by Greg Curtis
How had her uncle done this? That question kept running around in her thoughts as she tried to make things better for the survivors. Where had all the ghosts come from? And why had their impact been so devastating to the soldiers? She understood fear, but this was something more than that. But then again her amulets had protected her. She hadn't felt whatever they had felt.
Dariya had set about her duties first thing that morning. Initially she had tried organising the soldiers, getting them to return to what was familiar to them. Routine, she hoped, would be good for them. However, once the few survivors who had survived relatively unscathed had returned and taken command, it left her free to do other things. Like burying her mother. And as the morning sun rose higher in the sky, she grabbed a shovel and set to work.
Grave digging was tiring she discovered, and after a very short while she found that each shovel of earth that she flung out of the hole felt like a ton of lead. Soon the muscles in her back were screaming at her in pain and telling her that they needed to rest. Digging down six feet good and true was a surprisingly long way. But she kept going. After all, it had to be done. Worse, though she was only burying her mother, there were hundreds or thousands more to bury. Disease would quickly spread if the dead weren’t properly disposed of.
But they weren't her concern. Burying them wasn't her duty. They had their own comrades to do that. This was her duty. Family.
Several hours later the grave was dug, deep enough that when she stood in it, she couldn't see over the edge of the hole. Good enough, she thought, and scrambled back out of the hole. Animals wouldn't be able to get to her body. That just left the hard part; rolling her mother's body into it. Dariya would rather have kept digging for the rest of her life than do that. But again it had to be done.
So she crawled out of the hole, and went to her body. And then she forced herself to reach out and touch the dead flesh of her mother. Something that became a hundred times harder when she pushed at her mother’s shoulders and found that her legs still refused to move. That terrible blade had almost completely cut her in half. If Dariya had had any food in her stomach she would have lost it then.
It took time and every bit of will she had to do it; and she only wished that she had a shroud or a blanket to cover her mother’s body with. Something – anything – to keep those sightless eyes from staring back at her. But she had nothing. Not even a horse blanket to bring her a trace of dignity. And when her mother's body fell to the bottom of the grave with a sickening thump, she finally gave up and started throwing up, even when there was nothing in her stomach.
After that it was just a matter of intoning the prayers and covering her up. But that swiftly became a problem in itself. She simply couldn't think of any prayers to say. Her mother hadn't believed in any of the gods in life, so what were the chances that any of them would favour her in death? And even if she had believed, her mother had committed great evil in her life. Or at least she had stood by one who had. There would be no redemption in death for her.
Save for that one brief moment of courage and sacrifice right at the end! Could that have been enough, Dariya asked herself? Could even the darkest soul be transformed by such a moment? Unfortunately she doubted it. Dariya didn't know why her mother had acted so selflessly. That she could have stepped in front of a blade, offering up her life for that of her daughter’s went against everything she knew of her. It was the act of a hero. Of a woman who truly loved. Still, Dariya doubted it would save her soul.
In the end she bowed her head in silence for a minute or two, and then – after failing to find anything to say, started covering her up. It was all she could do.
At least burying her was easier than digging. It covered those sightless eyes from her. It also turned out to be quicker. In half an hour the job was done and she was no longer looking at a grave with a body in it. Only a mound which she trampled flat.
In time the mound would settle. Grass would grow over it, and the small rise on which her mother had died, would return to how it had been. There would be no sign that anyone was buried there. Which was how it had to be. She would give her mother no headstone. No grave marking of any sort. Because her mother was Amberlee the Wicked. She was reviled by half the realm and hated by the rest. If she were to put up any kind of headstone it would be desecrated. And if people knew where her mother was buried, they would fix their hatred on that spot. They would come and piss on the grave. Curse her corpse.
It was best to let her lie unmarked. If her soul was left trapped in her rotting flesh as some of the faiths claimed it would be, at least it would be in a peaceful place.
After that there was nothing to do but sit there, and try not to think about what had happened. Though she should be helping with the others, just then she couldn't. There was simply too much going through her mind. Grief, anger, pain and confusion. All of it a great ball of seething heartache burning inside her. One she could never let out. So she sat there and quietly wept black tears, until finally there were no more left. There was only emptiness.
At some point a shadow crossed over the land and she looked up to see a great eagle soaring overhead. And when she looked more closely it was to realise that there was a rider on it. One of the Fae. And behind that eagle there were a dozen more.
What were the Fae doing here, she wondered? And then it suddenly occurred to her that she had not seen the Fae who had stood beside her observing the battle since it had ended. She hadn't thought about them. What had happened to them? She didn't know if they'd been overwhelmed by the ghosts like the rest of the army. Had they survived? She didn’t know. But seeing the Fae alight among the surviving soldiers she thought she should join them. Perhaps they had some answers. Perhaps they could tell her what her uncle had done. She needed to know.
Dariya got up and walked back to the camp, pleased to see that a few more of the soldiers were on their feet. They were recovering a little. Pleased too to discover that Nyri was among the new arrivals. She liked the woman. More than that, she respected her. The woman was tough and stern, but her heart was in the right place. Whatever designation the Fae gave her, she was a soldier. Dariya had to respect that.
But instead of going over to greet her, she headed for the Fae with the white hair who seemed to be in charge. The one who was calling people to gather around. If anyone could answer her questions she guessed, it would be him. And she was right. Because even as she approached she could hear him asking questions of those who had answered his call, and those questions told her more than she had suspected.
Because his very first question was whether anyone had entered the castle. The moment he asked, she realised that he was looking for the source of the ghosts. Because if the ghosts had come from the castle one had to assume that the bodies would be found there.
“No one's entered the castle.” She spoke up, as no one else seemed to want to talk. Perhaps they were still in too much shock? “The attack never got that far. And since the attack, those who survived have been too traumatised to do anything at all. Certainly no one has tried to enter the castle ruins.”
“And you are?” He turned to her.
“Dariya Morningstar, Friend of the Golden Concord.” She didn't ask him his name. She was just too tired to care about such things. “I was invited to observe the battle. Apparently my wards protected me from the ghosts.”
“Deniri,” he corrected her. “Restless souls.”
“Which are?” She didn't know the word, and truthfully it didn't sound that much different from a ghost anyway. But if he believed there was a distinction, it might be important.
“A great evil. One we had not thought any of your people could bring about.” His face told her something of his horror at their creation.
“The Duke is not any normal person.” But he'd never been able to create let alone wield ghosts or restless souls before. That was new and it scared her.
“It would seem not.” he agreed, sourly. “And he has escaped?”
&nbs
p; “He has escaped,” she confirmed for him. “But he was hurt. A gun shot in the face at close range overcame his wards. The bullet didn't touch him, but the burning powder did. He was burnt and his hair caught fire.” And the memory of that sight and especially his screaming brought her at least a trace of satisfaction. It was not nearly enough. But it was a start.
“Who shot him?”
“I did,” she admitted. Not that she was bothered by having done it. Her only regret was that she hadn't killed him. And if the man knew her name then he should understand that. But this conversation was getting uncomfortably close to her mother's fate and that was something she did not want to talk about. Not now. Not ever.
“How did he create these deniri?” She turned the conversation back to what mattered. “And how can we protect ourselves from them?”
“They are people who had been cursed in life. They had stripped of all dignity, robbed of all hope and brought to the edge of complete despair. Then they were sacrificed on unholy ground. Land possessed by demons. Land that prevented their spirits from leaving this world. And markings placed on their flesh trapped them in the land between life and death. A realm of nightmare.”
“And so they roam the land, searching endlessly for shelter from the horror of the world around them. Shelter that can only be found in the warm bodies and thoughts of the living. But where they find that shelter, they destroy the host.”
“As to how to protect yourselves from the deniri, three things are best. First and best you need faith. If a person truly believes in the divine they will be safe. If not then they must have a true purpose. Something that so rules their thoughts that the deniri cannot slip inside their mind. Failing that, there must be a strong emotion present. Love, hate, anger, jealousy. Any strong emotion, good or bad, burns them. It's like touching fire.”
Strong emotion. Purpose. Both those things could have helped save her from the restless souls even if she didn't really have faith. Even if that emotion was hatred. She forced it down, hid it from the world; even from herself. But it was always there. Perhaps it wasn't the ward she had been given that had protected her after all?
“You intend to go to the castle?” He nodded.
“Then those of us who are able will go with you. Just in case.” She wasn't sure who or how many that would be though. From the looks in the eyes of many of those who had gathered around to listen to the Fae, not many would want to go. Not when there was a chance that they’d encounter more of the terrifying ghosts they saw last night. But still she made the promise, and had to hope that others would fulfil it.
In time they did, and after the new arrivals had handed out some herbs to the survivors that they said would help calm the minds of those affected, they and perhaps a hundred others slowly made their way across the battlefield.
It was a strange journey. Not that far in physical terms but much further emotionally. They were all battling the demons of fear with every step. And yet there was probably nothing there. Anyone still alive inside the castle had surely slipped over the wall and run away during the attack. After all, why would anyone remain in a destroyed castle surrounded by an army if they didn't have to? Still, all the soldiers had their rifles in their hands. Many were gripping them with fingers that were white with tension. Dariya didn't have the heart to remind them that no bullets would work against the restless spirits. If it came to another battle, the Fae were their only protection.
The other thing that struck her as they walked across the battlefield to the ruins of Castle Alldrake, was how peaceful it was. There were no bodies on the grass because no one had fought there. The bodies were all either in the castle, lying in the camp or scattered through the forest. No buzzards and crows were circling overhead. It was just quiet. The sun was out, the sky was blue and they could have been walking across any farm meadow.
Eventually they reached the castle at which point walking became harder. Though from a distance it had looked as if the castle's outer walls were down, up close she discovered that that wasn't quite true. The walls were down. The cannons had done devastating damage to the massive structures. Walls that had stood fifty or sixty feet high and nearly ten feet thick at the base, had crumbled. Stones that had been as large as bullock trains had been smashed. But a wall of rubble – standing twenty feet tall in places – remained, which they still had to scramble over. Even the Fae found themselves having to go on all fours in places, simply because the footing underneath them was so unstable. Some of them took tumbles.
Once over the remains of the wall there were fifty or sixty yards of open ground before they reached the keep itself, and that was in even worse shape than the wall. Most of it was scarcely recognisable as the home she had grown up in. The four towers when they had plummeted one by one, had fairly much levelled everything and the cannons and the trebuchet had finished the job. Here and there, there were fragments of the walls still standing. Further back she could see that some of the other ancillary buildings had survived better. The stables were nearly intact. And the guard house was badly damaged but still recognisable. But the keep itself had been smashed beyond recognition.
Five stories and hundreds of rooms were now a pile of rubble twenty or thirty feet high and a hundred or more feet across. Probably the only thing that even hinted that it was the ruins of a keep, were the hints of walls and one oddly lonely chimney that still stood tall, towering over the wreckage. One thing was certain, she realised as she stood there with the others, staring at the ruined castle; if there were bodies in there, they were not going to be easy to find. They would have to be dug out.
“Nicholas said that the people had been brought to a dark underground place. A cellar maybe. Catacombs.”
Dariya looked around to see Nyri standing beside her, looking every bit as tall and stern as she always did.
“Nicholas?”
“Walkerton,” Nyri explained. “Baen's grandfather. Gifted with the sight of the deceased.” Her expression changed suddenly. “And the tongue of a harpy!”
Dariya stared at her, curious. “The tongue of a harpy?”
“He is a man who clearly believes the world is full of little children who must be ordered about with precise and repeated commands. He even ordered our Elders about!”
“Well if he's related to the wizard he was always bound to be a little strange,” Daraya told her tactfully. The woman seemed upset. But really, the man didn't sound that odd. There were many people like that in the world, unfortunately. They just needed a firm kick in the pants every now and then.
“You have no idea! His aunts are completely insane!”
“Tell me about these catacombs.” Dariya decided to change the subject. It was odd she thought. For the first time since she had met her, the Fae woman appeared to be uncertain. Even on the edge. Seeing her Dariya would have thought it was Nyri who had seen the ghosts and not her.
“Nicholas described them as a dark place, lying somewhere underground. There was a river running through it and giant archways of stone. The cavern was as large as a mountain.”
“He’s referring to the Labyrinth.” Dariya identified the place immediately. “It’s a natural fissure under the ground, with a huge stone temple at its heart. It was turned into a bolt hole centuries ago. It runs right under the wall, there.” Dariya pointed to a section of the outer wall that had collapsed almost to ground level. She could guess why it was that flat. Most of it was now in the Labyrinth. “There's an entrance by the smithy,” she said pointing across the remains of the courtyard
“We'll need light,” she told the Captain accompanying them as they walked across the courtyard. It wasn't really her place to say that. She wasn't in command. In theory he was. But in reality, no one was. Those soldiers who were walking with them, were far from well. They were just all that were standing.
“And weapons. There could be soldiers down there.” Actually Dariya thought, there could be an army down there. It was large enough.
At the smithy she
quickly found the steel hatch in the floor which led down to the Labyrinth – it was only concealed by a little dust. Unfortunately someone had cut the chain that connected it to the winch. It took a half dozen strong men and a lot of swearing to lift it up without that. But why would someone cut the chain?
Once the hatch was open and secured, Dariya led them down the stairs to the top landing. There she grabbed a few of the torches that were stored in the iron box and handed them out lighting one for herself. She also studied the small speaker box in the wall. It was nothing more than a simple grill in the wall and a narrow shaft that ran up to the smithy above. But it meant that if someone was somehow trapped underground, they could speak with those above and get them to winch up the hatch. Now though that shaft was full of rubble. It could have been from the attack, but she doubted it. The open walled smithy above was almost completely intact. Someone had sabotaged it. Why?
