Morwen gave up the vigil after the forty-seventh returned with a half-eaten toadok carcass slung over its back. She doubted all of those absent were casualties of the fight. More than likely, they’d taken the opportunity to escape. Still, she had more than enough to take control of Wichsault.
“Get rid of them,” Jasin said.
Morwen smiled. Was she really that obvious?
Jasin’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, “I said, get rid of them.”
Only Jasin stood between Morwen and control of this crumbling kingdom. Szat’s eyes were closed in bliss as he chomped on a toadok’s leg. Her demons were stretched out on the stone, sleeping off their full bellies.
It was down to her. She had no qualms about killing the sergeant. She’d insulted her sister’s honour by sleeping with her betrothed. It was personal as well as necessary. Morwen dragged the sharpened nail of her thumb across her scared wrist. Warm fluid seeped from the wound. One word was all that needed to be spoken, the shadows would be hers to command, and Jasin would be a dead woman.
There was clang of metal on stone as the sewer grate was flung aside, and a figure, smeared in sewer excrement, crawled from the hole. “Goron,” Jasin gasped. World conquest forgotten, both Jasin and Morwen—out of curiosity rather than concern—hurried to him.
“Goron! Are you all right?” Jasin asked. Tears welled in the tough warrior’s eyes.
“I have a terrible taste in my mouth. Could I trouble you for a beer?”
Unable to close his eyes or block his ears to the sights and sounds of being eaten alive, Goron turned his mind inward. He recalled the memories of happier times, bedroom gymnastics, barrels of ale that never seemed to run dry, and days when his weary body could barely swing his axe, slick with the blood of his enemies. He fervently hoped in his forever after—in the Summerlands of Murdus—eternity would be full of such pursuits.
When Goron’s mind grew tired of reliving the same memories a dozen times over, it tentatively listened for the gory sounds of feasting rodents. It heard only the drip of water. Goron dared his eyes to turn outward from the writhing, naked figures and bloody battlefields to the rats. He found them paralysed beside him. The poison that had frozen his muscles had had the same effect on them.
Justiciar Yeston drained what was left of the bottle of wine and tossed it out the tower window to the dark, turbulent waters far below. He feared the sea more than the death clouds from the forest.
Young and curious, he’d sneaked out the castle and followed a path, known only to the adventurous children, through the rocks and down to the sea. He’d got very close to the black brine—an arm’s length away. Then a huge wave came out of nowhere and pulled him under.
Beneath the surface, Yeston floated in a cold, wet twilight. Anaesthetised by the numbing iciness, he did not struggle. A distant dot in the gloom grew to the size of a cloud. He thought it was a school of fish, like in the river near the castle. When it drew near, he saw human faces, lily white with black eyes and hungry mouths. He screamed, and the gloom rushed down his throat. A strong hand pulled him from the water, and he saw his father’s shimmering face against a noonday sun before everything went black.
Yeston shivered at the memory as he crossed his study to the opposite window, pausing on the way to retrieve another bottle of wine from his dwindling supply. The change of view, a brooding tangle of trees above which floated clouds of yellow poison, did not alter his mood. It was just a different sort of death. He uncorked the wine and drained half the bottle in two violent gulps before resting it precariously on the crumbling window ledge. His head swam and he closed his eyes. “I’m so tired.” He slumped against the wall and rubbed his palms over his eyelids. He hadn’t changed his creased and stained jerkin and leggings in nearly a week, and two days’ worth of stubble graced his usually shaved dome. Dark circles, like ink smudges, coloured the bags under his bloodshot eyes.
He hadn’t always been like this. Twenty-six years ago when he took up the position of justiciar, he was full of ideas. His chief achievement was the extensive culling of the forest to make more arable land. Within a few years, the castle was thriving. They had more food than they knew what to do with, and birth rates doubled. It was a time of plenty.
Then everything changed. Toxic clouds drifted from the forest, poisoned the people, and caused the very stone itself to erode. The village of Mournburn was overrun by a blight of ancient creatures. Death stalked the land. The once-thriving castle began to die. Its population dwindled from over twenty thousand to fewer than nine hundred, many of whom were infected with dark rot.
What could he do? He’d sent the few rangers he had to find the cause of the sickness, but they joined the armies of dead. If he ordered the evacuation of Wichsault and sought refuge in the forest, it would be a battle for survival against the toadoks, mothras, and god only knew what other evil entities. They couldn’t win against such enemies. No, only one option remained.
There was a loud knock at the door. Yeston picked up the bottle of wine and emptied it. “Come in.” He fetched another as Morwen entered. She was either a vision or a nightmare. Her red hair wreathed her bone-pale face in flames. Her ugly demon sat on her shoulder like a giant blood blister.
Yeston wasn’t fond of warlocks. He’d come from the ranks of the castle guards who trusted their swords not magic. They had never sold their souls to some hell for a few tricks and the pick of its vile denizens. He guessed Morwen’s fellow warlocks would all be in that hell now regretting their frivolous choices. He pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth.
Morwen’s dark eyes fixed on it. “May I?” He didn’t feel like sharing, but he didn’t want to offend the witch. She was Wichsault’s last hope. He passed it to her. Her four-fingered hand grasped the bottle and emptied it as expertly as he—he was impressed. She studied him, no doubt curious about being summoned.
Morwen had been the worst but only choice to run the castle hospital. Reports that none of her patients survived a night of her care had confirmed it. A polite cough wheezed from a dark corner of the room.
Caroc had slipped in behind Morwen and leant against the far wall watching them. He didn’t trust the ranger. The man had survived when he had no right to. Now he seldom spoke, and his eyes were full of terrors.
“How is it beyond the walls?” Yeston asked.
“Death.” Caroc’s voice was a whisper.
There was a loud belch followed by a groan, and a large shape filled the doorway. It was Goron. He dipped his head to enter. “Excuse me, I’m not feeling too good.” He glared at Morwen and nodded to Caroc who returned the gesture.
Goron was more trustworthy so long as he wasn’t drunk, or you weren’t a beautiful woman. “Not the black rot I hope,” Yeston said. He began to rummage around in his desk drawer. He was sure a bottle of brandy was in there somewhere.
“No, it’s something I drank.” Goron slumped down in a leather chair leaving no room for even a mouse to squeeze in.
Morwen tossed the bottle of wine at Goron who caught it and was about to press it to his lips when he realized it was empty. He resumed his death stare at Morwen who smiled sweetly.
“Ah ha,” Yeston found the brandy and sat behind his desk with no intention of offering a drink to anyone else. He took a swig and surveyed the room. They were all here, the last ranger and warlock, and the captain of the guard of Wichsault. One more swig and he would begin his rousing speech—he took three. “Wichsault needs your help. If we don’t find out what’s causing this disease, that’s it. We’re all dead.” He paused waiting for a reaction. Their faces did not change. Evidently they had reached that conclusion themselves. “I have chosen the three of you to hunt down the source of the black rot and destroy it.”
Nobody shouted with joy at being chosen, so he continued, “I suspect it’s the mothras, perhaps angered by our intrusion into the forest.” Was it his imaginati
on or was Caroc shaking?
“That would make sense. I wonder who initiated destroying the forest,” Morwen said glaring at Yeston. Her demon jumped down from her shoulder with a graceless thud and ransacked the room in a search of something to eat.
Yeston wilted under her stare. “So, we are agreed then?”
“I won’t do it, not with him,” Morwen said and pointed at Goron. Goron was only half listening. It was Yeston’s brandy that had captured his attention.
“Do you want to be the one that condemns us all to death then?” Yeston said.
Morwen shrugged.
Yeston tried a different tack to appeal to her selfish nature. “If you succeed, I’ll be looking for a second-in-command and somebody to take over when I’m gone.”
Morwen’s cold eyes gleamed. “All right, but only if I’m in charge. They have to do everything I say, or I’m out.”
“And make sure I don’t go hungry,” Szat said. He’d found a tin of stale oak cakes and was busy munching his way through them.
“Deal.” Yeston didn’t wait for the others to agree. “Arrange for an immediate start and I’ll authorise supplies. And while you’re out and about, you might like to stop by Mournburn and sort out the little infestation problem. You also might like to retrieve the high exarch’s staff from the catacombs. It could come in handy against the mothras. They’re not very well disposed to our kind.”
“Isn’t it entombed with the exarch and his undead army?” Goron said.
“That shouldn’t be a problem for a brute like you should it?” Morwen teased.
“I guess not,” Goron grumbled and looked to Yeston. “Could I have one for the road?” Yeston took a final drink and tossed him the bottle. It was empty.
“Could you put somebody in charge of the hospital before you go please, Morwen?” Yeston asked.
Morwen hung her head. “There’s no point. All my patients died in the night.”
Yeston sighed. “Godspeed, the castle’s survival depends on you.”
“They won’t make it,” Yeston said to himself as Morwen closed the door behind her. If the forest doesn’t kill them, they’ll kill one another. Still, he’d tried. He crossed to the window overlooking the sea. His wife and child were out there. All the castle’s dead were, thrown into the black waters since they’d lost the graveyard to the wights. He’d find them again. He climbed up on the ledge. The edges crumbled and he fell into space.
Morwen looked back at Wichsault with pride and sadness. The castle was impressive. Several crenelated towers loomed above the one-hundred-foot-high walls of ancient stone. Built on bedrock, the thick outer walls stretched for a mile, overlooking both sea and forest.
She should have stood in grandeur for a thousand more years, but in the morning’s early light, Morwen could see how the dark rot had hurt her. Much of the stone was blackened and crumbling, and sections of the walls and towers were reduced to rubble.
A wave of nostalgia engulfed her. She would protect the only home she had ever known, the stone of her birth, and vowed to do whatever she could to preserve it—so long as something was in it for her too.
Morwen was as prepared as she could be for the journey ahead. She carried a month’s rations in a pack on her back and as much again for Szat, more than the castle could spare. She wore a black robe with a dagger tucked into her belt. The hem was too long and dragged in the dust, but she owned and wore only robes.
Caroc, in contrast, was dressed to travel. He wore weathered leather armour with a cloak thrown over the top. A bow was slung over his shoulder and a falcata swung from his hip. Goron wore similar armour, but his cuirass and helm were made of steel. The breastplate was battle worn, but it gleamed in the sunlight. Goron often sought his reflection in its burnished metal, flicking his hair and smiling at himself. Strapped to his back was a large battle axe.
“What’s our closest destination?” Morwen asked Caroc when they’d walked a mile from the castle in a northerly direction. He was several yards in front of her, and she had to shout to be heard above the scuff of feet on the dirt road.
He hadn’t spoken yet and was sullen—wrestling some personal demons she suspected—it was all very self-indulgent. He’d seen some people die, so get over it and be thankful it wasn’t you was her advice. Goron strode at her heels. She could smell his sweat. It was as if he were leaking beer.
“Mournburn,” Caroc said. Mournburn lay several miles from Wichsault. The village had been abandoned a few years before her birth. On a clear day, she could see its overgrown fields and dilapidated buildings from her bedroom window. How simple life would be living as a girl in that village rather than the castle.
“Is it true they abandoned the village because of a few bugs?”
Caroc nodded.
“There are plants we can crush and steep to produce sprays for that kind of thing,” Morwen said. It was madness to abandon Wichsault’s main source of food and go to all the trouble of growing crops on every square foot of ground in the castle because of a bug infestation.
“Have you ever seen a chomite?” Caroc asked.
“Can’t say I have.”
“A seven-foot, armoured killing machine with razor-sharp mandibles that could cut a man in two, and there are thousands of them.”
There was a loud curse behind her. Morwen glanced over her shoulder and saw Goron ensnared in a bramble bush growing beside the road. She suspected he’d been too mesmerized by his reflection and stumbled into the tangle of spikes.
“That shouldn’t be growing there,” he yelled. Delighted at his misfortune, Morwen laughed and earnt a barrage of foul expletives accompanied by an angry glare.
Goron struggled free and executed immediate vengeance by hacking at the bush with his axe until it was matchwood. Szat humoured the warrior by setting the remains alight with a fireball. Satisfied, Goron then busied himself pulling out dozens of thorns from his unprotected arms and face.
The seemingly never-ending dusty road soon wore Morwen down. She was used to only short walks around the castle. The backpack and the fat demon on her shoulder weren’t helping either.
The way led through a copse of ash trees. The road was almost indiscernible under its blanket of rotting vegetation. Caroc scanned for an ambush.
Morwen massaged the knots in her aching back and turned her head to eyeball Szat. “Have you ever thought about walking, you fat lump? It might agree with you.”
“Have you ever thought about smiling and being happy?” Szat said.
“No, because if you’re miserable all the time, there are never any nasty surprises. I always expect the worst, and usually I’m not disappointed.” It was the philosophy she lived by.
At midmorning they stopped for lunch under a willow tree by the river. Caroc didn’t eat; instead, he kept watch on the distant line of trees that marked the edge of the forest. Morwen took off her sandals, totally impractical for the journey ahead, but it was all she had. She dangled her feet in the cool water and nibbled at some dried fruit while Szat made toasted cheese sandwiches between the burning palms of his hands.
Goron threw himself down beside Morwen on the river’s edge. “That looks like a good idea.” He wrestled with his leather boots.
The smell of waterweed and dank earth was replaced by the aroma of sweaty feet as he plonked the huge, hairy things beside hers. She thought they looked like drowned beavers, not at all elegant like her dainty extremities.
Goron sighed contentedly and unbuckled his breastplate. Morwen lowered her aching back onto the grass and closed her eyes. A loud splash roused her from her dreamy musings. A heap of discarded clothes lay beside her, and white buttocks flashed over the small waves of the river.
Morwen pretended not to look as Goron frolicked like a fish then played at being a fountain. She couldn’t maintain the same indifference when he grew cold and clambered up the bank, h
is muscles straining with the effort and his manhood—unaffected by the chill water—on display.
“You should have a dip yourself. Your face is all red and flushed,” Goron said as he rifled in his backpack and produced a whole chicken while dressing.
Szat eyed the chicken greedily, turned his glowing hands on Goron, and demanded half. Goron thought for a moment about not complying, but when a nearby shrub burst into flames, he decided the demon was serious. The demon snatched the offered chicken and scurried up the willow tree.
“So,” Goron said, twirling a drumstick around in his fingers and sounding as casual as he could, “that little curse you said you put on me was just a joke, wasn’t it?” He laughed feebly to illustrate the point. “I mean, there’s no such thing as curses is there?”
Morwen waggled the stump of her little finger, “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to cut off my own bits if there weren’t.”
“You could reverse it, though, couldn’t you, if you wanted to?” Little flakes of chicken fell like snow from the tree and landed in their hair.
“Only if Anwen makes another donation of flesh. What do you think the chances of her doing that are after you cheated on her, twice?”
Goron’s brow tightened as he pondered the question. After a few moments, he turned to look at her and replied dolefully, “Not good.”
“When I was an acolyte, I cursed a rival for spreading unpleasant rumours about me. No matter what she ate, food would pass through her undigested. She suspected it was me—the bloody stump on my foot was a giveaway. She took her clothes off to show me how emaciated she’d become and begged me to show her mercy and reverse the curse. Even her mother came up with a sob story about how Shauna was her only child and, since her husband had died, the sole object of her affection. I was unmoved and let her die. My sister’s twice the bitch I am when she wants to be.”
“Why didn’t your rival threaten to curse you if you didn’t lift it?”
“Not every warlock can curse. It’s a special gift I have. Some get fire spells like demons, others can conjure the dead. I got curses, the first girl in several hundred years to do so. That’s why people stay away from me. They’re afraid.”
Dark Rot Page 4