Black Forest

by Shane Lee

  I’ll do that when I’m old, I’ll do that when I’m old and I own half this kingdom, I’ll—

  Elrich plunged a silver mug into the water basin, splashing cold wetness around his feet. He drained the mug, then filled it and drained it again. He couldn’t get enough water to sate the thirst he felt. Let alone the hunger—though that was fading some. He’d have to eat something before he left the house.

  He shuffled to the pantry, hot and exhausted and still thirsty, somehow, though his belly felt full enough to make him nauseous. There was a lock on the door, a simple latch he’d lifted a thousand, thousand times. His fingers struggled drunkenly against it.

  Eventually, he managed to lift the latch and let it swing away from the door, and it was then that a wave of exhaustion crashed into him and he leaned his head against the wood. His hair, short and stiff, splayed against the painted door, his arms dropping down to his sides and hanging there. The world faded from white wood to dim nothing.

  He awoke with a start, snapping back, then falling forward and catching himself against the pantry door with his palms.

  “What...”

  How long had he been nodding off in his kitchen? His shoulders ached, and his forehead felt raw. He rubbed a hand against it and winced, then turned to the window to see that the daylight was brushed with orange.

  Hours. He’d been in here for hours. Unbelievable. Why had he been in here at all? He wasn’t even hungry.

  “Office,” Elrich mumbled, clearing his throat. It was somehow both dry and blocked with phlegm. “Get to the office.”

  He turned and saw the water basin, and his thirst screamed at him again. He filled and drained the mug, then dropped it into the water. It sunk to the bottom. Water dripping from his lips, he pressed at his bleary eyes with the backs of his hands and tried to run an inventory in his mind. Anger clawed as he pressed at his temples, focusing as best he could. He ground his teeth together. Was there anything that he needed from here?

  “No,” he said, and he was sure of it. “No.” All of the Bellamy documents were in the office at the Commons.

  Elrich lowered his hands and swallowed a deep breath. He felt a little better than before, and as his thoughts came into sharper focus, that steady feeling improved. He was in control. He was the architect of his destiny, and he was about to break ground.

  “Three signatures,” he said to himself, looking down his robes to ensure he hadn’t somehow made a mess there and finding them clean. “That’s all I need.”

  He closed his eyes and imagined the brats solemnly signing over their farm, quiet and tractable. If this didn’t go perfectly—if Monty or the little girl gave him any resistance, any last-minute begging or pleading—he’d have them killed anyway, signatures or no signatures.

  In fact, it was best to get rid of them regardless. Why didn’t he think of this sooner? No need to have rumors of the deal floating around. This was the first step to earldom, at the very least, and his rise to the top would be unmarred.

  The thought made him feel better than he had all day.

  Breathing easier, the Judge left his home and locked the door behind him.

  52

  Monty went to the barn to get the last thing he would need, which was a standing torch to plant in the dirt. Inside the barn, he rolled it in tar and then carried it out. He stopped at the bare circle and drove it into the ground, gripping it hard enough to hurt his hands, then lit it where it stood. It would burn tall, and it would bring Mullen right to him.

  Terra came out of the house as he left the circle. She had the rites book in her hands.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking it from her.

  “I marked where the rites start,” she said, and Monty looked down to see a few papers nestled in the book, all sticking out slightly from the same spot in the pages. “And I just grabbed those from mom’s desk. Are they okay?”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  He knelt down so he could look at her better. She was quiet and subdued.

  “I know you want to be there for this part,” Monty told her. “I get it, really. You’ve already done a lot. Don’t think you’re not helping.”

  “I know,” Terra said, not sounding convinced. “But we’re doing this for mom. I should help you fight.”

  “We’re doing this for everyone,” he said. “Everyone in town, and everyone who’s not there anymore, too.” He patted the thick binding of the book. “This isn’t a fight. It’s more like a...magic spell. It’s either going to work or it’s not. There’s no reason for you to be in danger in case it doesn’t.”

  “You really want me to just run away with Iselle if Nal’Gee kills you?” Terra asked bluntly.

  He blinked at that. They’d agreed it was the only recourse, but it didn’t sound great out loud.

  “It’s better than staying here and dying,” he said, and when he blinked again his eyes were hot and his vision was getting blurry. He lowered his head and rubbed at them, quickly. “And that’s exactly what’ll happen if this doesn’t work. So, just promise me you will. If things don’t—if I don’t make it. Promise me you’ll get the hell out of here. Okay?”

  “I already promised.”

  “Yeah. I want you to do it again.”

  “Fine,” she said, and Monty saw her eyes were shining too, but she wasn’t trying to hide it. “I promise.”

  He smiled. It was a real smile, but a sad one. He let the book drop to the ground and pulled Terra into his arms, hugging her close.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when I was supposed to be.”

  “It’s okay,” she said into his shoulder. He heard the words and he felt them. “Just don’t let her get you.”

  “All right.” Monty squeezed her, hard. She felt thin. He let her go and said, “I won’t.”

  Terra just nodded and wiped at her face.

  Monty gathered up the rites book and stood again. Iselle came out then, letting the door shut loudly behind her.

  “Looks like it’s about time,” she called, idling on the front step. The sun lowered in the west, making the thin clouds look like smeared blood in the sky.

  “Go on,” he told Terra, offering her another small smile. “Get as far away from here as you can. Then I’ll come and find you.”

  “I’ll find you,” Terra said, and she left it at that, turning to join Iselle as she came up to them.

  “You’re ready? Did we manage to take care of everything?”

  “Yeah,” Monty said, snapping his fingers twice, quickly. “Everything that I could think of, anyway. Thank you.”

  “It’s done, then,” Iselle said with a nod. “Good luck. I’d stay to help more if I could, but...well, we know why that’s not the best idea.” She gazed at the circle they had dug out.

  The plan, rushed in formation and patched together as they worked, was to force Nal’Gee out of Mullen’s body. Initially Monty had just planned to read the rites from memory as best he could, but when he saw the Judge’s office open, it was like a sign to steal the book itself. He felt a bit more confident holding it in his hands, like the weight of the pages lent to the power of the words inside.

  Once Nal’Gee was forced out of Mullen’s body, she would have nowhere else to leap to, since they had dug out all the grass and salted the earth itself to make sure even the tiniest new sprouts wouldn’t take hold. If she went back to Mullen, Monty would just read her out again. The circle was big, and as far as they knew, Nal’Gee had never made a leap farther than just a few feet.

  It was the biggest if of the whole plan, and it was why Monty wanted Terra gone, and especially Iselle, who might be (but almost certainly was) more vulnerable to being taken by Nal’Gee.

  If there was nothing to latch onto, and not even grass to cling to, then Nal’Gee would have to relinquish herself to the beyond and be gone from them forever. He hoped.

  Of course, Monty himself would still be in the circle, and she would attack him, or try to harbor her
self in his body. It would be her only option. He had to be prepared, and he had no idea how to do so. How could anyone prepare for something like that?

  Just stay strong, he told himself. If you stay strong, she can’t take you.

  “You all right?”

  Monty snapped to focus. Iselle was peering at him, looking over his face intently.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “You have to hurry away from here. Go wide of the path so you don’t run into Mullen. Terra knows a good way.”

  “I’d argue with you if there wasn’t a half-decent chance it would get me killed,” Iselle said, and she stood up straight again and beckoned to Terra as she pulled away. “Come on. We’ll be back after it’s been dark for a little while, so try to have it done by then.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Monty said, Iselle’s offhand affection warming him a little bit.

  “We’re coming back soon,” Terra insisted, pulling at her hair as it dangled.

  Monty agreed to that just so she would get moving. He breathed a little easier once they finally got on their way, and easier still as they grew smaller and smaller on the horizon, winding far to the right so as to avoid the beaten path from the farm to town. Mullen wouldn’t see them, but even if he did, Monty thought that he probably wouldn’t care. He had much more pressing things on his mind.

  Monty stuck his thumb in the book where the ritual began, pulling out the loose pages. He looked ahead, where the bare circle swept across the field and the lone torch burned ever brighter as the day’s light faded. He knew there was a chance that, once he stepped inside, he would never leave that patch of earth again.

  He got moving.

  53

  The day’s light disappeared quickly. The stars were not plentiful tonight, and he was surrounded by a dense darkness that closed in on him more with each passing moment.

  That’s good, he reminded himself. He wanted Mullen to see him standing here and come right to him. The torch was a flaming beacon to summon him this way.

  But Mullen wasn’t coming, and the minutes wore on.

  “What if she got him?” Monty asked himself, straining his eyes to scan a horizon he couldn’t see. “She could have overtaken him today and drained him dry, and now she’s in someone else and Terra’s in town with Iselle. They could be right next to her.”

  Or she could be in them.

  Maybe he could go to town. If Mullen was laid up at home, sick and dying, he could confront Nal’Gee before she got him entirely and moved on. Why hadn’t he thought of this possibility?

  The cracks in the plan were starting to show. Soon they’d be big enough to fall through.

  He stood there, paralyzed by indecision, the seconds rolling by too fast and too slow at the same time. The torch burned beside him, licking fierce tongues of heat along the right side of his face and neck.

  How much longer could he wait here without going crazy?

  Footsteps rustled through the grass from somewhere ahead. Monty’s breath froze in his throat, a solid slab. He forced himself to breathe normally, taking a small step back to make sure his face was in the light.

  It was Mullen. Inside, Monty let out a sigh of relief which was lost immediately in the storm of trepidation. He held the book behind his back, his thumb still marking the rites. Its weight made his wrist twinge and the corner dug into his skin. With his other hand, he held forth the loose pages that Terra had brought him.

  “Monty,” Mullen said. He was barely visible, lingering on the edges of the light. “What...what is this? This is to be done inside. There’s...there are signings.”

  “I can’t hear you, Judge.” The lie slipped through Monty’s lips easily. “Come closer.”

  Mullen did, and Monty saw that the Judge looked about five times worse than when Monty had seen him earlier. Even in the flickering light, the sweat shone on his forehead. He looked thinner, both in his face and in how his robes hung from him. He was stooped over, and his mouth was partly open, drawing in struggling breaths, like the walk over here had brought him to the edge of death.

  Except it wasn’t the walk.

  The Judge didn’t look down, either not noticing the fact that he was now walking on bare dirt instead of grass, or just not caring. Under one arm, he had his own folio, stuffed sloppily with papers that threatened to catch the weak breeze and fly away.

  “Inside,” he said to Monty. “We’ll go inside...we take care of this. Swear to the saints...I will have your head if you...try to cross me.”

  The threat wasn’t as palpable with the Judge gasping for breath between the words. Still, Monty raised the hand that clutched the papers, putting it close to the torch.

  “The deed is here,” he said to Mullen, though he had checked to ensure that it was not. “We do this here, or I burn it all. I don’t want you stepping foot in my house.”

  He felt confident dealing with Mullen; his voice rang strong. Right now, the Judge was a drained man with a singular focus, and all that mattered to him was the land.

  “Don’t do that!” Mullen snapped, and he took several steps forward, almost running but not quite. His foot caught in the dirt and he fell, dropping to his knees.

  He was within ten feet of Monty now. It was time.

  Monty pulled the book of rites from behind his back and let the papers fall. Mullen’s eyes went first to the loose sheets, then to the book in Monty’s hands, widening as surprised anger twisted his mouth into a scowl.

  “You little thief, you—”

  Monty opened the pages and began reading before Mullen could get to his feet. Whatever else the Judge said was lost in the flurry of pounding heartbeats in his chest and ears. He found the words on the page and let them out.

  “I speak to the soul of our friend, Elrich Mullen,” he said, quiet at first, then louder as he went on. “I brace thee in the comfort that the beyond awaits, and that the souls of those before you...”

  Mullen began to stand slowly. His limbs shook with the effort; first his arms, as they pushed him from the ground, then his legs as he stood. He was muttering to himself, but Monty couldn’t hear it. He watched Mullen’s lips move for a moment before he focused on the page again.

  “...the souls of those who have passed before you await your passage now. Your journey will be eased by the mortal efforts...”

  Monty trailed off, briefly, to watch the Judge get fully to his feet. There didn’t seem to be any effect on the man. Mullen struggled to stand and take a step forward, but the rites weren’t holding him back. He was fighting with something else. Mullen’s hands clutched at his stomach, and he bent over, groaning. Still, he moved forward.

  Monty read.

  “The mortal efforts to set you onward! I speak for the first saint, Allon, when I confirm that death is the end of all things here, but not else! I speak for the second saint, Thielle, when I tell your spirit that its work here will not be in vain! I speak for the third saint, Matilla, when I tell you...”

  Mullen’s moaning grew louder, and the sound warbled with pain. It was thick, like there was ichor in his throat that it had to bubble past. He took another step forward and fell down, this time not catching himself on his knees, collapsing facedown in the dirt. His teeth snapped together—crack!—as he hit the ground.

  With his heart still threatening to beat through his chest, Monty read on through to the sixth saint before snapping the book shut and holding it in a death grip. Mullen hadn’t moved in—what had it been, two minutes? Longer? Monty wasn’t sure, but his whole body felt electrified.

  He waited for something—some sign that Nal’Gee was swirling toward him, rushing to clamp onto his soul and drag his being into her own.

  Nothing came.

  Monty moved forward cautiously, not taking his eyes off the Judge, who lied before him in a puddle of robes. There was no movement. Was he dead? Or was Nal’Gee simply waiting to strike?

  More, he thought, hefting the book up again. I stopped too soon, I—

  He opened the book
and flipped through the pages. He hadn’t marked his spot, and he didn’t remember any more. Where was it? A page tore as he yanked it aside; he let it fall to the ground, frantically searching.

  He only noticed Mullen moving once the man was already on his feet. And when he looked up from the pages, he saw a completely different Judge. Mullen was no longer weak and doubled over in pain. He was alive with color, and the grin on his face was massive and mirthless. It was a grin of hunger.

  “Stupid child,” Mullen rasped in a voice that wasn’t his. “That won’t work on me.”

  54

  Monty barely had time to think before Mullen darted forward and snatched the book out of his hands. He tore the thick binding to shreds like it was a loaf of bread, throwing the pieces to the dirt. Chunks of the black rites book lay scattered about like they’d been dropped from the sky.

  “You thought you were trapping me, is that it?” Mullen looked around. “Thought you could just...send me?”

  It sounded like Mullen, a little, but this wasn’t him. Yesterday, Nal’Gee had turned the shriveled head of Dr. Tobias toward him and spoken faint, growling words. But now...

  “You’re using his body,” Monty said in a tone of accusatory awe.

  “Yessss,” Nal’Gee hissed with Mullen’s mouth, her eyes on Monty’s for fleeting seconds, darting around as though she were seeing a million things that he could not. “For now.”

  Monty’s heart dropped like a stone, torn like the shreds of the rites in the dirt. He hadn’t ever suspected that she might be capable of something like this—another stupid, stupid error. She’d moved Tobias’s head—he knew that, he’d seen it! Yet to think she could take over someone’s entire body, to move of her own free will...it changed everything.

  He understood immediately that he was going to die.

  “I have a treat for you,” Nal’Gee said, her eyes wide and watching, her mouth wet and grinning. “This man, you hate this man, don’t you?”