Return of Souls

by Andy Remic

  “Look at the horses,” came Webb’s voice. “Their ears are back, they are terrified of the walriders. Yet they all form one unit.”

  “I knew we should have run,” said Jones quietly so that Orana would not hear. She was staring with wide eyes as the lead soldier dismounted and stepped onto the bridge, several walriders dancing around him, twisted faces looking up, claws scratching splinters from the thick wood planks.

  “Now will you shoot the bastard?” hissed Bainbridge.

  Jones operated the bolt.

  “Shoot him now! Don’t wait . . . just kill him!”

  But still, Jones did not shoot—he wanted desperately for the man to strike up a conversation, to ask again for entry, to ask for the secret of explosions. He did not want to kill. He felt sick to the stomach of death. But the soldiers sat in silence atop their chafing mounts, hands on weapons, ready.

  Ready for what?

  The dismounted soldier hissed something in a foreign dialect, and suddenly the walriders, numbering perhaps twelve, leapt forward and splashed across the water. Almost as reflex, Jones fired, and a walrider was punched with a gaping wound above one eye, just below where helmet melded with flesh, to lie on the bank, one leg twitching, the wound oozing smoke. The horses began to wrestle with the soldiers, alarmed by the rifle shot and the smell of fresh blood, but the walriders came on with grey eyes flashing and fangs dripping, and they leapt at the wall . . . Again, Jones sighted and fired, but the bullet ricocheted from a stone crenellation and skimmed the water with a hiss to embed in an earth bank. He levelled his SMLE and fired again, and a walrider was smashed backwards, grappling with claws at one shoulder where flesh had parted under impact and the bone was smashed beneath.

  Jones watched in grim silence as the remaining walriders suddenly retreated, and the lead soldier stepped forward to where the wounded walrider rolled on the ground, making almost childlike keening noises. He drew his sword and the blade flashed down suddenly in the weak sunlight. The keening sound stopped. The head and merged helmet rolled into the rancid water and sank, leaving a trail of thick blood.

  The leader who had first approached, Jen Marker, looked up with a snarl, then hammered the lance with its billowing grey flag into the earth beside the corpse of the decapitated walrider.

  He turned, and with sword drenched in blood, led the other soldiers in a tight arc, and they galloped from the bridge without further challenge.

  The walriders loped after the soldiers, maws now silent, their great limbs treading the woodland paths, overcoats flapping.

  “I think they have just declared war,” said Webb.

  “Shoot that leader next time,” advised Bainbridge.

  Jones said nothing. He walked into the courtyard and crossed to the fire, adding more wood and sitting down with his rifle across his lap.

  “Where will it all end?”

  Orana padded across the cobbles and sat beside him on the blanket. She looked into his face, and, turning, Jones saw concern in her eyes, and it warmed his heart, warmed his soul, and he reached out and gave her a hug.

  “I think we should leave soon,” said Orana.

  “I agree. The sooner the better. But now our problem is how we leave. I would put money on the fact that they’ve left somebody—a walrider, maybe—guarding the gate, a little way into the woods. They’ll be watching from now on. Lookouts. They won’t be far away.”

  “You think they’ll come back soon?”

  Jones stroked Orana’s long brown hair. It was soft under his fingers. Luxuriant. Like an animal’s pelt. “Yes,” he said. “Maybe tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. I would say tonight, though, under the cover of darkness . . . We need to be ready. When they attack, we must leave. But in secret. We cannot allow them to follow.”

  “What about the walriders?”

  “Thanks to you, I am stronger, fitter. You have helped heal me, my love. I think I have quite a bit of fight left in me, now, and I’ll be buggered if some mangy deviant mutts are going to eat our bones. You and I will go out fighting. We will be brave, and we will be strong. You came to find me, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Then trust in me.”

  “I do.”

  Orana rested her head against his shoulder and they sat under the cover of the stables, watching the rain falling outside.

  In the distance, a walrider howled, and the sound died off into silence . . . a silence that made Orana shiver and close her eyes.

  “We could leave now,” she suggested.

  Jones shook his head. “Those soldiers will use darkness as their ally, but it is also our ally. Let us pray for a lack of moonlight. The darker the shadows, the better. Our only problem then will be the walriders, but Lee should take care of those bastards.”

  “Who is Lee?” asked Orana.

  “An old battalion joke,” said Jones, and shook his head, lips compressed. “I’m a long way from home, a long way from the trenches. And hungry—you know? What I would give for a plate of miserable gyppo now, with some whiskey and a few coffin nails! To think I used to complain.”

  “We will find food in the mountains,” said Orana.

  “We have to reach the mountains first,” said Jones.

  Darkness fell. The enemy entered the castle, sliding silently through the portal . . .

  Jones and Orana took refuge in the depths of the darkness as the searching men spread out through the courtyard, then mounted steps to the top of the castle walls. Arrows whined through the darkness, filled the air, and clattered against stone around the flames of the campfire by the stables. Arrows burned. Jones watched stalks blacken, wither, and die. That is my soul, he thought. I am burning, this is Hell, this is my eternal punishment for being a nonbeliever . . . a man who grew to hate God.

  Orana kissed his cheek. “Now?” she whispered, and Jones nodded and took her hand. Her skin was cold against his own fingers, his palm. He looked into her grey eyes. She forced a smile.

  “Now,” he agreed.

  Soldiers were running down the steps, and many now carried burning brands. Jones’s heart leapt into his mouth, because many also carried guns—they carried ——ing guns!—and Jones’s one advantage was an advantage no longer. Shots boomed through the black, and Jones jumped, watched stone kicked up from the stable wall as the men’s boots thundered on cobbles and surrounded the stables and the fire. Jones and Orana had moved, approached the large gate. But there was a guard there. A big man with a heavy overcoat.

  “You know what you have to do,” came Bainbridge’s hard voice.

  Silently, Jones pulled free a knife. With Orana behind him, he crept forward; the man was distracted by more gunshots as the enemy soldiers cleared the stables, firing at will. Jones leapt forward, rammed the blade into the guard’s sternum, then up, piercing lungs and heart. The man slumped against him, eyes wide, lips bubbling, and Jones held him for a while, staring into those eyes, watching as he died, and feeling sick to the core of his soul.

  Finally, the guard was still, and Jones lowered him to the ground, taking his gun and pushing it into his belt. Back at the stables, the soldiers were searching. Jones grabbed Orana and they fled outside, through the strange, ethereal, unopened portal, and crouched in the looming doorway, watching for more guards and cavorting walriders.

  “Which way?” whispered Orana, her mouth so close the words tickled his ear; he tugged her hand and they moved off the bridge and down the earth bank into the swirling water of the moat. More shots boomed in the distance, followed by screams, by cries that chilled Jones’s blood. Anger. Hatred. Primitive hostility. And he suddenly realised the sounds were war cries—war cries!—and his boots and trousers were wet in the moat and Orana was beside him, her breast rising and falling quickly beneath her dark cloak. Jones scanned the wooded ground for walriders. He could hear their child laughter, their cackling, in the distance. He pulled Orana down the moat, which fed into a channel and led away into heavy woodland as a deep, fast-flowing stream. Both
stumbled on slippery rocks. Suddenly, a creature burst from the woodland and leapt from the bank above, its eyes bright and fangs steaming, and Jones was frozen for a split second, the elongated, twisted face filling his mind. For a moment, he was back in the Rusting Jungle, being pursued across damp duckboards, and he was in the flooded trench and the words came back with icy clarity. Your God is of no use now, little man. Your God deserted you centuries ago. He left you stranded in a world you did not understand; he left you to destroy yourselves, so little did he think of you and your evolution. You are pitiful, and I despise you—and a scream rose in his throat like bile, and the creature was above him, its body perfect, almost feline in grace as it leapt at him with claws slashing for eyes. His arms jerked up at the last moment, his rifle swung before him, but he had no time to fire, no time to pull the cold metal trigger, but no need; the bayonet disappeared into folds of clothing and flesh as the creature enveloped Jones, seemed to absorb him into its mass, and they hit the water hard and the creature started to scream, and thrash, and scream, its voice too high-pitched to be human. It struggled in a frenzy. Jones fought to get away. He crawled through deep water, away from the walrider, and pushed himself—blood-drenched—away from the thrashing beast. Its head smashed left and right and left, and its claws scrabbled on the blood-slippery stock of the rifle which held it pinned, the bayonet lodged in its body.

  The walrider lay suddenly still, its face a grinning, twisted mask. The following quiet was shocking.

  Hurriedly, Jones crawled back and grasped his SMLE in bloody hands. He tugged the weapon free, boot against the walrider’s broken chest, but then he heard its words, for the beast was not dead—and its eyes bore into Jones, looked deep into his soul. Ice settled within him, and frosted wings folded chill around his pumping heart; the words were slow, filled with blood, as the walrider said, “They will find you—they will kill you—there is no escape—never an escape,” and blood ran down its chin, and suddenly Jones looked up, looked around—surely they had heard its screams, surely they heard its noise?

  Turning on Orana, panting, he saw revulsion in her eyes and realised he was drenched in blood soaking his coat and shirt and face and neck and arms. But then Bainbridge’s voice whispered into his mind, and it was calm, and it calmed him.

  “It is playing games, lad. You must run, take Orana and run. The bastards back in the castle are burning everything. They heard nothing. Make good your escape.”

  Orana backed away a step, but Jones lurched forward, took her hand in his own, and dragged her past the now-dead beast. They waded, then ran, for long, long minutes until they were away from the castle and the trees became dense and brooding all around. They waded thigh-deep, into a series of interlocking channels which swirled brown, and reaching a deep pool, Jones ducked his face and head under the ice-cold water, and his breath stuck in his throat and he gasped. The water washed away the walrider’s blood, washed away the stain of death from his flesh.

  They climbed out of the pool, clawing up an earth bank littered with old leaves and pine needles, and entered the deep woods in silence, neither speaking, only listening to the sounds of screams and wails and wanton destruction and carnage not far behind.

  The Woods. 3rd. November 1917.

  THEY STOPPED BY A fallen tree. They had been travelling for an hour and were cold and damp in the chill woods. A frost clung to the trunks of trees, and old leaves were frozen stiff under their boots.

  “I am scared,” whispered Orana, breath steaming like dragon smoke.

  Jones nodded and cracked a small puddle with the butt of his rifle. Pulling away a piece of ice, he cupped his hands and took a drink.

  “I need to think. Which way to go. Have you still got your sense of direction?”

  “Yes.” Orana rubbed her eyes, wearily ran fingers through her tangled brown hair. In the darkness she was pale, white, fragile—and Jones knew if he reached out to touch her, she would shatter into a billion jagged pieces.

  She pointed. “That way . . . towards the mountains. It will be easier when the light comes. We can navigate then.”

  Jones leant against a fallen tree, against old rough bark, and he could smell mould. His stomach churned. Fear gave him pain in his belly, shooting stars in his chest.

  Orana knelt down before him, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Can we light a fire?”

  “No. They could be close behind.”

  As if summoned by his words, demon sounds echoed with impish laughter in the distance. Jones looked into Orana’s grey eyes. He smiled.

  “Do they follow us by scent?” she asked, voice small.

  Jones nodded. “Yes. But the soldiers will be on foot; their horses cannot travel the road we have cut. And the walriders—if they are leading the men—will be slowed down. When we get to the mountains, then we will be safe.”

  “There will be snow in the passes,” said Orana, and shivered, as if the images she conjured held real chill. “It should slow down the walriders, for they don’t like the snow. In the Battle of Tengale Valley, the army lay camped in a trench and snow fell during the night; when the walriders were sent in by Tonrothir generals, they were slowed down and cut down by gunfire.”

  Mention of guns reminded Jones of the weapons carried by the soldiers. “Were those weapons similar to my rifle?”

  “Yes. But you use bullets of metal—they use bullets carved from wood.”

  “Wood? How so? Are they propelled by powder? How do they work?”

  “I do not know,” said Orana. “I have seen them in use; they are loud and kill with the same ease as your weapon.” She shuddered involuntarily. “I think we should move now—the walriders are getting closer . . .”

  Jones pulled himself to his feet and coughed and spat. Great, he thought. More guns. More death.

  Orana led the way now, for she was sure of her direction. Jones kept his rifle at the ready and picked footsteps with care. The trees were crusted with frost, their few remaining leaves web-like and beautiful.

  The ground was a hazy white, crunched under Bainbridge’s boots. As he walked, Webb coughed and said to Jones, “Your escape was well executed, but they will follow.”

  Jones bit back an angry retort, aware of Orana’s proximity and not willing to share the visions and the voices in his head, indeed, his apparent madness. He watched Orana’s swaying movements before him, shrouded by her cloak, and he could remember her warmth, her smell, her beauty, her willingness; warm around him, her words tickling and her accent in his dreams, swelling his mind and taking him to greater heights. He stopped dead. Cold.

  “No.”

  Orana halted up ahead, turned, stared questioningly back. She tilted her head, and at that moment, the moon broke from behind obsidian clouds and silver highlighted her hair and one half of her face. Jones breathed slow, not wanting to move, not wanting to break the moment. Orana stepped towards him and entered shadows, and the magic was gone, lost, and Jones had an awful, terrible, frightening vision that it would never return, that she, they, would never be the same again.

  “Do you feel all right?” she asked.

  He nodded and pushed roughly past her, taking the lead. “Come on. We need to reach the mountains by daybreak.” He wanted to say, The magic is gone; you forced me to come with you, to help you, to die for you out of love, out of a one-sided love that you do not really comprehend, but I can never be your lover or your husband . . . We can never have children, we can never share joy, because you have used me and you are using me and I hate you for it, but I love you, and I must pay in blood for my abuse, and all I want is to love you in a time of peace; I want you wanting me in a time not sullied by pain and violence . . . The words were on his tongue and he knew he should turn, grasp Orana, hold her under silver moonlight and explain his feelings. But like so many other things, the words were left unsaid, and with a bitter taste in his mouth, Jones trudged through the frost and pictured the biblical prophecy of his mother, pictured her words in static image
upon the canvas of his mind . . .

  They come from a distant land,

  From the end of the heavens,

  The LORD and the weapons of his indignation,

  To destroy the whole earth.

  Jones would have cried, but his tears would have frozen to his flesh.

  I have no more tears left to shed, he thought.

  The Sanatorium. “A Taste.” January 1904.

  “IT WILL NOT HURT . . . Come on, be a big boy.” The needle glinted evil under hissing yellow lamplight. It pressed his skin, he gritted teeth, watched the point pop flesh and slide easily into his vein . . . He turned his head away, could not watch, but felt the steel sliver pierce his arm, felt metal slide in his flesh like a rigid worm, and he wanted to cry out, but a moment of insane anger took hold of his mind and he gritted his teeth harder, and waited . . .

  The needle slid free, to be replaced by throbbing and a bead of blood. The nurse dabbed the blood with cotton wool and, with a grim smile and blank dead eyes, applied a plaster. She left the room on clacking stocky heels, left him sitting in bed with a spinning head.

  He coughed and spat on the floor. He felt deeply nauseous.

  Sleep came, spinning down into a wire-wool pit, and it was filled with dreams of strangeness. He dreamed of Heartwood and Sharpwood and Soulwood; he dreamed of Hunter’s Hill . . . and yet they were seen as if through glass stained iodine red, and water ran in rivulets down the panel, and he was locked on one side, trapped, away from the visions of his childhood dream.

  He did not awake as the door to his room opened and a man entered, cigarette between his lips.

  The man undressed, slowly, savouring the sensation, and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. The tip glowed like a firefly.

  He moved to the lamp, naked and erect, and extinguished the light.