Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2)

by Hans Cummings

  “I’ll wear the small beige one. Can you wrap the others for me?” She presented several talons to the merchant. It was the last of her portion of the funds Pancras left them.

  As the merchant folded and packaged the robes, Delilah donned the small beige one and cinched the belt at her waist. She turned to Kale. “Do you still have any of the money Pancras left? That was the last of mine.”

  Kale reached into his pouch and passed her a handful of gold crowns and silver talons. “This won’t last forever.”

  “I know.” Delilah dropped the money into her pouch. “You might have to find work.”

  “We’ll figure something out. We’re going to look for a place more permanent to live other than that inn.” Kali took Kale’s arm as the three draks left the shop. “Someplace down here in the undercity will surely be less expensive.”

  “Good. Fine.” Delilah hugged her brother with one arm, while struggling to keep hold of her packages. “I need to be going.” She moved to hug Kali, but stopped short and offered a weak wave instead.

  “Don’t you want us to come with you to the Arcane University?” Kale followed his sister.

  “No, they won’t let you in anyway. I have to go!” Delilah broke into a run. She didn’t see any point in Kale accompanying her, except maybe to carry her packages. Although, now that the ale had taken effect, she felt antisocial.

  She dodged the minotaurs and draks going about their business in the undercity. The hem of her robe caught between her legs and she stumbled, flinging her packages down the walkway. She stood and collected them, thankful none of them tumbled off the walkway into the chasm.

  Delilah strode with more care the rest of the way to the Arcane University. When she arrived, she let out a sigh of relief as she noticed the archmage’s carriage had not yet returned. Delilah entered the student barracks and sought out Katka.

  “I have something for you.” She handed the human girl one of the packages. “No, wait, I don’t think that’s the right one.” Delilah examined the remaining two packages. They were all unmarked, though one was smaller and lighter. “Oh, well, it’s one of these two. I guess both of them.”

  Katka smiled and took the packages. “But why? Have you been drinking? You’re slurring your words.”

  “I might have stopped off for a few since the archmage sent me off by myself.”

  “Hey, are you wearing new robes?”

  Delilah nodded. “Got me a new one and a new grey one for when I’m a novice. Got you one of each, too, though I had to guess at the size.”

  Katka squealed and tore into the packages. She held the robe up. It was a bit long, but seemed to be the correct size otherwise. “This is wonderful, but why? What’s the occasion?”

  Delilah flopped onto her bed. “Just happy to be alive, I guess. The archmage made that freak storm. He killed a bunch of giants with it who were approaching the city.”

  “The archmage did that?” Katka sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her new robe. “He killed giants with bad weather? Such power—”

  “Yeah, just to make a point, I think.” Delilah stared at the ceiling. Her fervent hope was for the archmage to be thoroughly engaged with other tasks and not pester her before her next trial. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  Chapter 12

  As much as Pancras hoped the fort toward which they rode would provide good shelter for the evening, it was obvious, as they approached, it would not. Tattered flags flying the Etrunian crest and the hammer and anvil of Adranus flapped in the wind. Even at a distance, Pancras recognized the blackened wood and shattered stone that told a tale of woe, a tale worsened by the desiccated and rotten bodies staked to the dirt alongside the road.

  Gisella called for everyone to halt. “I feel I must investigate this. It’s possible whatever happened here has long since passed, but I must know.”

  “Bah!” Edric fought to control Yaffa. The pony snorted and whinnied in protest of being forced to stop downwind of the odor of death. “You said yourself these are Etrunian lands. I don’t see you wearing their colors.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. Nevertheless, I am going.” She spurred Moonsilver and rode toward the fort.

  “I’m going with her. You can stay here if you like.” Pancras did not wait for Edric’s response before putting the spurs to Stormheart and following after her. He heard Qaliah argue briefly with Edric before following with Comet.

  Dread crept upon Pancras. The closer they approached the fort, the more acutely he felt it. The way the bodies had been staked out, and now, piles of bones flanking the battered gates, engendered apprehension he would recognize the culprits. The wind carried on it the sickly sweet stench of decaying flesh.

  Gisella stopped Moonsilver by a hitching post just outside the gates. She secured him and grabbed her spear. She waited for Pancras and Qaliah. To his surprise, Edric lagged not far behind, though he still complained as he dismounted Yaffa.

  “Look.” Gisella pointed to faded markings on the walls of the gatehouse. Pancras examined them as anxiety engulfed chest. The markings were made with dried blood and appeared to depict crudely rendered skulls—the symbol of Aita.

  “Death cultists did this.” Pancras couldn’t be certain, of course, until he found the culprits, but he felt confident enough to make the pronouncement. Death cults dedicated to Aita cropped up from time to time. The priesthood denounced them. Death came naturally to all, and the church’s official position was that the Princess of the Underworld didn’t need help from mortals. Death cultists disagreed and believed they served the goddess of death best by killing as many people as possible.

  “What would death cultists want with an Etrunian fort?” Qaliah drew a thin, short-bladed sword as they walked through the gatehouse.

  “Did you see the other flag? There was a priest of Adranus here.” Edric referred to the flag flying the hammer and anvil. It was not uncommon for small settlements that featured a priest-operated forge to fly a banner of some sort proclaiming allegiance to the god of smiths and craftsmen.

  Pancras removed his rod from his belt. Since he stopped wearing his focus on the tips of his horns, animating the dead in his sleep ceased to be a problem. “Death cultists kill indiscriminately, without reason.”

  They stepped into the fort’s courtyard. Several burned-out buildings stood on the perimeter, but save a murder of crows pecking at the bodies strewn throughout, there appeared to be no sign of life.

  “We should stay together.” Gisella took point and led them toward the smithy. “It’s unlikely anyone is still here, but we’ll be stronger together.”

  A body partially hung from the forge’s hearth, the upper half fully within the firebox, while the rest dangled. What clothes remained were blackened, burnt beyond recognition. The upper half was little more than charred bones, while the bottom half was partially eaten and rotten. Above the body and affixed to the bricks of the hearth, the symbol of Adranus was smeared with blood.

  “Maris take ‘em.” Edric spat on the floor. “They desecrated the forge.”

  Pancras moved closer to the body. The man had been dead for weeks. “I hate death cultists.” The last time he heard rumors of a death cult was shortly after he left Muncifer as a youth, years before he even took up residence in Drak-Anor.

  “They’re all gone by now, right?” Qaliah kicked the corpse’s legs. “This guy’s been dead a while. Why would they stick around?”

  Gisella inspected some of the broken and half-forged weapons scattered about the smithy. “They might stick around to lure in unsuspecting travelers, but you’re right, this place seems abandoned. Still, we should make sure.”

  Edric picked up an axe head, rusted by the elements. “What’s the point? We can’t do anything for these poor bastards.” He shook his head and dropped the axe.

  “If the cult is still here, we can give them justice.” Gisella motioned for them to follow.

  “And if they aren’t”—Pancras glanced over his sho
ulder at Edric as he stepped past—“perhaps we can put their spirits to rest.”

  Two major buildings comprised the majority of the area they needed to search. A cursory inspection of the stables revealed what the odor suggested. All the horses were slaughtered and left to rot. Thick clouds of flies swarmed the carcasses like miniature storms.

  They followed Gisella into the two-story building adjacent to the stables that contained the living quarters. The entry doors were little more than burnt remains clinging to the remnants of rusty hinges. Bodies littered the rooms within. Guards and death cultists alike, frozen in a grim diorama of death, lay where they were slain, fodder for scavengers and carrion-eaters.

  “At least they put up a fight.” Qaliah rolled one of the cultists over with her foot. The man, still clad in a woolen kilt, his body painted bone white. The paint was cracked and flaking, marred by his wounds and the toll of time and decay.

  By all indicators, the soldiers of the fort did indeed defend themselves. All the cultists suffered multiple wounds from spears, swords, and maces. Every dead soldier was surrounded by multiple cultists. In every room of the living quarters the story was the same. Handfuls of guards held out against dozens of cultists, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their suicidal opponents.

  Not suicidal, Pancras reminded himself. They just don’t care whether they live or die. Their recklessness was what made such men so dangerous. He concentrated on his rod to gather the magical energy he hoped he would not need. Something about the fort and its fate did not sit right with him. He suppressed a shudder as magical energy coursed through him. At the edge of his memory, he felt shadowy claws. When he tried to concentrate on them, they disappeared.

  Besides rats and maggots, they found nothing alive in the living quarters. Gisella stopped in the courtyard for fresh air.

  “There’s no point in going in the main keep.” Edric sheathed his sword. “Everything in there is as dead as everything else has been.”

  Gisella glared at him. “Then stay out here. I’m going into the keep. Watch the horses.” Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed her spear and entered the keep. Pancras noticed the charred remains of a ballista behind the crenellations on top of the building, indicating there was a way to access the roof, as well. Qaliah followed the Golden Slayer, leaving the minotaur with Edric.

  “There’s something more here, Edric. We need to find out what.” Pancras didn’t like Gisella’s righteous curiosity, but he acknowledged it was the right thing to do.

  “Bah! You’re as bad as she is.” Edric threw up his hands and stormed away. Pancras shook his head and followed behind Qaliah.

  Gisella and Qaliah stood before a crude altar erected in front of the main room’s hearth. Flesh hung off the bones used in its construction. Pancras swore and kicked it, scattering the bones. “They defiled the forge shrine of Adranus and replaced it with this crude, hastily erected mockery. Aita take them all.”

  “That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Gisella scattered the remaining bits of the altar with the butt of her spear.

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Still, she would not approve.” Pancras examined the room. Doorways flanking the hearth led to other rooms on the ground floor. Stairs on either side led alternately up and down.

  “You sound like a priest of Aita.” Qaliah climbed onto the hearth and looked up the chimney before tapping the bricks inside with her sword. “What do they call them? Bonelords?”

  More than just priests of Aita, bonelords were wandering agents of Aita herself. They sought out and destroyed those who did evil in Aita’s name, as well as assisted those who suffered in crossing over to find release in death’s embrace. Pancras encountered one once when he was a practicing necromancer. He and the bonelord didn’t see eye to eye at first, but in the end, they parted allies.

  “I’m not, but I have worshipped Aita most of my life.”

  “Worshiped, but seldom prayed?” Gisella smacked Pancras on the shoulder as she passed him. “We’ll check out the lower level first and then work our way up.”

  All the torches and lanterns in the keep long since exhausted their fuel. Their descent to the lower level was pitch black. Pancras held up his rod. “Fos.”

  His magical torch was sufficient to light their way. The stairs, extending deep under the keep, angled toward the courtyard. The odor of moldy, rotten food greeted them. The stores of the fort, unneeded by the dead.

  “My sense of smell is never going to be the same.” Qaliah wrinkled her nose at the olfactory assault. The odor of death reminded Pancras why, when he was a necromancer, he worked only with skeletons. The fleshless dead had no odor. The rotting dead, on the other hand, possessed an acrid odor, tinged with just enough sweetness to turn the stomach.

  In addition to maintaining food stores, the keep also contained the armory. Several dead soldiers were strewn in pieces about the armory, torn limb from limb by their assailants. Pancras stooped to examine one. The remaining flesh was ragged, and the joints were exposed on the limbs.

  “If humans did this, something granted them unnatural strength.” He stood and dusted off his robe.

  “What else could have done this?” Qaliah sheathed her sword and helped herself to a crossbow from the weapons rack. She cocked the weapon and nocked a bolt before looping a quiver around her shoulder. She hefted the crossbow. “If whatever did this is still around, I don’t want it getting close.”

  A clatter in the distance caused Pancras’s heart to skip a beat. He spun, breath catching in his throat. In the darkness beyond which his light illuminated, there was nothing.

  He jumped as Gisella placed a hand on his arm. “It came from upstairs.”

  “Edric.” Pancras nodded and let out his breath.

  “Are you always this jumpy? I thought you were this great wizard.” Qaliah followed Gisella as they left the armory.

  “I’m extremely uneasy in this place. Besides, being a great wizard doesn’t mean I like danger and adventure. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  Gisella waved him forward. “You’d better come up there with me. I need your light, remember?”

  Pancras gritted his teeth and walked ahead of her. I wish one of the draks were here right now. They’d be joking about all this.

  * * *

  Gisella’s eyes scanned ahead of Pancras as the minotaur climbed the steps to the ground floor. She wasn’t entirely comfortable having a loaded crossbow at her back. She doubted Qaliah was an experienced fighter, though she loaded the crossbow as if she knew what to do.

  There was no sign of the dwarf in the keep’s main room. Gisella peeked outside, and her heart sank as she saw him standing by his horse. She gripped her spear and gestured toward the left doorway. “That wasn’t Edric we heard. Be on your guard.”

  She remembered how tense Pancras was when she touched his arm in the armory. Even now, she saw his hand shaking as he held the rod aloft to provide them with light. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine. Let’s complete our task here.”

  Pancras did not sound fine, but it was not Gisella’s place to question his courage. They entered the keep’s bakery. Ashes in the ovens told of baking interrupted, as if the slain bakers lying across their work tables were not enough. As Qaliah passed her to examine the larder, Gisella hear the scrap of a boot on the floor behind her.

  A scream of primal rage gave her no time to react as a painted man rushed at them. She leveled her spear, but he leapt to the side, raising an axe and slashing at Qaliah. The fiendling fired her crossbow, sinking the bolt deep into the man’s shoulder.

  He snarled and slashed the air as she backpedaled, dropping the crossbow and drawing her sword.

  Gisella thrust, but the man grabbed the haft of her spear and threw his weight against it, pulling her around the table. She saw a flash of green from Pancras’s direction and an emerald ray struck the cultist in the chest.

  The cultist gasped for breath as his chest sank, outlining his ribs in parchment-like flesh.
“Aita take you but not until the Queen has her way!” He flung the axe at Pancras.

  The minotaur ducked under the flying blade. Gisella pulled her spear out of the cultist’s grasp and then thrust it forward, impaling the man under the chin. She loosed a battle cry, pushing, driving him back until the tip of her spear burst out the back of his neck, spraying the wall with blood.

  Gisella planted her boot on the cultist’s chest and pushed him as she withdrew her spear. He collapsed onto the floor.

  Qaliah walked over to him and aimed her crossbow.

  “He’s dead.” Gisella regarded the minotaur. He stood, brushing the dirt and flour off his robes.

  “Just making sure.” Qaliah fired the bolt into the cultist’s head.

  “I guess they didn’t all leave or kill themselves.” Pancras knelt alongside the cultist. The man was clad only in a kilt. His fingernails were elongated and sharpened, and his teeth had been filed into points.

  “Think he’s the only one?” Qaliah cocked her crossbow and fitted another bolt.

  Gisella cleaned the tip of her spear on the cultist’s kilt. “Let’s make sure.”

  Pancras’s eyes appeared glassy. She brought him and the fiendling into the main room, into the sunlight. The whites of the minotaur’s eyes were black, and his fur seemed darker, the whispers of white on his chin gone.

  “You look different, Pancras. Are you sure you’re all right?”