Well, some of them were drowned in the waters north of the harbor, too.
The ship’s captains had been unwilling to accept the verdict of the Duke of Northcraven that they were trapped, and five days after arriving here, a convoy of five ships, including the Sally’s High Touch, had determined to break the blockade and escape to the North Sea. The adventure had started well, but as soon as they came abreast of Harborville Island the waters had filled with Aulig war canoes, and the Auligs were paddling hard, dragging gigantic fallen trees into the water to foul the courses of the ships. Captain Littletower had bravely tried to ram his way through, for the wind was good, but the logs caught up under his vessel and within minutes his sails were full of flaming arrows. Captain Berrol destroyed maybe five war canoes with the witchfire during that exchange, but he rightly judged that if he tried to follow the Brazen Maid, he would wind up hung up on logs and boarded or burned himself. The Auligs had stood in their war canoes and shot the Maid’s crew in the water with very long arrows, the kind you spear fish with.
The Sunny Dancer had been next in line behind the Brazen Maid, and she’d hung up trying to come about and flee. The Auligs had boarded her using long ropes and hooks, then killed all of her crew. The Touch, the Emerald Rose and the Happy Accident had escaped, but only to return to Northcraven Harbor, where they took refuge behind the towers and the chain. They watched the Sunny Dancer burn long into the night, casting a red reflection over the water, and they could hear the screams of her crew once the Auligs got hold of them.
That had been several weeks ago, before the pox, and the pox had changed everything. The first cases had been near the city’s east gate, and fortunately, that was a place never frequented by any of the Touch’s crew. As soon as Captain Berrol heard of the sickness he’d ordered all of his crew back, and they’d spent an anxious few days waiting to see if any of them had contracted it. None of them had, and the captain had made the isolation of the Touch complete, with no more trips into town, nor any contact at all with anyone not already on board.
Then the bodies had started to appear, swollen from the water and drifting out of the harbor on the current from the Redwater River. At first the crew had been shocked and amazed to see Mortentians dispose of the dead in this way, but there were so many bodies that it became clear they could not all be buried. Coril doubted that any of the Brothers of the Spade were still living in the city, but if they were, they were likely refusing to do their tasks.
After seeing the first pox-riddled corpses in the water, Captain Berrol had forbidden fishing altogether. They no longer bathed at all, for to do so would have meant filling barrels with the harbor water, and what little fresh water they were able to draw by configuring the sails to catch the rain had to go for drinking. Eldrian Cane insisted that they boil the water first, and nobody was taking any chances with it.
Day after day Coril sat in the rigging, for his orders were to watch for anyone trying to sneak aboard and give an alarm if any other boat or swimmers came near. In all of the time he’d been at watch only one man had tried it, a soldier who left his livery and his armor on the duke’s pier and swam toward the Touch with strong strokes. Coril had called out, and Parry Meade had stood at the ship’s rail watching.
The soldier was treading water in the cold current, and he called out to Meade. “Throw down a rope, else I’ll drown!”
“Then drown, damn you.” The mate had replied. “We’re not taking any passengers, nor are we going anywhere, as ye well know. Shove off and don’t come back.” The man was a liar, and he hadn’t drowned at all. Instead he’d swam to try his luck with two other ships, who refused him out of hand, and finally he’d floundered up onto the sea wall, where a couple of the Harbor Master’s men had come for him.
Since then no other swimmers had attempted to approach the Touch, but Coril could see a collection of people whose faces changed daily, standing on the ends of the pier and looking longingly to the ships. The children were the worst, and it made Coril sick to see their scarecrow forms standing or more often lying down, too weak from hunger or the plague to stand. Many of the bodies in the river were those of children.
Northcraven was dying and nearly dead, he realized. The plague had ripped through the city in mere days, killing nine of ten people it infected, and those who caught it now were the ones who had locked themselves away when they first heard of it. Everyone must eat and drink, however, and there was little clean water in the city. Many people used the wells, and all getting sick from the sharing. Eventually even the stoutest survivors had to come out of their hiding places and find water, and when they did, the black pox was patiently waiting.
Coril thought the Auligs could take the city any time they wanted now, but who would want it? It was nothing but a hotbox where death grew and ripened, and Coril feared for the day when that death would reach out and claim the Touch.
Chapter 69: Gutcrusher, the Wraith Pit, City of the Damned
The old bull felt his blood rise, and he stamped his broad hoof, ideal for trekking over snow or mud, slapping the turf in response to the young buck’s challenge. The two caribous faced each other, and a dozen does looked on, shyly eager to see who would win the right to sire them. Both of the males were fit and in good health, the wisdom of the bull nearly matched by the hot blooded fury of the buck. Their antlers had long since shed the soft covering that protected them while they budded and grew, and the tips, sharpened on pine and oak throughout the brief summer glistened with danger. These great deer could very will kill each other, but usually they did not, and either the challenger or the challenged would know when he was vanquished and withdraw. Tawny and black were their coats, and they shone with a healthy glow. The buck lowered his head and charged, and the antlers crashed together with an impact audible for miles.
For several minutes they stood, antler to antler, and only the loudness of their breath and the tautness of muscle pulled tight revealed their struggle. The old bull was cagy, and when the stronger buck pushed he twisted, so that the buck’s strength was wasted in useless thrusting that gained him nothing. But the buck had plenty of strength to waste, and he lavished power into the duel, feeling the bull’s waning strength. He was ready to mate, and to mate often, and only this old bull stood in his way. The smell of the does drove him to excess, and he pushed and stabbed with the mighty weapons that nature had deemed fit to equip him with.
The sky rained spears suddenly, heavy poles with sharply pointed stone tips, and both challenger and challenged were pierced, as well as half a dozen does.
“You were right, witch woman.” Gutcrusher said, watching his hungry hunters take down yet another herd of caribous. “The herds have come early.”
“I felt it in the earth, mighty king.” The crone replied, for she was still tied to this land somehow, even though the ogres had freed her from her long imprisonment within it. “The herds come south early this year. It is already snowing in the lands they winter in, and this will be a very cold year.”
“Good thing, too. The band is hungry.” Gutcrusher replied. He turned to Ironspike. “You see? I told you she was good to bring along.”
“Witches are bad luck.” The larger ogre replied, fingering his enormous iron pick and eyeing the crone meaningfully. “And she is witchier than most.”
“Bah, she needs to grant me my third wish.” Gutcrusher replied.
“The Black God’s favor? It’s just a stupid saying.” Ironspike’s voice was skeptical.
The crone cackled. “Just a saying? You curse by him, swear by him and name him a hundred times each day, and you don’t believe he’s real?” She cackled again, causing the hair on Gutcrusher’s neck to rise. “He’s as real as I am, certainly. We are kindred.”
“I never seen him.” Ironspike stubbornly insisted. “Nobody’s never seen him.”
“Of course you haven’t seen him.” The crone laughed. “He’s been imprisoned in the City of the Damned, along with his little helpers.” The ogres we
re marching toward that city now, fully fifteen hundred of them, the best of the warriors who had bent knee to Gutcrusher at the Wraithpit. The balance had spread out from that fearful fortress, and were hunting the caribous and bison that had come south so early this year, in anticipation of a very cold winter. Their path led through deep forests and some swampy land too, as well as barren places. All of the land was alive with the early migrations, however, and their bellies were full and their bags stuffed with dried meat. The Bone River ran to their right as they marched, and they had crossed several large tributaries at well-known fords, following in reverse the course that the ill-fated Whiteskin had taken just a month earlier.
“Who could imprison a god?” Gutcrusher wondered aloud.
“Even a god can lose a battle.” The crone said, her voice wintry. “The Black God lost a battle and was imprisoned for it. We go to free him and win his favor perhaps.” She looked old and frail, but every ogre there had noticed that she had no difficulty in keeping up. Twice ogres of the King’s Band had threatened her with weapons, and each time they had dropped the weapons as if they were live serpents, then sheepishly picked them up again. The ogres did not want to tangle with the old witch, and only because the king insisted did they abide her.
“A god defeated in battle.” Gutcrusher muttered. “So the gods fight each other.” He shook his head, but it did not really surprise him. All creatures fought to live, and why should gods be any exception?
“Well, it wasn’t a god who defeated him.” The crone said after a moment. “It was men.”
“Men?” Several ogres said at once.
“What kind of men can defeat gods?” Ironspike demanded.
“He was defeated by the children of Marten, a very long time ago.” The crone replied. “The people you call Auligs.”
“The pigsuckers?” Gutcrusher practically yelled the word. “The fishstinking Auligs defeated the Black God?”
“I don’t believe it.” Wolf said from his position at the flank. “They must have had mighty weapons back then.” He hefted his blacksteel gladius meaningfully.
“No weapon could harm the Black God.” The crone said, shaking her head so that her wispy white hair showed briefly outside of her black cowl. “He was imprisoned by magic.” Then she looked at Gutcrusher’s mace and Wolf’s gladius. Ironspike still carried his great pick, but he also bore the blacksteel club in the shape of a death’s head that had belonged to Soulripper. “Well, I say no weapon, but that was then.”
“Speak plain witch.” Gutcrusher admonished.
“What I mean is that in that time we didn’t have blacksteel.” She answered. “I think these weapons could likely harm even the Black God. He is made of the same substance as was the guardian of the Wraith Pit.” Gutcrusher looked at her for a long moment, holding his thoughts unsaid, which was not really like him.
Down the long country they marched, and the Bone River joined some other river that Gutcrusher did not know, and all of this land was strange to him. He knew that the high hills to the east belonged to the Vesthan, and for a time they would have to travel in their lands, but the Vesthan were many bands, scattered and small, known to be timid. Even though the Vesthan were clever for ogres, and could make their own bows and shoot them, not even the boldest of them would dare attack an army of Muharl of this size. Whiteskin had been Muharl, if a freak and an albino, and his mighty band had encroached on the Vesthan a long time without trouble.
The lands of the elk-men lay to the west, but they likewise would not dare to tangle with an army of Muharl of this size. Gutcrusher had plans for the cursed elk-men, but those plans were for later, and he meant to fulfill them far from here, by the Iron Bridge. They marched for days, and the land changed around them, until hills became mountains and the nights grew very cold.
Still, Gutcrusher was not dismayed. They had plentiful game and many furs, and they made fires when they wanted them. Back in the days when he’d only had six or nine boyos, this trek would have ended in his death many times over, for the land was perilous to a small band. With this army behind him he felt no fear.
They came at last to a place where the river broke through the mountains and proceeded down a wide and gently sloping plain, and after a few days of marching across fields of grass that nearly reached their waists, they saw the City of the Damned in the distance.
It was dark, this city, with high walls made of some black, granite-like rock thick and shiny, and not even ten thousand years had worn them down, although the ages had smoothed their edges. The tops were white with the leavings of many gulls and terns that nested on them. The river flowed directly to the walls, passed through an arch of stone many ogres high, and the city rose around it, but not very much.
Whereas the walls had stood the test of time, decay and weather, the once tall towers within the walls had not. Although crafted from the bones of the earth and raised to great heights using forgotten and mythical arts, the towers had not been able to withstand the roaring spring tempests that rolled out of the open north and smashed them, nor the trembling of the earth at many times, nor the cracking and tearing of winters cold enough to freeze stone. Every tower lay broken, and only a few lifted like broken teeth above the massive city wall, and every one of them coated in an eon’s worth of white bird shit.
“We never go into the city.” Fisheyes said. He was a funny looking ogre whose eyes were too far back on his narrow skull, and he had been one of Whiteskin’s band. Spearstain, Whiteskin’s old captain, hastened to agree.
“It is forbidden.” He said. “Not even Whiteskin ever went inside.”
Gutcrusher looked at the crone. She cackled merrily. “It’s up to you, mighty king. You have dared to do many forbidden things. I don’t think your destiny will fail you now.”
Gutcrusher grinned and looked at the boyos from Whiteskin’s old crew. “The witch is right. It ain’t forbidden for me. How do we get in?”
When they hesitated to answer the crone spoke up. “Follow me, mighty king. I still remember the way.” She led them on a march of less than a mile to another arch in the stone that might once have held a mighty gate, but it was now just a hole, leering from the wall like the eye-socket of a black and birdshit-covered skull. “They will be in the council hall.” The crone declared. “They were always in there, and always talking.”
“Let me go first.” Wolf volunteered. “I’ll have a look.” Gutcrusher nodded and Wolf disappeared, running swiftly through the broken gateway. After a few moments, he returned, grinning.
“It’s all busted.” He said. “It was a big place, though. Now it’s just ruins and bird’s nests.” Gutcrusher laughed.
“Come on then, boyos.” Let’s have a look at this old place.”
“It was called Ghathos.” The crone said, walking beside him with her staff and talking all the while. “It was once the chief city of a mighty empire that stretched from the western sea to the Mountains of Fire, and covered the whole of this land and many other places, too. The rulers were your forgotten gods, and it was they who crafted you in the old times.”
“And they still got defeated.” Gutcrusher added. “Defeated by fishstinking Auligs.” With just his three captains, he walked through and had a look at the ruins of Ghathos.
Wolf was right, it was a big-ass city, or it had been. Once tall towers lay in ruins, and each one of them nearly as big as the Black Mountain. Between the towers were wide avenues, choked with ruins and the nests of birds, and over all of it an ancient layer of birdshit. Birds were everywhere, and their raucous cries filled the air. They were sea birds, and Ghathos had once had a harbor, but it was now choked with weeds, brush and trees, and only the smell told Gutcrusher that there was a large body of water near. Once huge buildings lay in ruins all around, but in the center of the city, in a broad circular area into which all of the avenues flowed, stood a massive square block of unadorned stone, and set in the stone in a massive granite frame was an iron door like the one that they had ripped
from the Black Mountain. “Is that your council hall?” Gutcrusher asked, and the old witch nodded eagerly.
“Yes it is. But there is no guardian like there was at the Black Mountain. No one but birds would ever come here.”
“Birds and me.” Gutcrusher laughed, feeling his luck rising. “Come on boyos, let’s smash the door and loot the place.”
Wolf and Balls moved forward immediately, and Ironspike reluctantly followed. No eldritch guardian stood before this door, but there was an almost palpable feel of something dreadful waiting. Gutcrusher pushed aside the feeling and approached the door, carrying his spiked blacksteel mace like it was a carpenter’s hammer. He banged on the door with it, but as he had expected, merely scratched it.
The ogres set about the work of tearing down the granite doorframe, and they were all mighty ogres in the prime of their health and strength. In half an hour they had it down, and they wrenched the door from its socket and gazed inside.
To Gutcrusher’s surprise, he did not need a torch. The inside of the cube of stone was shaped like the outside, a simple open square within which lay a sunken bowl or arena, perhaps fifty ogre-paces wide. In the center of the bowl stood a familiar crystal orb on a familiar looking pillar. Various tall rectangular boxes of stone lined the walls, and the crone led the way to the center of the hall without hesitation. The walls were of some green stone that flickered and glowed, casting everything in a strange and witchy light.
“You know what to do, mighty king.” She said, and Gutcrusher smashed the crystal orb with his blacksteel mace. He heard many voices suddenly, one male and several female, and he could not tell if the voices were real or in his head, but he did not know the language. A sound like stone cracking followed, and the stone fronts of five of the boxes fell away, revealing inner coffins or sarcophagi within. A thin and skeletal hand emerged from the edge of one of the coffins, and it opened, revealing a desperately thin and old looking giant within. It looked to be a male twin to the giantess he had defeated at the Black Mountain. A strong loud voice came forth, speaking again in a language Gutcrusher could not understand.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 92
