To the Dead City

by Alex Bentley

  “Cass,” she says again, pointing now.

  “Ethra,” says a voice behind me. “Alys.”

  I turn.

  It is him. The Scur. Casmel Durn.

  I glare at him.

  “Well, Ethra,” I say. “We needn’t hunt for a big animal. We have one right here.”

  Chapter 20

  Tracked

  “Why didn’t you wait?” he says, walking over to me with a look of betrayal on his face.

  Betrayal. On his face.

  I slash at him with the knife. But anger makes me brutish and clumsy. Lucky for the Scur. He grabs my wrist and stays the blade an inch from his neck. My other hand knots into a fist and I punch him hard in the chin. His head snaps back, and he rocks on his heels. He manages to remain standing, but he is off balance. I drive my foot into the side of his knee and he crumples, releasing my wrist as he drops.

  “What in the name of Memynd?” he says, teeth gritted against the pain.

  He scuttles back as I advance on him, my own teeth gritted, the knife held so tightly in my hand my knuckles are blanched white.

  “Memynd?” I say. “The God of Madness? Try Foreg, the God of Deceits and Disguises, you gedhearted foorstig!”

  “What? I returned to the camp, and you were gone.”

  “We were gone? Of course we were gone. You betrayed us. You betrayed us to Slek Mydra. And for what? For coin. For your oh-so-precious coin.”

  “How? How did you—”

  “How did I know? I saw. I saw through your eyes. I heard through your ears.” I toss the knife from hand to hand. “We need an animal to save Ethra. And you’re it.”

  “Ethra? What’s—”

  “She is nefbitten. But what do you care? You condemned us to a different death, that’s all. At the hands of the Sceada.”

  “Nefbitten…” He looks at Ethra and manages to conjure an expression of concern that would easily have fooled someone who wasn’t fully aware of precisely the kind of man he was.

  “Look,” he says, holding his hands out, placating, surrendering. “Just listen. I don’t know how you think you know—”

  “I don’t think I know. I know. It is part of my Glyst. When I dream, I can see through the eyes of those I have brought back to life. My father. You.” I let out a growl of rage. “To think, I saved you. And you repaid me with betrayal.”

  “I didn’t betray you. Just listen.”

  I take a deep breath, still tossing the knife from hand to hand.

  “You have one minute,” I say. “One minute. Ethra?”

  “Yes?” she says. Her voice sounds weak. I glance back. She’s sat at the base of the tree where I was bound, her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes drooping with exhaustion.

  “Count down from one minute. In your head. When you get to zero, say ‘kill the gedhearted foorstig’.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  I think she might be asleep before she reaches zero.

  I turn back to the Scur.

  “Talk,” I say.

  “I was looking for a game,” he says, talking quickly. “There are a few taverns in Awlen, but most of them had tyndle games going, not spedig, so it took a while. And while I was wandering the streets, I heard talk of men from Gafol, four of them, one a Sceada, looking for a pair of Glysters. I asked an old street-cutler if they’d found the Glysters yet, these men from Gafol, and he said they were giving up on the town soon and would be searching the outlying woods. I let it be known I’d seen you. Then I went to my spedig game. I knew word would get to your pursuers sooner or later. And sure enough it did—”

  “You’re not helping yourself,” I say. “You’re just confirming what I already know.”

  “Let me finish. You said you’d listen.”

  “Go on. You’re running out of time.”

  “You’re slowing me down!”

  “Then hurry up!”

  “The one you talked about, the Sceada, sits down at the table. And tells me to talk. And I say—”

  “You tell him we are in a clearing on the edge of town. You ask for someone to bring you a sheet of whitebark and a blackstick, so you can draw a map. But first, of course, you ask to see the coin, your reward for our betrayal.”

  “Yes. Well, not the betrayal. But everything else.”

  “Not the betrayal? How can you say you didn’t betray us? You drew a map!”

  “And, if you were looking through my eyes, you’d have seen the map. You’d have seen I drew a map pointing them to the southern edge of town, putting you as far from where you were actually camped as I could.”

  I loosen my grip on the knife. Colour returns to my knuckles.

  “I did not see the map.”

  “You didn’t see the map? I thought you were looking ‘through my eyes’. I thought you saw what I saw.”

  “I woke up at that point.”

  “You ‘woke up’?”

  “Yes. I thought you had betrayed us.”

  “Betrayed you? I put my life in danger.” He is standing now, brushing dirt and leaves from his clothes. “Do you have any idea what it was like to sit in front of the Sceada and lie, and think all the while he knows I am lying? Did you see his sword at least? It would have dragged my guts out onto the table. They would have been the last thing I saw.” His face is reddening with anger now. “And then I had to calmly finish my game of spedig, collect my winnings, pick up enough supplies for our return journey.” He points to two bags leaning against a nearby tree, one his, one larger and bulging. “I had to do this knowing that the Sceada—the Sceada with his disembowelling blade and his quiet, reasonable voice—is going to realise very soon that I have tricked him. Not because he doesn’t find you, that would give me plenty of time, a fruitless search like that, but because the map I drew doesn’t match the landscape of the southern edge of Awlen because I have never seen the southern edge of Awlen. And when I get back to our camp, our camp, you have gone. And taken my horse, no less! I had to follow you on foot. I travelled day and night, hardly sleeping.”

  Only now do I really notice his physical appearance. He is scratched and grimy, dark crescents hang beneath his eyes. His clothes are torn and muddy.

  “I didn’t see the map,” I say, looking down at my boots.

  “You didn’t see the map.”

  “It isn’t my fault I awoke. I did not choose to.”

  “But you chose to believe that I had betrayed you.”

  “You have to understand how it looked…”

  “I understand only that you think I am the worst kind of person.”

  “You were going to take me back to Gafol to die,” I say, attempting to turn the tables. “You only chose to accompany us to the Dead City because there was an opportunity to accumulate more of your precious coin.”

  “Well… yes, but…”

  “Don’t pretend you are any less the person who tried to sap me at the roadside, Casmel Durn.”

  “Cass,” he says. “Only my mother calls me Casmel. Or did.” He sags with a weariness I understand. My bones ache, too. And my muscles.

  Behind me, Ethra moans.

  “We can berate each other later,” he says. “Neither of us has emerged from this with a heroic sheen. We need to do something about Ethra. She is… billowing.”

  I turn and see he’s right. She is standing now, and her skin is detaching. Her mouth is stretched in a wide and silent scream.

  “We need a big animal,” I say. “You wait here with Ethra. You may need to bind her. I’ll see what I can find in the woods.”

  “Why didn’t you use the nef?” says Casmel.

  “I should have,” I say. “But it would have meant putting Ethra to the sword. It would have meant killing her. And I… couldn’t. Not then.”

  “And now?”

  “What choice do I have?” I say. “I just hope there are some large creatures here about that aren’t nef.”

  “Actually,” says Casmel, and there is more than a hint of contrition in his
voice. “There’s a bit of a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  “Well, it might actually be more in the way of a solution, given our current predicament.”

  “Your words are clear as clay, Casmel.”

  “I am being followed. Tracked, to be more precise.”

  “Followed?” My stomach seems to tighten and loosen in the same instant. “Slek Mydra?”

  “No. Two men from Gafol.”

  “If they have a grefa stone, we will hear it long before they reach us,” I say.

  “They are not using grefa stones,” says Casmel. “One is a tracker and one they call ‘the slaughterman’.”

  I know immediately who the men are. This ‘slaughterman’ is Eftas Hilder. The tracker is doubtless Chayn Syrunn, the best huntsman in Gafol and the Jarl’s brother-in-law. The only advantage Syrunn offers us is his advancing years. While his stalking skills have only grown sharper with time, his legs are beginning to slow. Both men, Hilder and Syrunn, are known for their unpleasantness. Hilder’s is, in its way, a more palatable sort. He is simply a brute. Syrunn, on the other hand, is known for his cruelty. I remember something my mother told me about him:

  It is an acceptable thing to take pleasure in the hunt, even in the kill, because there is skill in it. But Syrunn enjoys the pain. Your father says he will delay the killing stroke for as long as possible. He takes delight in the beast’s suffering. There is nef venom in that man’s heart. Even the Sceada are not so poisoned. They inflict pain because they want to be feared. To be feared in combat is an advantage. It is a practical thing. With Syrunn, it is a perversion.

  “How far behind are they?” I ask.

  “A couple of hours, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m not at my best, Alys. I’m tired and have recently been punched in the face.”

  “We haven’t time for your self-pity,” I say. “Ethra is—”

  “Self-pity, you’ve got to be—”

  Ethra lets out a moan of pain that turns to a hiss.

  “We haven’t time, Casmel” I say. “We need to set a trap.” And then I say, “Oh.”

  Because there appears to be an arrow through my leg.

  Chapter 21

  Stalker and Slaughterman

  The moment I see it, the injury erupts with pain. I drop my knife and both hands go to the arrow’s shaft.

  Casmel, having seen the arrow land, drops to the ground and rolls left.

  It is a wise move. An arrow cuts the air where he was just standing and sinks into the trunk of one of the old-men trees behind me.

  Now that Casmel isn’t blocking my view, I can see Syrunn and Hilder. Both have already nocked fresh arrows and are drawing their bowstrings. And both are tracking Casmel with their arrow points as he darts between the trees. I wonder why one of them isn’t taking aim at me, then realise they intend to take me alive. That’s why they didn’t take down Casmel first. That would have alerted me to their presence, and I may have had time to do what Casmel is doing right now. Namely, scarpering.

  Hilder looses his arrow, then Syrunn. Both fail to find their target.

  “Go after him,” says Syrunn.

  Hilder does as he’s told.

  Syrunn shoulders his bow, draws his sword and strides toward me.

  I reach for the knife, but pain has me dizzy and disoriented, and the huntsman kicks the blade away with ease. It lands several yards away. He puts the edge of his sword to my throat and, with his other hand, grabs the arrow shaft and twists it.

  I cry out.

  He grins.

  “You’re going to do as your told, girlie, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I manage. The pain is so severe, I am almost blinded by it.

  “Good.” He gives the arrow another twist, then lets go. “Good.”

  “Durn!” he shouts. “If you would hear her scream, carry on running into the woods!”

  He cups a hand to his ear and makes a performance of listening for Casmel’s reply. There is blood on that hand. Mine.

  “No, boy? Don’t believe me?”

  He twists the arrow again.

  I scream.

  Ethra moans.

  “Who is screaming?” she says. “Is it me?”

  Syrunn lets go of the arrow, and I drop to the floor.

  I watch as the huntsman walks toward Ethra with a lightness of step that is grotesque, as if he is barely suppressing the urge to dance.

  “You are the other Glystgedder,” he says. “You are not required. Mydra has no interest in you.”

  And then he drives his sword into her chest, up to the hilt.

  I try to cry out Ethra’s name, but my mouth and throat are suddenly too dry.

  Ethra doesn’t have time to scream. Her skin billows outward once, then hangs slack and lifeless, the skin of someone three times her size. She collapses back against the tree, skin trailing for a moment like loose clothing.

  “Vile thing!” Syrunn says, staggering back, his voice thick with disgust. “Vile.” Then, as if Ethra’s death is of no consequence, he shouts again, “Durn! Would you hear her scream?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Casmel’s voice comes from the opposite direction from which he ran. Somehow he has circled round. Over the roar of blood in my ears, I can hear Hilder crashing through the undergrowth on a fool’s errand. Casmel has his sword drawn and is walking toward the huntsman.

  Syrunn’s blade goes to my throat.

  “Another step and she will bleed out here in this paltry excuse for a forest.”

  Casmel stops walking.

  “Now drop the blade,” says Syrunn.

  Casmel doesn’t drop his sword.

  “Drop it,” says Syrunn. He digs the tip of his own blade into the meat of my neck.

  Casmel drops his sword.

  At the very moment his blade hits the ground, Hilder appears not far from where he blundered after Casmel.

  “I can’t f—” he begins. “There he is!” He actually points at Casmel, as if it isn’t perfectly obvious to everyone precisely where Casmel ‘is’. He nocks an arrow and draws back his bowstring.

  “I wouldn’t,” says Casmel.

  “Wouldn’t what?” says Hilder.

  “Kill me.”

  “And why wouldn’t I do that, you little gedstain?”

  “Because I’m the only one who can control her.” Casmel looks at me. “I’m the only one who can stop her from killing all of us.”

  Hilder glances at me and sneers.

  “Her?” he says. “Kill us all? And how exactly would she do that?” He pulls the bowstring back to the anchor point.

  “Wait,” says Syrunn, holding one hand up to Hilder. “If she’s so dangerous, maybe I should just kill her now.”

  “And release more spores?” says Casmel, taking a step back. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

  “What?” says Syrunn.

  “It’s a wonder you haven’t started losing your skins already,” says Casmel. “Cover your mouths. Have you no sense?”

  “What’s the idiot talking about?” says Hilder. “What’s he going on about, losing our skins?”

  “Do you want to end up like her?” says Casmel, pointing at Ethra.

  Hilder notices her for the first time. His eyes widen in horror.

  Casmel points to Syrunn’s hand, the one that had gripped the shaft of the arrow. The one he had cupped to his ear.

  “Tell me that isn’t the Glyster’s blood,” he says.

  Syrunn looks at his hand, then wipes it on the leg of his trousers.

  “It’s too late for that,” says Casmel. “The spores will be in you now.” He turns to me. “Alys, you mustn’t use your Glyst for ill. It is against the wishes of Fryth.” He turns back to Syrunn. “Fryth is her household’s god. Fryth, the God of Peace?”

  “I know who Fryth is,” says Syrunn, staring at his hand, then wiping it again, harder, on his trousers.

  “As long as she keeps Fryth at the centre of her
thoughts, she will not transmute the spores.”

  “Transmute the spores?” says Syrunn, looking warily at me as he speaks.

  “I don’t know how it works,” says Casmel. “But, somehow, the spores become as the breath of a giant, of a god even, and… well…” He points at Ethra again. “That happens.”

  While the stalker and the slaughterman are looking at Ethra’s corpse, Casmel takes a very slight step forward and slides his foot under his dropped sword, where the blade meets the hilt. He knows this prattle can’t convince them for long.

  “And why would she listen to you?” Hilder demands.

  “The Glyst has driven her mad. She believes I am Luthyl, emissary of Fryth. The Spirit of Love.”

  If I weren’t in so much pain, I would laugh. Luthyl? The Spirit of Love? Where do these silly confections spring from?

  “She will do as I say,” Casmel continues. “So long as her life isn’t threatened. I cannot control her if she is afraid. It is bad enough that she is in pain.”

  Syrunn scrutinises Casmel. His eyes narrow with suspicion, but the blade moves away from my neck.

  “I think you play a game with us,” says Syrunn. “I think you are still at the spedig table in Awlen, and your hand is poor.”

  Casmel points at Ethra again.

  “I wish it were so.”

  Syrunn’s eyes narrow to slits.

  “If I kill her,” he says. “How will she ‘transmute’ these spores you’re expecting us to believe in?”

  “Well… it’s more that she’s stopping them from transmuting right now. The spores? The Glystspores? They have a will of their own, you see. They wish to be as the breath of a god. Alys is the only thing stopping them. And I—by which I mean, Luthyl, the Spirit of Love—I am the only thing stopping her. Which is why I cannot let her sleep. Why do you think she looks so grotesque with sleeplessness, her eyes all puffy and blood-tinted, like a suffocating bladderfish? She hasn’t slept in days.”

  I let out a yelp of pain.

  “Luthyl!” I cry. “I am in agony! I cannot control the spores!”

  I am in agony and, were there spores to control, I almost certainly would not be able to do so.

  “You need to put something on the wound. I have a battle poultice in my bag. It has rosepulp, Marchweed and mamera in it.”