trying to peer beyond the elf. “Did you feel that? It's different, right? I'm not just going mad?”
“It's different,” the elf confirmed. “Ain't sure about the last part, though.”
“I think we're all going more than a little batshit,” Chukshene said. “These fucking walls are closing in on me. I can feel it.”
Hemlock drifted up behind Melganadera and lay a hand on her shoulder. Smiled when she sucked a deep breath in surprise. “It's okay,” he said. “It's just me.”
“I knew that.”
“Then why'd you jump?”
The elf moved ahead, pushing past the glowing orb which flickered cautiously in her wake. With it left at her back, the elf's eyes took a few moments to adjust. But when they did, she could see a gentle glow ahead which wasn't from the sickly yellow light bouncing off the tunnel's sudden jagged turns.
She glanced over her shoulder, motioning the others to wait. Then slid forward in a low crouch. A Half Moth Day and Hurruq's Choice in her fists.
There were two more turns in the corridor before she found the source of the light.
Nysta had seen many strange things in the Deadlands.
Had seen the palace of Lostlight, said to be one of the biggest buildings in the world. The glowing hot spring pools beneath Veil's Temple. Remnants of mountains torn to pieces by warring gods. Draug feasting on the remains of an ogre.
Gaket and his threaded tendrils of pure shadow.
A life of horror embedded in filth and desperation had left her feeling unsurprised by every strange new sight. Unmoved by any view of the landscape no matter how beautiful the sunset. Even the torn and jagged spine of the Bloods had done nothing to move her.
But nothing she'd ever lived through could have prepared her for this.
A bell-shaped cavern which seemed to fill the majority of the mountain itself. Like something had just scooped out the rocky guts. High above her head, a yawning opening like stone jaws.
Similar scorch marks torn down its sides like there'd been when they'd first entered the mountain's cave scratched at the stone. Grey streaked with black. Ash and soot.
Smell of rising gases born from something evil in nature.
She stood on the lip of a winding path which wound around the edge of the wall, spiralling down to the ground below. Rough hewn and narrow, sometimes frighteningly narrow. Hard to tell if it had been carved into the wall, or formed when whatever unnatural event had hollowed the mountain.
A few bridges sought to span the width of the cavern like arching stone ribs, but only one had successfully touched the other side and this one looked like it ached to let go.
Bats screamed in a black swarm somewhere far below. She could make them out as they ringed one of the shattered bridges. Their leather wings formed an excited whirlwind, beating at the unearthly silence.
The roof, cracked and split, showed meagre promises of light and fresh air. For a moment, she entertained thoughts of escape that way, but soon saw there was no way to climb the treacherous walls. Slithering snakes of water dribbled down the scarred sides making any attempted climb perilous.
Looking down through the murky darkness, she could see a glowing river of putrid green filth churning in a moat which edged a structure like nothing she'd ever seen.
Massive towers perched along enormous walls. Walls made from stone blocks, each block the size of a house. Scarred and pockmarked by war, the raking wounds drooling slag now long-since cooled but possessing ghostly wisps of light as though the heat had never completely cooled.
The gates, nearly as large as those which formed the entrance to the cave itself, were smashed and splintered inward. Rubble strewn inward giving the impression the ruined entrance was screaming.
Surely only two hate-filled gods could have left a trail of such destruction on a fortress so large and seemingly indestructible.
Lit by dozens of braziers, whose flames promised a cheerful welcome she was sure they would not receive, a wide bridge stretched across the evil-looking moat. Like a swollen black tongue ejected from the Keep's broken maw.
The Vampire King's Keep.
It could be nothing else. From this high, it looked horrifying. Yet, as ruined as it appeared, there was no denying the Keep still possessed some of its cursed powers. The darkness hovered around it like a mist of angry wasps. Flickers of light ribboned along the cracks between the massive blocks.
It was easy to imagine the Keep's sullen gaze glaring up at her, urging her closer so it could crush her beneath its walls.
As they drifted up behind her, the others were also just as moved. For a long time, no one spoke, driven mute by the silent horror spilling menace into the massive cavern.
“Well,” Chukshene finally said. “There it is. Asshole of a place. Right. There. We've seen it. Let's go home.”
Hemlock nodded. “It's not what I was expecting.”
Melganaderna's smile was crooked. “Oh, I don't know,” she said, attempting humour despite the shiver creeping down her spine. “I thought it'd be bigger.”
“We've got to be careful,” Hemlock said. “Really think about this. We don't know what could still be guarding the walls. I think we should-”
“Fuck that.” The elf grunted as she pushed him aside and moved with grim determination down the narrow ledge.
He sputtered wordlessly for a moment, then looked to the others with a frown. “What'd I say wrong?”
Melganaderna patted Hemlock's shoulder as she walked past him to follow the elf. “Don't worry, Hem,” she said. “I still respect your authority.”
“What?”
“Well, you seemed to like being in charge when it was just the two of us. And I didn't mind letting you think that. But since we met her, she seems to be doing all the leading. I imagine that's making you feel a bit unwanted?” She flashed her grin. “Useless, maybe?”
“What's that supposed to mean? Melganaderna? Hey! Wait!”
The elf kept going, shoulders tightening as she listened to the young couple's gentle banter.
Had she and Talek joked together like that?
Sometimes.
For the most part, he'd done the joking. She'd simply scowled.
Or walked away.
Thinking back, she'd been irritated by his humour sometimes. Had often wished he would just shut his mouth and enjoy the silence.
But he was always talking. Always wanting to know how she felt.
Was she alright?
Did she want anything?
Like a puppy, she'd thought at the time. It's sometimes been too much.
But now?
Now it was just another aspect of her husband she hadn't realised she would miss until it was no longer there. Until it was poisoned by the touch of his lifeless body in her arms. Cradling him. Smelling his blood.
The reek of his death still clung to her undershirt.
She tried to shut the young couple's words out of her mind. But couldn't help feeling keenly the loss of Talek and, more importantly, the loss of opportunities she'd never taken. If only she could have told him how she felt.
Maybe then she wouldn't feel so guilty all time.
Struggling with her emotions, the elf had no time to think when she felt the rush of wind behind her and caught Melganaderna's startled yelp. She spun, angling her body awkwardly. A Flaw in the Glass glowing hot as she tore the blade free. Suddenly wondering why the woman had lunged at her.
Had their act been a ruse? Was the young axewoman finally making her play?
<
br /> But she noticed immediately the sword was aimed away, being brought up fast not to attack, but to deflect.
Deflect an arrow which hissed through the air toward them.
Nysta's sudden movement had ensured her survival.
It had also ensured Melganaderna, lunging to save the elf from getting speared by the arrow, missed crashing into her and instead overbalanced. Nearly fell out into space to plummet to her death. Only Nysta's rapid reflexes saved the young warrior's life as the elf snatched a firm fistful of Melganaderna's mailshirt and swung her heavily into the wall, away from the edge.
The arrow clipped the wall and skittered pointlessly off into the shadows.
Grunting, Melganaderna slumped in a pained heap even as the elf sought the source of the arrow's flight.
And found it in a small group of men on one of the bridges far below. From the distance it had been fired, the arrow may not have had the power to penetrate flesh too deeply, but the elf still felt the rising fuel of hate as she realised someone had just tried to kill her.
Chukshene's voice snapped through the tense silence which seemed to fill the massive cavern. “What the fuck?”
The elf looked down at the ragged group below. Bared her teeth. “Get down if you want to stay alive,” she snarled. “I doubt they're feeling like doing what I've been doing.”
“What-?”
“A lot of missing.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Grey Jackets.
She could see that much as she peered over the edge.
Beside her, Melganaderna struggled onto her belly while ignoring Hemlock's hands as he rubbed a bitter-smelling salve onto her bruises. For once, she left her battleaxe behind and slid as close to the edge as she dared, looking down.
The concerned necromancer hissed a warning, but she waved him aside and pulled her clothes back together.
On the elf's left, Chukshene stared glumly down at the small group of soldiers.
It was hard to make out their exact number, because she could see a few shapes drifting along the edge of the shadows. They'd given up shooting at the ledge. Also given up trying to shoot down Chukshene's glowing yellow orb as it hovered curiously above them.
For now, the soldiers had mostly inched back along the bridge and were beginning to make their way downward again.
One of them, however, remained for a long time. Positioned directly in the open, face upturned though she couldn't make out his features in the murky light. Something about him tugged at her memory, but she couldn't figure out what.
Maybe the way he turned on his heel and stalked back into the darkness.
There was fluidity in his movement. But it was only there in echo, because he moved with rigid care. Left leg limping heavily. Right arm hung a little too low.
Nonetheless he looked to be moving his limbs as though trying to push through the pain, and that was something which bothered her. The sheer stubborn will to keep moving with such obvious damage to his bones was something the elf felt a twinge of admiration for.
“That's him,” the warlock breathed, guessing her thoughts. “Willem.”
Nysta's eyes were glittering slits. “The elf.”
“Yeah.” Chukshene nodded, making slight motions with his fingers which encouraged the orb to descend closer and cast its sickly light a little more brighter on the Grey Jackets. “See how he's dressed in black. Not grey, like the others.”
“He doesn't look so good.”
“He's a mess,” Chukshene confirmed. “I told you. His face is all fucked up. Scarred horribly. One eye missing. His mouth looks like it was torn open and healed on its own. Some burns down his cheeks. And his jaw and neck. In fact, it looks like someone tried to remove his jaw from his head. He's got so many scars, you'd give him a gold coin if he was begging on a street. You know, I'll be his body's also covered in them. But don't let his walk fool you. He's no cripple. He cut down one of the soldiers who argued with him. I saw it. He's fast. Incredibly fast. And strong, too. Don't mess around with him, Nysta. If you see him, kill him. He's not the kind of man you get a second chance with.”
“We'll see,” she said, knowing she'd see the elf again.
Something scratched at her memory.
Something important.
Melganaderna winced, shoulder touching hers as she tried to see over the edge. “What'll we do now?”
“We can't go back,” Hemlock said from behind them. He sat against the wall and tried to hide how tired he was. Pushed his fingers against his temples and gave a shake of his head. “We have to keep going.”
The elf lifted herself to her knees, satisfied no more arrows would be sent their way just yet. Spat out over the edge. “Won't know where they'll be waiting for us.”
“You think they'll set up an ambush?”
Nysta let out a derisive snort. “Wouldn't you?”
“I don't know what I'd do,” Hemlock said, not taking offence. “I'm not really a fighter like you are. Before this, I lived in a castle as the guest of a king. Her father, in fact. You could say I was spoiled by it. I spent my life skulking around in libraries and making myself a nuisance to the kitchen staff. I've never had to face soldiers in a war. Never had to face them on the street. I've never been chased by local constabulary. I have absolutely no experience with this. That's why I asked.”
“I'm beginning to think you ain't much good for anything,” the elf said, regretting the cheap shot almost immediately. But she kept her head aimed proudly at him anyway.
“I haven't had the chance to do anything. Which, given what I can do, some might think is a good thing.”
Then his eyes met hers and in that split second she saw something which confirmed the Caspiellans' fear of him. Not necessarily the power he could, or would, wield. Nor the eagerness he no doubt felt to discover more about the forbidden art of necromancy.
But a growing resolution to do what had to be done despite his previous protests.
Where Chukshene might consider running, Hemlock would think only to stand. He would cast until he could no longer cast. Until his body broke. And, though he might regret it afterward, he would show no restraint. And he would never yield.
She realised she'd misjudged him. Had been fooled by his apparent weakness.
She'd figured him as nothing more than a young mage still learning his power and who'd already reached the limits of his capabilities and driven himself to weariness. Maybe a man still impressed by his little steps and thought them leaps.
Instead, she caught the look of a man who knew he was doomed to be hunted by a god and was determined to flee to the darkest corners of the world not in search of a table under which to hide, but the knowledge he would need to turn around.
And, if he had to, face that god.
So, when her lip curled toward the scar on her cheek in a crooked grin, it was an acknowledgement of her growing respect. She turned completely toward him.
Squatted down and examined his query as an equal.
“He'll want to ambush us. Even if he didn't want to feel our blood between his fingers, he can't afford to leave us alone. Feller knows if he doesn't get the jump on us, we'll get the jump on him. Sure, he's focussed on the end prize. On whatever treasure is hidden inside that Keep. Maybe it'll distract him enough that his ambush isn't as well-planned as it could be. But I wouldn't count on it. Didn't see much of him, but he didn't look the type to give a shit about treasure. He's probably just working for that bastard cleric.” She absently touched a rag of cloth tied to her hair. “No, this feller knows the sooner he deals us out of this game, the better for him.”
Hemlock's brow furrowed. “Then he could be anywhere.”
“Shit,” Melganaderna muttered.
“He's got the advantage, for sure,” she said. “Like you say, he thinks we're going to be more careful. That we'll hug the walls and jump at our own fucking shadows. Gives him time to dig himself somewhere nice. Somewhere we won't expect. Somewhere he can call the shots.”
The elf's smile was wolfish. “If we rush in, his archers will shoot us down. Before the kid here even got close enough to swing that over-sized tree-cutter of hers.”
Melganaderna looked offended. Frowned as she glanced at the broad double bitted head of the battleaxe. “Tree-cutter?”
“Sorry if I'm not understanding,” Hemlock said, gaze piercing. “But that means we can't go slowly, or he'll have time to set himself up. And we can't go fast, because we'll run right into his arms. If I'm getting you right, you're saying we've got no hope.”
“Always got hope.”
“You're not making much sense, then. What do you think is our best option?”
“I'm still thinking that through.” She rubbed her jaw with the back of her hand as she spoke, trying to judge the kind of man Willem might be. Judge him not based on her own knowledge, because she didn't know him. But based on Chukshene's fear. And his belief that Willem was cold. Tough. Probably smart, too. Also she had to consider if the believed the warlock to be a good judge of character. “He knows about the 'lock here. But he figures Chukshene's fangs have been pulled now he's lost his spellbook.”
“I still know a few things,” Chukshene protested lamely.
“But not enough to fill the place with demons?”
“No.”
“Don't sweat it, 'lock. He won't trust what his cleric knows about magic, so he'll get his archers to shoot you first.” She smirked as he winced. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“Great. Yeah, thanks for that. I feel so much better about being here.”
She cocked her head at Hemlock and waved a hand. “Question is, whether he knows who you are. Whether he saw you well enough. Could be he got a look at her axe and made a few guesses. Given its size, it ain't exactly unremarkable.” She eyed him close, trying to confirm her recent judgement. “But what will he know of you?”
The necromancer chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, puzzling it out. “About me? Not enough,” he said at last. “Everything they know about me is just a guess right now. I'll bet he's thinking I'm a mage. He'll have been told that much. He might even know I'm a necromancer. But none of them know what that really means. They don't know what I can do. I mean, if I don't know everything I can do, how can they? Maybe he'll overestimate me? Or underestimate? Either way, if you're right, he'd want me dead right after Chukshene here.”
