The Echoes of Sin (The Kinless Trilogy Book 3)

by Philbrook, Chris

  And then it stopped.

  The light coming from within the twins snapped out of existence, Malwynn stopped walking, and the candle too went out with a tiny hiss, and a barely audible pop.

  The three watched Umaryn’s body for long, silent minutes, and then, she opened her eyes. They kept their icy blue color.

  “Umaryn?” Malwynn blurted, the tears flooding back and flowing down his cheeks. Chelsea got out of her odd seat and moved to his side. She took his hand into hers. They held onto each other tightly, afraid.

  Umaryn sat up smoothly to her elbows, and looked around with a gentle grace. She had lost none of her strength, despite having a gaping wound in her neck. She looked at Aleksi, then to Malwynn and Chelsea. She laughed. “So this is what it’s like to be the undead?”

  Mal and Chelsea laughed nervously. “What does it feel like?” Mal asked her, inching closer to the chalk circle on the floor she sat at the center of.

  “Hollow. A little cold. I… It’s like something’s missing,” she said, looking down at her blood stained fingers. She touched the wound at her neck and winced.

  “That will heal quickly,” Aleksi said with some pride.

  “Do you still have The Way?” Chelsea asked her.

  Umaryn closed her eyes and concentrated. A tiny edge of her lip curled up in a smile. “I can hear the spirits. My armor. Blood red and wrapped around me… it cried for me. It soaked up what I lost. I gave it more life in my death.”

  “You’re certainly stranger than before,” Malwynn said.

  Umaryn got to her feet and laughed. “We were both always strange. It runs in the family.”

  “No argument. Now what?” Malwynn asked, looking to Aleksi.

  Aleksi walked to Umaryn and gave her a reassuring touch on the shoulder. “Now… now you know that we are being watched. This place and others like it. This place watches. Remembers. I do not know if any of their kind survive to this day, but I wonder. And whoever built these places, they were unholy. They worshipped no spirits, and had no Church like ours. There are strange crosses and stars in the room labeled chapel but they mean nothing to us. You wonder why the Great Plague came and killed them off? I think it was because they were heretics, and only the pure survived to start again.”

  “Do you think the Great Plague was intentional? A holy war?” Chelsea asked.

  Aleksi was speechless for a time. “I don’t know. There is circumstantial evidence that says it’s possible. Probable even. What we do know, is that these places aren’t designed just for watching. They have a decidedly military aspect to them. That’s another big part of why we must keep this place secret.”

  “Military aspect? Show me,” Umaryn said.

  —Chapter Twenty-Six—

  A DANCER IN THE SKY

  A dew soaked dawn broke on the capital city of Varrland. A chill crept into the air, letting the people of Elmoryn know autumn came again, soon enough. The cool air would burn off as the moons slipped over the edge of the world and the sun followed in their wake, but right now, as all three hung in the sky, breath could almost be seen in the air.

  General Augustus LaFleur sat on a wooden chair that had been put on the dock of the rail terminal in Daris specifically for him. He never slept in. An old soldier and an old man had too many troubles for sleep to provide shelter. The white haired leader of Varrland’s armies wanted to be at the point of departure, should Marcus’ call for assistance come. The trains were loading. Three thousands soldiers marched aboard passenger cars, alongside two hundred cavalry. It was a token force compared to Varrland’s total military might, but Augustus felt it would serve. He had faith in the soldiers. Faith in their skill and faith in their patriotism.

  But the call for help hadn’t come yet, and that bothered the old man profusely. It bothered him for days, and that led him to pester the apostles who waited for the sending from the clerics who went north with the Darisian 2nd. Augustus had bidden his few spellcasters who could do a sending to get messages to those who could respond, but the messages hadn’t been returned. Just an hour ago Augustus gave instructions for a sending to be made directly to Marcus, but the apostles were unsure of the use of it. Marcus could only hear the message. He could not respond.

  Augustus demanded the message be sent anyway. He would not allow for his Knight Major to think his reinforcements weren’t ready when he needed them.

  The General knew his hand had been forced by the deafening silence. He had already decided to act anyway, regardless of what the government believed or wanted. He had enough authority to respond, to act, and in the fading years of his life and career, they could string him up for all he cared.

  “Sir, we just received word from the north,” a young voice said behind him. “Words, actually.”

  Augustus felt his years and the lingering taint of old battle wounds as he turned in his chair and faced the man who addressed him. He recognized him as Kieran, one of the brighter apostles attached to the Darisian 3rd. The battle cleric scratched his head through a freshly shaven crown of nearly translucent blonde hair as he waited for the general to respond.

  “Words? Explain to me,” Augustus said, hiding his anxiety.

  “We received two sendings. One arrived hours ago in the city, the other just a few moments ago,” Kieran said.

  “Continue.”

  “A sending came in late yesterday afternoon to the artificer Guildhall from Ockham’s Fringe. There was a bit of a delay in the relaying of the information—“

  “A bit of a fucking delay?” Augustus growled as he stood up to the apostle. “How many hours have passed since this happened? I will have heads for this, Kieran. Tell me of this message. Inexcusable.” Augustus sat back down and immediately regretted his outburst. His whole body groaned in dismay.

  “The message went to a senior artificer at the Guildhall from a man named Samrale Overfist. He’s a powerful caster from House Kulare in the Protectorate,” Kieran continued after weathering the general’s storm.

  “I don’t know this man. What’s he doing in Ockham’s Fringe?”

  “I don’t know. Helping the Ghost Makers it would seem. The message was verified by a series of sendings to House Kulare, then Ockham’s Fringe, and then the message was relayed to me, now to you.”

  Augustus’ eyes shut. “I shudder to think about what would’ve happened if the ancestors didn’t want the news delivered. Tell me the message.”

  “Ockham’s Fringe is under full siege. Send reinforcements immediately. We request a full regiment at minimum,” Kieran said. “Marcus’ exact words. It came via Samrale at the Knight Major’s request.”

  Augustus exhaled. He felt failure in his heart, and prayed it wasn’t too late. “You said there was a second message?”

  “Yes sir. A rider slipped south out of the village and rode until she reached Gaston, a small village far south of Ockham’s Fringe.”

  Augustus beckoned for Kieran to hurry. “I know of it, quickly now.”

  “Her name is Private Inger Bwold. She lost her partner escaping from the village and rode quite a ways alone. Her horse died, and she finished on foot. Quite the soldier.”

  “That’s how the Ghost Makers do it, Kieran. What does she say?”

  “More of the same, though her knowledge of the situation is dated by a few days. It confirms Samrale’s message sir. Ockham’s Fringe is under full attack.” Kieran took an unconscious step back from the commanding officer. He was the messenger, and often they bore the brunt of the response to negative news.

  “We are at war, then. Thoroughly dreadful but long overdue. This pot has simmered for decades and now it boils. These trains leave immediately to head north under full steam. They should arrive at Ockham’s Fringe just after sundown.”

  “Excellent sir. Is there anything I can do for you?” Kieran asked.

  Augustus stood again, though serenity had overtaken his previous frustration. He had the calm of a confident warrior about to go to war. “Inform the Majors. Get
messages to Parliament and the Prime Minister informing them we are at war. The militias must be stood up. I will not wait for a formal declaration to leave. They can declare it as we ride north. Get a sending to this Samrale Overfist of House Kulare. Tell him to tell Marcus that every soldier in Daris rides north to ride at his back, and we come today.”

  “Very well, sir,” Kieran said before saluting and backing away to leave.

  “Oh, and apostle?”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes sir?”

  “I would ask you to pray that we reach Ockham’s Fringe before it’s too late.”

  A burnt Yefim Gneery lay face down on a plush velvet cot in Dalibor Hubik’s tent. His back looked like raw, burnt meat. The necromancer had escaped the inferno of destruction that fell from the sky the morning prior, but he hadn’t escaped unscathed. His phalanx of undead holding shields to protect him were incinerated and melted almost immediately, and to escape entire destruction he had burrowed under the dead and dying. Struck by the abject horror of being burnt into nothing but ash, he drilled his will into the undead that his necromancers had instructed to fill the moat. He made them move out of the way like a worm willing the soil to part.

  With frantic, clawing hands he dug at their bodies until they enveloped him, cocooned him, and put feet of flesh between him and the fire. When the boat that somehow flew came back to the earth, his choice of hiding places nearly cost him his life, as it pulverized everything just a few scant feet from him, and exposed his back to the fires that brought it down. He had to put the flames out by making the undead near him roll about on his back, smothering the fires at the cost of their own bodies.

  Better theirs than his.

  He escaped as the sun set, and the walls that his forces failed to beat down cast a long shadow over the battlefield that reached the far ranks of archers who sent an unending stream of flaming arrows over the battlefield and into the village. He dominated several undead who had mostly useful bodies into helping him walk back to the camp, surrounding him and providing cover as well as physical assistance, and now here he lay. His head sideways on a pillow, with Dalibor ranting and raving, half drunk with a hole in his shoulder from an arrow that nearly killed him. It was only a couple hours past dawn, and they had yet to make a plan for bringing the village down. The losses caused by the ship’s sudden appearance and crash had been devastating.

  “The Queen will hear of your failure, Yefim! What self-respecting death mage fails to bring down a wooden wall with thousands of undead at his command, eh? What’s your excuse? Tell me!”

  Yefim felt no emotion. It made no sense to weather the storm that Dalibor did, especially when he had a choice in the matter. “Good General you may remember the flying galleon that appeared in the sky, raining down fire and doom? That certainly came as a bit of a surprise to us in the Queen’s Guild who were directly below it. You can imagine, I believe, that we did not leave Graben prepared to fight an army in the sky.”

  Dalibor grunted in anger and hurled a full wine goblet across the tent. Its red contents splashed on the pastel purple fabric and it fell to the wooden plank floor with a metallic clang. “Bullshit!”

  “Bullshit indeed. Now then, what do we plan to do? Time and wine are in short supply here on the plains of Varrland, and by now surely they have a caster who can do a sending south. All of Varrland’s forces will be arriving by train before midnight tonight, and if we are not inside those walls when they arrive… We will be swept off these plains like so much dust.”

  Dalibor sat down in one of his fancy chairs. His female attendant appeared from behind a curtain and sat a fresh goblet down, filled with wine. He drank deep from it and sat it back down, half empty. “We’ve little choice.”

  “Correct. If we return to Graben having lost nearly everything we came with, and having only caused meager damage to our southern adversaries, our precious Queen will throw us off the top of the High City after setting us on fire. That, my dear friend, was not the reception I had intended on receiving when we return to our home city.”

  “Agreed. With no time, and no additional resources to spare, we must assault the city in force immediately.”

  “I’ve three thousand undead remaining, give or take,” Yefim offered as he sat up on the cot, in clear pain.

  “Five hundred archers. Sixty riders of The Purple Flower. Four hundred footmen. Plus our support staff.”

  Yefim stood. “Our strategy seems to be the same. Pierce the wall, get your knights inside the village. They won’t be able to kill your Wights on undead Gvorn nearly fast enough. The shock of it will allow your footmen to get in the village as well, and then they’re overrun.”

  “How do we bring down the wall?” Dalibor asked, pushing his goblet away on the small round table he sat beside.

  “There is… a spell.”

  Dalibor looked to the burnt necromancer. “Why was this spell not cast yesterday?”

  “We did not get close enough for it to work was I to have tried it, and the spell is draining beyond measure. Today, we could. I suspect their defenses will be impaired enough from the damage we’ve inflicted and the crash of the floating ship. If your archers smother the towers near their secret gate, and I am able to hide amongst my undead without my robe… I can bring down a ten foot section of wall in seconds. Not a large hole, but one wide enough for your Gvorn to charge through.”

  “Make it so. What do you need from me for this to happen?” Dalibor said as he got to his feet.

  “I have clay jugs for the spell. I need living flesh, fresh bone marrow, rotting plants, Gvorn bile and some lamp oil. I have the rest,” Yefim said after a bit of thought. “When this happens… I will be weak. I will not be able to assist you in the village. You must carry the day by strength of sword alone.”

  Dalibor spoke in an angry, low tone. “Blow the wall down. That’s all I need of you today. I’ll have one of my cooks brought to your tent with spoiled food and a tin of oil. Slaughter him for what you need. One of my knights will gut their mount for your bile. Have one of your necromancers reanimate it for the battle. We move in an hour.”

  One of the ‘gifts’ that came with being undead was the ability to forego sleep if needed. Umaryn didn’t need to be undead to skip rest after being reborn at her brother’s fingertips, though. She had all the motivation she needed illuminated on a strange wall ten feet in front of her.

  Her brother and the love of his life Chelsea were asleep in each other’s arms somewhere down the strange white corridor in a room labeled ‘Personnel Quarters.’ She couldn’t understand their ability to sleep in a moment like now, and in a place like this. She imagined that Malwynn had sacrificed a portion of his own life to give her back some semblance of life, and she forgave him for his need to sleep. Chelsea… was too sweet and loved her brother too much to be judged. Let them have each other. They deserve a night’s peace in each other’s arms for all they’ve gone through.

  Aleksi sat dozing on the floor, his back to the wall just feet from where she sat at one of the strangely lit work tables. He afforded himself the luxury of rest to heal the wounds she and her family had inflicted on him. She woke him periodically to ask questions, and he quickly returned to slumber.

  She afforded the luxury of a chuckle at the irony of the situation now.

  Umaryn hadn’t moved from the single table in the smaller room Aleksi had led her to the morning prior. The Lish words on the door of the room read ‘Weapons Control.’ She had experimented with pressing strangely colored shapes on the table, testing the effects on the wall color after color, shape after shape and word after unintelligible word. Her brother helped until he succumbed to exhaustion, and Aleksi did as well, but she outlasted him too.

  Now she was alone, and all she could think of was Marcus.

  Every few minutes she repeated the pattern of colors and shapes that made the wall show the view of Ockham’s Fringe. She watched intently, marking the lines of the Empire army over and over to ensure they weren
’t moving, not that she could do anything about it if they did. She still couldn’t figure out why exactly a large sea vessel looked to be sitting in the middle of the plains, crashed into the moat she knew Marcus had dug. How did that get there?

  Then she saw movement.

  A small contingent of shuffling foot soldiers made their way across the no-man’s land of the battlefield. The group had to be a hundred strong, perhaps two hundred. She repeated the routine of colors and shapes to make the map larger. Her eyes scoured each slumped over set of shoulders, counting two by two. She gave up when she reached two hundred and had only gotten perhaps a third of the way through the horde.

  She zoomed out as the undead circled wide to the western side of the city, where the rail lines were, and where she and her brother had dug out gutters and shoveled shit for a pair of cheaper rail passes to Graben. She could see a flurry of activity inside the walls in response. She watched hundreds of Varrlanders moving to battle positions, climbing towers and firing arrows over the walls blind, trying to stop the Empire’s progress.

  The arrows didn’t help.

  “Aleksi,” Umaryn said, trying to rouse the vampire. “Aleksi,” she said louder.

  He stirred and opened his eyes. “Yes, Umaryn?”

  “Please go fetch my brother. Something is happening in the north and I think he’ll want to see it.”

  Aleksi got to his feet and left the room quickly.

  Umaryn returned to intently staring at the wall of gray and green, and caught site of something bright moving inside the city. She tapped the colors and shapes and zoomed in on the green fleck that stood out.

  It was a man. He cast a long shadow, and those around him moved in his wake. He led; they followed. He looked to the sky directly at her, and she recognized his smile.