by Brad Carsten
She shivered uncontrollably, but that wasn't the only reason he didn't want to leave her. Despite pulling her back into this world, he was afraid that she would slip away again, and that next time, he wouldn't be able to bring her back.
He readjusted his coat around her shoulders, tucking it in around her neck.
The wagon didn't have any windows where the sun, baking in during the day, could age the manuscripts, but it also kept the moonlight out at night making it unbelievably dark in there. Quinn lit a small lantern, and turned the wick up enough to throw a smidgen of light across the room. Some of it may escape through a crack in the boards, or under the door, but he didn't trust the dark. He never had. Bad things happened where people couldn't see.
His eyes slid shut, his head tipped forward and he jerked awake. No. He couldn't sleep. Like leaving the wagon, he didn't know what he would find when he woke up, and so he stretched his eyes and tried to force a thought, anything, into the web that was settling like frost over his mind.
The next time his head dropped forward, he tried singing quietly to himself, but he couldn't remember the words to any of the tavern songs, or even the tunes. His mind was too numb.
The Sage's suitcase of books sat on a shelf just out of reach, and he used his spear to drag it closer. It tipped off the shelf, hitting the floor with a thud, and Fayre stirred. Her face twisted in pain, and he rubbed her shoulder until she drifted off again.
Using his spear, he slid the suitcase into reach and pulled out one of the Sage's journals. He skimmed through the first half, picking out a paragraph every here and there to keep awake.
Most of it was boring enough to put him into a permanent sleep, until he came across a section on Almswick.
The word had him shifting uncomfortably, as it would for near any cursed person with half a brain in the kingdom. Now that he'd travelled with the second in line to the throne, he felt that even more so than ever.
Rumor abounded about what happened that day, and even as children, they'd spent more than a few nights huddled around a fire, throwing out their own ideas and glancing nervously into the dark spaces between the trees when they thought the others weren't looking. When they grew older, and when it was no longer safe to go outside at night, the tavern only replaced the fire, but they still whispered about Almswick and shot as many nervous glances out the window.
The king had ridden out on what should have been a routine training exercise, along with over a hundred knights. Each was completely loyal to the throne, and each one of them a hero from legends. A small group it was, but together they could hold off an army of any size indefinitely. There was Sir Baros, the bull, who had led the border guards in the East, and had single handedly held a section of the battlements against a raiding army until reinforcements could arrive. There was Sir Eldrock, who took twenty men into Greyach to assassinate a king. The king enjoyed taking the young women of his kingdom for his pleasure and then throwing them to the wolves once he was done with them. Eldrock got into an armoured camp where he strung the king up by the neck in his own tent, but not before splitting the crown and forcing the pieces down his gullet.
Then there was prince Kael, who was among the greatest swordsmen of them all, bested only once by the king himself in a tournament. Each man had enough stories to keep a bard in coin for months. Such was the reputation of the hundred that marched out with the king that day.
No one knew what happened in Almswick, but every one of his men were slaughtered, and the king was brought back to the castle with an arrow through his chest. No one knew what happened, and they found no traces of another army—nothing whatsoever—no horse tracks, no carts, nothing. Some thought that the knights turned on each other, others that the wretched had attacked them and others that the king had sold his soul to the dark and that it had returned to collect its debt. All Quinn knew was that the king took an arrow that day which he never recovered from, and when he finally succumbed to it, the nightspawn were released upon the world. The thought sent shivers, like bugs, skittering up his spine.
Shadows danced along the walls like spirits taunting him, and he shut the journal and dropped his head back against the wall to stare intently at the door in front of him. Soon, his vision blurred between the inside of the wagon and a jumble of other scenes from the nightspawn attacking the camp, to Brigwell and more peaceful days. A few times, he caught himself slipping off into sleep and had to drag his mind back, but finally, his head dipped forward and he was standing in the wagon.
The shelves distorted in weird ways. They were close, but at the same time they seemed to stretch on forever.
“Quinn,” someone whispered. “Quinn, I want to show you something. Quinn.”
Quinn looked behind him, noticing a large shape curled up on the floor. Whatever it was, it seemed to be made of stone, and it wasn't moving. “Quinn,” the voice came again. He turned back and Langton, the young scribe, was standing inches away with that mischievous look on his face. “Quinn, you've got to see this. Come look. Come look.” He chuckled into his hand. “Oh, you won't believe it. You won't. Come take a look.” Something wasn't right. Langton seemed paler than usual. Blood bubbled up into his mouth staining his teeth. “Quinn, Quinn. Come take a look. You've got to see this.” He laughed, and the blood ran down his chin, dripping onto the floor. Blood soaked into his tunic, and there was a trail of bloody footprints leading into the wagon.
Quinn scrambled back, hitting into the wall, and jolted awake.
Fayre stirred, giving a small groan, but at least the wagon was empty. “Plight,” Quinn's heart was beating like madam Tarplewold taking her leather strap to the village children, and he stretched his eyes to make sure he didn't fall asleep again.
He set out the next morning with the first traces of light breaking across the horizon. Fayre slept on, and he considered moving her to the front of the wagon where he could look after her, but the air was cold and damp, brought on by the fog. It was like the heavens had descended on this cursed land. They passed gray houses perched upon stilts, like strange spidery creatures standing in the fog. Trees and stone sheep walls faded in and out, and Quinn kept his eyes on the dirt track. In this much fog, a man could lose his way and never be found again. He stopped often to check on Fayre, while trying to cover as much ground as possible. If she could just hold on until they reached Luthengard, he could get her some help. Every time he closed the door, he wondered what he would find when he returned, and all the while he was driving, he prayed to whoever would listen, that she'd be okay.
The first time he caught a glimpse of Luthengard was atop a rise above the city, and his mouth fell open. He had heard stories of cities, he had seen the capital in Gaharah, but still it hit him over the head like a Benson in a bad temper. Buildings stretched from one side of the valley to the other, which was so far apart he had to turn his head to see it all, and then it went as far back as he could see. It was a sea of stone. A river split the city in two, and there must have been fifty ships docked there at least with another fifty moving in and out, their huge sails like tiny specks against the towering buildings that ran along the river.
Bridges stretched over the water, connecting one side of the city to the other and tiny shapes of people were swarming over it like ants, covering it, but still it must have been wide enough for ten carts to ride side by side.
How did they control it all? How did they possibly patrol something so big? Quinn had always considered himself wise to the world, but looking at this, he realised how naive he was.
Normally, he would have stopped to take it all in, but he pushed even harder to reach the gates, and as he drew near, he stood on the bench, waving his hat and shouting for assistance. The awkward wagon was too large to navigate the narrower streets, and so he paid for a guarded spot in the city wagon lot, and carried her to the infirmary in his arms.
Her body hung limp and that frightened the boots off of him. He shouted for her, he squeezed her in his arms, and when she let out
a small groan, the sound was as sweet as the finch’s song, only hours before, that told him the night was coming to an end.
“You're going to be okay. They're going to take good care of you. You're going to be okay.” He wished she would open her eyes and look at him so that he'd know that she would be.
Unlike the towns back home, where the dispellers would visit the patients in their homes, Luthengard had an infirmary with upwards of twenty beds to a room and countless rooms.
The front steps opened into a dark wood paneled hall with narrow windows barely allowing any light through.
Quinn tried to follow her into the room, but a stout dispeller's assistant blocked the way. “There's nothing more you can do now. Go find an inn, get cleaned up, and you can come back once the dispeller has seen her.” Quinn wasn't listening. How could he while Fayre was dying in there? The assistant laid a thick hand on his shoulder, and her face softened. “We'll do everything we can, I promise.”
Quinn asked if she'd make it, but the assistant was already turning back into the room, and she shut the door behind her. Down the hall, someone was screaming like his feet had just fallen off.
Quinn stood outside the room, unsure what to do. He knew nothing about medicine, but he didn't want to leave her until he knew that she'd make it. He had taken her out the camp and they'd reached Luthengard, and she was still breathing. Stress and fear had carried him along, but now that the worst was over, and someone else could step in, his body began shutting down. His legs felt as floppy as a cow's udder, and his head, like it was going to explode. The assistant was right, there was nothing more he could do. Perhaps he should try to get a few hours sleep.
He found a small inn named 'The Cat's whiskers.' It wasn't the cheapest in the city, but he chose it because it lay close to the infirmary, and the rooms hung over a busy street where he could listen to the sounds of people talking and horses clattering by. He didn't like silence. He never had. Silence used to mean that everyone else was having fun and he wasn't, but since meeting Kaylyn, it meant that no one was dying, and that was the most comforting of all.
He fell onto his bed, too exhausted to kick off his boots, too exhausted to change, and his mind slipped away almost at once.
He was floating outside the room. Something wasn't right about that, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. That was a worry for later. Right now, he had to find Liam, but the cursed city was so large, he wouldn't know where to start.
Night was settling over Luthengard and the cursed fog had swallowed the buildings. The streets were emptying as people finished their shopping and began heading indoors before the fog grew any thicker.
The walls began to tremble, slowly at first, and increasing until it felt as though the very foundations were moving.
Doors rattled in their frames, and shutters swung open and closed. He had the sudden urge to look around as though something evil was watching him from the shadows. He turned slowly, inspecting every cranny, but couldn't see anything unusual. Still, that unease remained.
A horse and cart clattered past in the street below, and he jumped in surprise. The rumbling subsided for a time, but when it came again, it was twice as violent. Dust and bits of grit showered down from the overhanging roofs, and a planter box vibrated off the window ledge and clattered to the street below. A noise rumbled through the streets, and Quinn turned in time to see the black cloud exploding towards him like a ripple on a pond. As it moved, it stripped the buildings of colour, as though they'd aged a hundred years. Wood shrivelled and lacquered brown turned dull and gray like one of master Hartfeld's rowboats lying abandoned in the sun. Plaster bubbled on walls and paint peeled off of the doors. Leaves and flowers curled on the vine, turning brown and ripped free in the wind, and the vines themselves shrivelled.
Quinn scrambled back, but without having his feet firmly on the ground, he couldn't get any traction. The cloud hit, and he was swept along with it. Carts blew up into the air, along with boxes and chairs and tiles from the nearest buildings. He hit his head on a wall, and his vision whited out. Cursing Liam and the wretched and the Tarplewolds for running him out of town, he tried to shield under his arms as the debris hit into him, lashing his legs and back and arms. The cloud blew past, and he fell to the ground, gasping for air.
The ground began to tremble again, and Quinn scrambled up and just managed to launch himself into the air as another black wind ripped through the city. It grew darker and thicker until it raged beneath him like a river in flood.
Other rivers exploded out of the side streets, washing up the buildings as they went.
The cloud was evil. He could feel it as surely as the hole in his gut from missing breakfast. It turned his stomach like one of Master Nowell's pork pies, but he had to see what was causing it. If the hunter was in the city, Quinn had to lead him away from Fayre.
Near the center of the city, where the rivers converged, webs of lightning spidered along the surface and—Quinn gaped. Kaylyn stood in the middle of it all with her hands up like she was drawing the power towards her, into her, swelling rivers of it that should have carried her away like a leaf in a flood. There were other people there, but they were all blurred as though underwater—all except one, a giant of a man that was looking around in confusion, and fear. The back of his head was bashed in, and his one eye was drooping as though the nerves had stopped working properly.
Kaylyn’s eyes were as black as the darkest night, her lips were black, her fingertips, and black veins spread down her arms and into her hands. Her hair blew out behind her.
Even from that distance, the power threatened to pull Quinn into it, and if that happened, he wasn't sure he would survive.
Above her, spidery shapes crawled across the rooftops towards her, hissing and snapping their teeth.
Quinn eased back behind a tower before they noticed him. The last thing he needed was to be pulled back into another fight with the nightspawn.
Something moved, off to the side. He spun, the spear appearing in his hands, and cursed when he saw Langton crawling across the roof tiles towards him. He waved Quinn over with that cursed grin on his face. “Quinn, Quinn, come see.”
Grout, didn't he see what was happening around him?
Quinn didn't have time for this. Those creatures had seen Kaylyn, and he had to warn her. He had to find her before they did. He kicked off towards the inn, slipping between that world and his own. He toppled out of his bed, landing on his face. Cursing, he crawled to the washstand and used it to pull himself up. Every muscle in his body felt stripped as though he had just run for two days without stopping, or twenty minutes in his case.
At least he knew where Kaylyn was, but he could have done without the image of her drawing all that power.
***
Liam slipped along the wall with Kaylyn staying close behind him.
The streets were deserted. Even the homeless seemed to have melted into the stones.
Liam tried to keep his mind on the task ahead, on getting back to the inn and then out of the city as soon as they could, but all he could think about was how in the light they knew that Kaylyn was the princess, and that she was here?
Liam heard footsteps, and fell back into the shadows of the overhanging buildings before the figure formed through the fog.
The figure moved carefully, as though stalking someone. Whoever he was, he didn't want to be seen. He carried a large shafted weapon, like a spear or a halberd, and he had his hood pulled up over his head.
Liam slipped a hand onto his dagger.
The figure was alone at least, but his weapon was long enough to skewer a line of people. That would give him an advantage. There was nothing to say that he was after them. Liam was spooked, he knew that, but who could blame him? He just hoped that the shadows were enough to hide in.
The figure drew closer, his face forming through the fog, and Liam dropped his hand in relief.
“Quinn,” he whispered.
Quinn spun, with his sp
ear ready. “Grout, Liam, is that you? What are you doing sneaking around like that?”
“I could ask you the same thing. I left you with the scribes for a reason, and get out of the street will you, before the watch finds us.” Liam grabbed his wrist to draw him back into the shadows. He would rather have had Quinn stay at the wagons where it was safe, and away from Kaylyn, but he was here now, and there was little they could do about it now.
“The watch? What do they have to do with anything?”
“They know who Kaylyn is. They know she's the princess, and they know what she is, and they're looking for her. You need to leave, now. It isn't safe to be seen with us.”
“And where am I supposed to go? You left me with them. You left us, and the hunter came with an army of nightspawn.” His voice rose in anger, and he shoved Liam. “You want me to go back? Well, there's nothing to go back to. They didn't stand a chance. I saw people being cut down in front of me; I saw the nightspawn ripping out their throats. The only reason I'm still alive is because Fayre was injured, and so I threw her in the back of the cursed archive and ran like a coward.” He shoved Liam again. “You left me. You knew the hunter was coming, and you ran.”
The words hit Liam like a hammer to the head. “Quinn, it wasn't like that...” He hadn't noticed the state of his clothes before, but they were a mess of dirt and dried blood.
“Well, whatever happened, they're dead. By now, every last one of them is dead.”
Kaylyn stood there with her hands covering her mouth. “Liam, you said it would be okay. You said he'd leave them alone—that they wouldn't get hurt.”
Liam felt his anger rising. Why should he take the blame for this? “I'm not the one that the hunter was after, and the one who was kicked out of the camp because she couldn't control her power. You’ve been nothing but a burden since I met you.” Kaylyn flinched as though she'd been struck, but he pressed on, turning that glare on Quinn. “And you. I didn't abandon you. That isn’t what happened. I left so that you wouldn't be brought into this. He wasn't supposed to come after you. He was supposed to come after us. He was supposed to...”