The Sword of Sighs

by Greg James

The Sword of Sighs

  By Greg James

  Copyright © Greg James 2013

  All rights reserved.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Any reproduction, resale or unauthorised use of the material or artwork herein is therefore prohibited.

  Disclaimer: The persons, places and events depicted in this work are fictional and any resemblance to those living or dead is unintentional.

  Dedication

  ~ For Lora ~ a living flame ~

  Prologue

  The night winds droned low and bitter around the snow-crusted flanks of the lone-standing mountain known as Fellhorn. Its forbidding heights were only slightly smoothed by the ice that had settled over its treacherous, beetling crags. Clouds clung, cancerous, to the bone-white breast of the moon, darkening the storm-wracked landscape below.

  Sarah Bean ran through the snow, dragging herself along the narrow path ahead. Her teeth chattered and her head ached as the insistent, howling blizzard battered her skull and stung her freezing flesh. Flicking long dark strands of hair from her eyes, she tried to see more clearly where she was going—to no avail. Streaming currents of snow and high-altitude fog swam in, obscuring everything before her. And she well knew what was behind her. The sonorous notes of hunting horns momentarily cut through Nature's deafening roar.

  The Fallen-born were coming.

  Forcing her numb feet to run on through the storm, she stumbled and slowed, although her screaming brain demanded speed and dexterity. When she was not grasping at outcrops to keep her balance, she held her arms tight across her chest, trying vainly to trap warmth within. She had never felt such cold before, nor had she been in such a place, not in her life, and never in her dreams. She knew the old saying that a pinch should be enough to awaken someone from a bad dream. But this was no bad dream. This was her Path, and she had to follow it to the end, whatever that might be. So Ossen the Wayfarer had said. But Ossen had been wrong about other things—maybe he was wrong about this too? Maybe she would die here, on the mountain, torn apart by the Fallen One's Five Shadows.

  The storm’s white winds bit harshly at her ears as she listened. They were coming closer. She could hear them over the blasts that came again and again from their horns. Could hear the beating hooves of their corpse-horses, the scraping iron welded onto their skulls and bones. Her heart hurt in her chest as it tried to pump harder, scouring her veins and arteries with stabs of adrenaline. She did not want to look into the eyes of a Fallen-born again. She knew now why Ossen called them Devil-eyes.

  The air she breathed was thinning out, but so too was it finally clearing about her, showing her the way. She could see something rising out of the rocks above. A change in the nature of her surroundings. Then, as if a god were catching its breath, the night cleared, the moon shone and it was there before her—the top of the mountain. And glittering in the wan light was the object of power that she sought.

  The Sword of Sighs.

  Atop the Fellhorn, it was driven into the snow-crusted summit, where it shone like a fallen star. She went to it. She could hear it: low whispers and light sighs, in languages she could not understand, emanated from the shimmering blade.

  Further shouts and calls came from the belts of fog below. Her insides felt cold, fluid, and empty as she realised how alien the realm of Seythe truly was. How far away she was from home. Then there was a series of howls, strident, hungry, and close at hand. The tone of their hunting horns rang, victorious and mocking, in her ears. Again came the pounding of hooves, the scraping of iron, the sound of swords being unslung. Sarah no longer looked upon the strange sword before her with fear. It was her only means of survival now. She grasped its hilt with both hands, meaning to draw it out so she could turn and face the gathering darkness.

  The howls of the Fallen-born and their hunting horns stilled into silence.

  Sarah braced herself against the ground, shaking violently as she tried to pull the sword free from the mountain. It would not move. It might as well have been a part of the stone. She rubbed her hands together and tried again. She could still feel the bite of the storm’s cold in her bones. Death was behind her, coming closer; it had dismounted and drawn five swords from black scabbards.

  Tears streamed from her eyes.

  She heard the heavy sound of armoured feet crunching through snow and ice. With every muscle screaming, Sarah hauled at the Sword of Sighs one last time.

  It would not give. It would not move. It would not come free. The ghostly voices swimming out from it seemed to mock her.

  Shoulders sagging, senses and sight failing, she turned to face them without it.

  The Fallen-born, sons of shadow and darkness. Their bodies were wasted away, bones and bare muscle showing where greying skin had torn. Their eyes were open red sockets and a yellowish slurry ran from between sharpened teeth diabolically fused with a black iron, which itself smoked and reeked and steamed. That same iron was also one with the rest of their bodies. In their creaking, skeletal hands, they wielded black swords, the blades of which resembled polished ebony glass. One let out its familiar feral howl, and it was joined by another, another, and then another and another, until the chorus they made was an ear-splitting screech. It paralysed her as well as any spell or hypnosis might. The Fallen-born encircled Sarah and closed in on her. She tried to dodge or feint, to get away, but there was no way out. Each of the Fallen-born raised its sword high and then swept the blade down in a screaming arc. The voice of the storm shook the great mountain to its roots.

  Sarah licked her dry lips.

  Her head fell at the feet of the Fallen-born. And, as darkness hurried in, she heard the storm itself speak: "I take your life again, O Flame. I win."

  And then there was only laughter and the storm’s black thunder.

  ~~~

  Chapter One

  Sarah awoke on the school bus, stifling a scream in her throat. Gasping, blinking, looking around, she saw that everything was all right. Normal. Blue sky showed over the palm trees and pastel-painted one-storey houses that ran alongside Larrimore Road. Just a dream, a nightmare, nothing to worry about, she thought. She checked her phone, the thumb-smudged touchscreen catching the late afternoon sun, and saw that she had only been asleep for a little while.

  “Eternity in an hour...” she whispered to herself before gazing back out of the bus window.

  Outside was Okeechobee, Florida, her home, and behind her was Pahokee High School. It was okay, as schools went, and the city of Pahokee was okay as a place to live. It was somewhere between rural and small town, without quite being either. Okeechobee County was named after its lake, the Big O. Okeechobee being Hitchiti for Big Water. Okeechobee did what it said on the tin. Kind of like the people who came here, she thought. You got what you saw, whether it was what you were looking for or not. Looking back, she saw that the bus was kind of empty, at least more than she would have expected. Then she saw who was there, at the back of the bus.

  Trianna, Geneva, and a few of their followers. They didn't like her. They didn't like having a nerd as a cheerleader for the Blue Devils. Sarah remembered their words when they had seen the books and the Kindle in her locker after the last game.

  “What are you reading for?” Trianna asked.

  Sarah looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  Geneva said, "Yeah, why would you want to be a reader?"

  Sarah shrugged, not sure what to say. “I enjoy it. It’s fun.”

  Trianna looked at Geneva and then back at Sarah. “Reading’s nerdy. Like super nerdy.”

  “Sarah, in our squad we don’t do nerdy.”

  Sarah f
elt her mouth forming into a tight line, and she turned away from the two girls. Trianna and Geneva were known as The Twins; even though they were not related, most would think they were, the only difference between them being Trianna’s brunette curls and Geneva’s blonde mane. Their hard sapphire eyes and cute rosebud mouths were identical, as were their spoilt, haughty demeanours. Their families were neighbours, and the girls had grown up together. They’d not been apart for more than a day. They did everything as one—cheerleading, bunking off, and bullying. The latter being why Sarah knew she was in trouble when they picked her out as a nerd. And now, she could see she was alone on the bus with them. Whichever stop she got off at, she knew they would too, and there was no point staying on the bus because they would stay and wait until she was miles out of her way. She had heard the stories about what Trianna and Geneva liked to do to their victims.

  At the next stop, Sarah got off.

  Keeping up a steady trot, she made sure she stayed out of shadows on the sidewalk and kept herself in the light. As soon as she tried anything, they would be on her. She could hear them coming along behind her, keeping enough distance to let her know they were there, without looking like they meant trouble to passers-by. Close enough that she could not easily get away and lose them. They walked like this for half an hour, Sarah with her heart racing and mind swirling, trying to think clearly. She had hoped they might slack off, get bored and go, but their pace never faltered for a minute.

  They really want to get me, she thought. I need to call someone. Mom or Kiley. Get them to come get me.

  She took out her phone and looked around, realising she didn’t know where she was. This was not her neighbourhood, and she had wandered off the school bus route while concentrating on giving them the slip, losing herself as much as she had planned to lose them in the grid of local streets. Family homes flanked by palm trees, trucks, and cars were everywhere, as were the lengthening shadows of approaching evening. She slowed as she looked at her phone. A rush of footsteps. She tried to stuff the phone away. Too late.

  Trianna’s manicured fingers snatched it and pocketed it. “I don’t think so, nerd. We want to have some fun with you. Y’know, fun? Like when you’re reading.”

  Sarah stiffened as the girl’s other hand dug into her upper arm. Geneva was on the other side of her, also exerting a firm grip—enough to stop her running but not hard enough to bruise. The other three girls closed in behind her, just to make sure Sarah knew retreat was hopeless.

  “Now, let’s take her ... down there.”

  At the end of the street stood a grove of trees, quiet, dark and deserted at this time of the day. Trianna and Geneva dragged Sarah into the cooling shade and their followers came after. Standing in the way of the sun’s rays, they made the grove seem somehow darker. Sarah didn’t know their names, but they had the same hard, sculpted looks as her two captors. Looking back to the street and the houses she was separated from by the boles of palm trees, Sarah thought again about shouting or screaming for help. But a tightening of the twin grips on her arms, as the girls felt her tensing, made her bite her tongue.

  It won’t be too bad, she told herself. They've never really hurt anyone. I've not seen any cuts or bruises or broken bones. Just the videos and pictures sent around online, the ones that’ve ended up on phones, tablets, and Kindles all over the school.

  The hands gripping her arms were gone. The Twins had stopped, leaving Sarah to trip forward over her own feet and stumble onto her knees in the dirt. She winced at the grazes made by the fall. Turning herself over, she tried to get up but found herself suddenly swarmed upon by the unspeaking followers, all raven-haired and dark-eyed. Like crows over a battlefield, she thought. Or an execution.

  Trianna and Geneva wore matching smiles on their immaculate faces as they looked to each other and then to their followers, nodding, not making eye contact with Sarah. One girl was behind Sarah, holding her arms tightly at her back. The other two held a leg each.

  “Do it,” they said as one.

  The girls pinning her legs unfastened and threw away her shoes before stripping off her socks. Sarah writhed and tried to kick out. She watched her bare toes squirm and clench as she tried to force them to the ground and gain some traction in the sun-baked earth. She saw Trianna’s eyes shining a little.

  “Let’s tickle the baby. I get the feet, okay?”

  Geneva smiled. “Sure. Until she pees her pants. My turn with the sides and underarms.”

  The Twins approached, casting long shadows over Sarah, and then they were upon her. Their fingers dug into her, merciless in their scraping and scratching. Sarah's eyes were soon stinging with tears as she kicked, bucked, laughed and screamed out loud. She felt a strange burning sensation rush through her. It felt like she was on fire.

  “... bound in the flesh, O Flame ... but thy Fire, ’tis rising ...”

  Sarah felt herself flush red and fight harder.

  Geneva leaned in and whispered into her ear, “We’re going to tickle you until you wet yourself. You’re going to have to walk home like that. Then we’re going to take pictures of you. And everyone at school will see them. Everyone.”

  Sarah spat into Geneva’s face. The scene of torture froze as Geneva sat up slowly, her fingers raking away the spit. Her eyes were cold, black, and hating. Sarah felt the hands that held her loosen. She kicked out and her heel caught Trianna in the face, right on her pert nose. Sarah’s stomach clenched at the feeling of cartilage collapsing and the slick spread of blood across the bottom of her foot.

  “You little bitch!”

  Trianna flung herself at Sarah, fingernails out to slash at her face and eyes. The tickling was over. The livid eyes of the brown-haired twin promised that blood, not urine, would soak the ground now. Sarah could hear Geneva shouting, hands were on Trianna, trying to pull her away. And there was the burning again, flooding through her from her toes up to her head: hot, fierce, searing and sweltering.

  “O Flame Eternal … O Fire rising …”

  Motes of incendiary gold circled around her momentarily, and then they were gone. Sarah could smell ashes and blood in her nostrils. She opened her eyes and saw the other girls staring at her, wide-eyed. Then the moment was broken, and their faces were fierce again, especially Trianna’s.

  Sarah fled through the trees, but they came after her.

  What just happened to me?

  She didn’t know, but it had saved her—for the moment. She dodged and ran through the shade of the palm trees, gaining ground on the shouting, squabbling girls behind her. She knew Trianna was in the lead; she could hear her voice over the others. She could hear the shrill notes of pain in it. Sarah had fought back and wounded the girl’s face, and through it, her pride. She would show her no mercy, and the other girls knew that. They knew it, and they were afraid. But Sarah knew something also: where she was going, where she was leading them. To a special, sacred place where she would be safe.

  She hoped.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sarah stood in the fairground and remembered being there as a child, with Dad, clutching at his fingers, being led by the big, broad man with a Santa Claus beard, through the milling mass of people. The summer night air was cotton-candy sweet, tasting also of butter and popcorn salt. Faces on heads and faces on balloons were bobbing all around her, all smiling, red-cheeked and glossy-eyed. Candy-coloured lights shone from the fizzing bulbs that studded the stalls, and the carapaces of the rides were decorated with rainbows and lightning bolts. The dodgem cars were gaudy beetles, whirring, burring, thumping and bumping. The waltzer was a hurricane of happy screams and thrilling cries. Through the stalls and rides, they came to one of her favourite places—the rifle range.

  “Can I, Dad? Can I shoot some bad guys? Can I? Pleeease.”

  Sarah tugged on her father’s fingers, not hard but insistent. A smudged, dirty hand ruffled her scruffy blonde bowl-cut hair.

  “Sure thing. It’s only a quarter. You can shoot lots of bad guys, M
oon-pie,” he said as he pushed the money into her hand.

  Moon-pie was his pet name for her; one he never said when Mom or Kiley were around. Sarah smiled the toothy smile of innocence and pure childhood and then she ran to the range, dodging through the striding legs of grown-ups and teenagers. She remembered making a face as she caught sight of a couple sinking into their first faltering French kiss.

  Ewwww!

  She pushed a quarter into the thin, mottled hand of the rifle-range man. A balding Good Ole Boy wearing a pair of chipped aviator shades and a quilted orange jacket. A chain and tags blinked silver into Sarah’s eyes.

  “I wanna shoot bad guys,” she said.

  “’Course, you do. Don’t we all? Go right ahead, kid. Hit ’em right between the eyes.”

  Grinning and giddy, Sarah picked up the small air rifle. It was tacky with sugared thumbprints and syrup stains. She rested the butt against his shoulder and peered down the barrel. Taking aim, she made her finger into a hook over the trigger. With a creaky twang, the first bad guy popped up and Sarah pulled the trigger.

  Bang-dead!

  The sneering face dropped out of sight.

  Twang!

  Another bad guy.

  Bang-dead!

  “Another one down. Nice work,” said the rifle-range man. “One more and you get a prize.”

  In the back of her throat, Sarah could taste the popcorn she had eaten earlier.

  “Go on, kid,” he said. “Get some more. Up the body count. S’important. S’a numbers game. Shooting bad guys.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sarah heard herself say.

  Twang!

  Bad guy number three.

  Bang-dead!

  “Have I won?”

  Dad was at her side, firm hand steady on her shoulder.

  “You sure have, kid. Here’s a teddy bear for you to take home.”

  He gave her the bear. It was plain and brown with one of its eyes coming loose and the stitching starting to show. She loved it all the same, hugging it tight all the way home, as tight as her Dad hugged her when he put her to bed at night.

  That was then, though, thought Sarah. This is now.

  The fairground was all wrong now, all changed by the passing of time. She was surrounded by dead things that had once been stalls and fairground rides. The vivid paint of the past had flaked away, and the bulbs adorning their exteriors had been shattered. There was the helter-skelter, its colours faded away, crawling with mites and woodworm. The structure wailed as wind blew through the holes in it. There was the big wheel, creaking, rusty and old. The waltzer was an empty shell, and the whirring, burring dodgem cars were all silent and still. The horses on the merry-go-round seemed to be staring at her. She didn’t like it sometimes, but this was her special place. Good memories came from it, even if the place itself had gone bad. She came here when she felt sad and wanted to remember.