A March of Woe (Overthrown Book 3)

by Aaron Bunce

  El’bryliz fell forward, the gnarl hissing and shrieking, Tristan’s shouts turning to cries of pain. Claws raked, the beast’s arms thrashing in the cloudy dark, tearing fabric and flesh, the noise and confusion all melding together in his ears.

  He couldn’t move fast enough, his muscles drained of their strength. It was killing Tristan, and he could barely move. El’bryliz rolled over and lurched forward, pushing off the ground with his throbbing hand, a phantom pain shooting up his missing fingers. His robe tore again, the tattered garment falling free, his thick britches the only thing left covering his body.

  He scooped a stone out of the dust, but it felt smaller than it looked. It’ll have to do. It has to be enough, he thought frantically, the stone trembling in his throbbing hand.

  The gnarl battered down Tristan’s arms and lurched forward to sink its teeth into his flesh. El’bryliz fell forward swinging the rock as hard as he could. The impact jolted the beast forward, pain igniting in his injured hand, the rock nearly falling free. Howling, the gnarl swung around, but El’bryliz refused to back away. He swung the rock again, smashing the gnarl in the face.

  The beast rocked back and whined, but shook off the blow quickly, coming at him again. El’bryliz leaned, evading it claws and punched out with the rock, smashing it between the eyes. The gnarl made a strange, coughing noise and fell back. He fell on top of it and brought the rock down onto its head, again and again, the pain exploding in his hand until he couldn’t feel anything from his elbow down.

  The gnarl was dead, its eye socket smashed in. Tristan groaned and shifted. “Alive!” El’bryliz hissed and staggered forward. The archer’s face was covered in dust and blood. He lifted his arm, trying to pull the man off the ground, but he was heavy.

  “I cannot do it alone,” El’bryliz grunted. Tristan mumbled something, but moved, and together they were able to lift him to his feet.

  They staggered forward, Tristan wheezing and El’bryliz wincing from the burden. A shadowy form appeared in the end of the hallway from the sanctuary, a weapon hanging at their side. It was too dark and the air too filled with dust to see them properly.

  “We need help!” he called.

  A loud barking growl filled the hallway, El’bryliz’s stomach dropping out. Tristan flinched next to him, but they didn’t stop. If they stopped, he wasn’t sure that he could get going again.

  The large gnarl started to move towards them, just as something streaked in, banging loudly against its head and throwing it against the wall. Another shadowy form moved over it, battering it with a long pole.

  Tristan and El’bryliz limped forward, the gloom lifting a bit. Nirnan stepped through the curtain of darkness and dust, moving towards them. His face was so covered in dust and blood that he was almost unrecognizable.

  “Who are ye?” the large man bellowed, raising the iron post up like a club.

  “Just a pair of bloody lumps of meat,” Tristan growled, before gagging and falling into a coughing fit.

  “You two are a sorry pair, surely. Come along before they smell the blood on you and rush in for an easy meal,” Nirnan grumbled, wedging between them and using his considerable strength to help them forward.

  “It’s coming down!” someone shouted as they rounded the corner to the sanctuary.

  El’bryliz swept his gaze across the room, capturing the chaos to memory in a quick glance. It was how his mind worked. He saw a thing, and could remember it in vivid detail afterwards.

  The statue lay in a pile before the large doors, but axes and spears appeared, thrusting and chopping through a dozen cracks and breaks in the thick wood. A gnarl slid through a small hole in the wall, the smaller creature almost invisible until it stood to run. A stout man bolted in from the other side of the statue and dropped the skittering creature with a single, hammer strike.

  Gaston caught sight of them and bellowed, “’Ee can’t swat all deez flies. They be burrowing through the walls. Whole hammerin’ place’ll come down any moment!” He turned just as another small section of the outer wall broke inward, a mottled, heavily armored gnarl pushing through the rubble. The beast pulled a heavy pole out of the debris and extended several large, iron hooks. Gaston descended on the beast quickly, smashing it in the head with his hammer, and delivered a quick follow up that knocked it from its feet.

  “Run. He needs to run!” El’bryliz pleaded, recognizing the mechanism and pushing them towards the library. “That is a breeching hook. Ishmandi use them to pull down enemy walls!”

  The realization dawned on Nirnan’s face just as the strange pole suddenly retracted back into the wall, the heavy hooks catching against the Chapterhouse’s smooth stone.

  “Library!” Nirnan hollered, pulling Tristan and El’bryliz forward.

  Gaston reacted immediately, the breeching hook groaning and straining behind him. The half-blood stumbled, fell, and scrambled forward as a massive section of the outer wall fell away in a shower of flying rock and dust. A violent shock rippled through the building around them, cracks splitting in the stone and huge sections of the sanctuary roof falling away.

  “We must be away!” El’bryliz pleaded.

  Gaston dove over a pile of rock, tumbled to the side, and rolled into a run. He’d never seen anyone move like that before. It looked as if the stout man was dancing with the falling stone.

  Nirnan heaved them over a pile of rubble just as the ground shook, the wall splitting and the sanctuary doors falling away. A gust of cold air and snow blew in through the crumbling wall, followed by a swarm of bodies. He could smell them, their offensive odor preceding the swarm.

  Gaston reached the library door before El’bryliz, Nirnan, and Tristan, and threw it open, desperately motioning them inside. They tumbled through, the short man slamming it closed behind them.

  “Go! Go! No lock!” Gaston yelled, pushing them down the dark passage.

  El’bryliz fought to move his feet, the panic stealing his breath as a sea of bodies slammed into the door behind them. The passage closed in around him, every step failing to bring him to safety fast enough. The door behind them collapsed, the shattering stone and tearing wood drowned out by an echoing host of snarls and howls.

  “We’re done for,” Nirnan muttered, dejectedly, stopping as they turned right, gesturing towards the large library doors and the rusted chain seemingly holding them closed.

  “Move…” El’bryliz grunted and limped out from under the large man’s arm. He found the cutout in the handle and pushed that door in. He ducked through and helped Nirnan push the door closed behind them.

  “Tables! Tables! Everything up against the doors!” Nirnan shouted, noticing the group of people huddled in the library.

  El’bryliz waded through the crowd of people as they moved forward. He heard chairs crash and tables scrape against the ground. It wouldn’t keep them out. Hells, it might not even slow them down.

  “Follow me,” he gasped, catching a cleric by the tunic and trying to redirect him, but the young man froze, his eyes wide with panic. Locating the bookcase, El’bryliz found the latch and pulled before swinging it open. He yanked the young cleric through and into the darkness of the hidden passage beyond.

  “Come! Please!” he shouted, gathering as much breath as possible, waving his throbbing hand towards the passage.

  Gaston heaved a table atop the pile, the doors already shuddering and banging loudly. He turned, caught sight of El’bryliz, and immediately started shoving people in his direction. Clerics, priests, and their small band of soldiers flooded across the library and streamed into the passage, their temporary blockade crumbling faster than it had gone up. El’bryliz winced as they streamed in. An entire Chapterhouse full of healers and devotees, and the ragged group running for their lives were all that was left.

  Nirnan ran through last, huffing as he fought to catch his breath. He helped El’bryliz slide the entrance to the secret passageway closed, the latch falling back into place.

  “Now?” Nirnan
asked, too out of breath for more.

  El’bryliz gestured past the shivering line of people, and into the darkness. But there was no way out. He knew that. He just couldn’t form the words. Tristan hung next to Gaston, large droplets of blood dripping off of his clothes and collecting on the ground. Everyone in the passage looked his way. No, they were looking at him, their eyes shining in the library light behind him.

  A crash sounded beyond the bookcase, the flood of stinking death breaking through their barricaded doors. El’bryliz braved a look back, peering through a small peephole. Gnarls swarmed into the room, flowing over tables and chairs like the raging torrents of a flooding river. The bloodthirsty beasts scrabbled over the entire span of the large library in a flash, throwing their bodies violently into anything in their path, ripping everything down in their frantic search.

  A body thudded against a table not far away, claws scraping against wood. Bloodthirsty, he thought, his throat tightening. He turned and took in Tristan, the ground beneath him spotted with dark droplets. He looked at the bloody bandage on his hand, and then to Nirnan’s face. They were all bleeding.

  “Move…now!” he whispered, and started pushing those closest to him into the dark passage.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On The Run

  The carriage master sat forward in his chair. “The snow’s fallen, sir. You cannot expect me horses to travel as quickly, or recover as swiftly, trompin’ through this blasted white. Henceforth, less trips back and forth to the lakes. Henceforth, more gold. It’s a supply and demand issue.” He sat back, before lifting a crystal cordial glass to his lips.

  Brother Dalman smiled and looked around the man’s lodge, trying to keep his countenance friendly. Stuffed quail, pheasant, and partridge hung on the wall behind the man’s head. His desk was covered in tanned leather, bookended by a pair of shiny, silver candleholders. It was all wealth, displayed purposefully.

  The monk understood the game. Buyers haggled, and merchants gouged when the weather or situation allowed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford the man’s steep rates.

  “I appreciate your position, sir,” he said, and proceeded to haggle over the rate.

  The carriage master proved every bit as shrewd and unyielding as his reputation indicated, up to the point where Brother Dalman eased out of his chair and made for the door. The carriage master gave a hearty chuckle, took a sip of his cordial, and admitted that he needed to be more accommodating.

  They eventually agreed on four gold tributes each for the ride to Silma, including extra fur blankets, as well as rations of bread, cheese, cured meat, and a bag of wine. It left Brother Dalman with only a handful of copper, but considering the first two carriage masters rebuffed him harshly and refused to haggle, he had little choice.

  “Everyone is headed south. Like geese, the snow’s driving ‘em all towards warmer sun,” the carriage master said with a snigger, before handing Brother Dalman a small, rolled up parchment. “Day after morrow…your carriage will be ready at dawn.”

  With proof of passage in hand, Brother Dalman walked out of the Blue Star Carriage office and back into the cold night. It will have to do. At least we will be warm, he thought, fighting to not worry about the incredibly light coin purse on his belt, or the fact that they didn’t have travel plans beyond Silma.

  With the sky covered by thick snow clouds, the town had become more than simply dark. The sky looked black overhead, the stinging winds buffeting the large, swaying oil lanterns. He crossed the roadway, waiting for a solitary vagabond in ratty-looking robes to stagger drunkenly by. Brother Dalman could smell the alcohol seeping out of him, even with the blustery wind. A drink, for the first time in a long time, suddenly sounded like a good idea.

  One drink to settle the mind, perhaps, he reasoned, but swept the thought away almost instantly. Keep your head, fool. Too much at stake and the last thing you need is to drink away what little coin we have left.

  Brother Dalman tromped up the stairs to the covered path, thankful the space between slats kept the snow from growing too deep, while the buildings blocked a portion of the wind. He’d show Aida the scroll, briefly plan out the remainder of their journey, and then turn in. He told himself that it wouldn’t be awkward sharing such a confined space with a young woman – one he’d seen in the bare already. A young woman whose flesh monger had tried selling to him for a handful of coins, no less. If he was honest with himself, Aida was the real reason why he avoided drink. He was still a man, after all, if considerably more seasoned than her, but even the most disciplined minds could wander.

  World’s turned about on its head, he thought, cursing Djaron Algast and his green-eyed witch, for he could think of no other way to describe her. He felt jumbled and far less sure of the path ahead of them than he was comfortable with.

  Brother Dalman turned left at the next lane, and moved slowly towards the inn.

  * * * *

  Aida fumbled and cursed, staggered and almost fell flat on her face, Balin, the nightmarish rogue’s terrifying presence still scrambling her mind. Dylan kept her from falling, but just barely as they pirouetted clumsily together.

  “Close the door, father,” he hissed, “and bolt it.” Aida caught sight of his father standing in the doorway, watching them in his nightshirt, a confused scowl pulling at his features.

  “What’s gotten into you, boy…bringing some girl back to our room? Have you been at the drink?”

  “Shhh!” Dylan hissed, holding a finger up to his lips.

  Aida settled uneasily onto the bed and watched as Dylan felt his way across the room, gently urged his father away, and hovered before the door. She shook her head, before letting it fall into her hands. The strange fog of fear still hovered inside her, but it was thankfully already starting to lift.

  The floorboards outside the door creaked. Silence stretched between heartbeats, until Dylan turned back into the room, guiding himself with his hands.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Aida nodded, shrugged, and nodded again, forcing her hands into her sleeves. They weren’t just cold. She also couldn’t seem to get them to stop shaking.

  “I ne’er been around a man like that, an’ I been around some dodgy lads. He…”she stammered, fighting to put why he unnerved her into words.

  “What man is she talking about? Who is she, Dylan?” the young man’s father asked, hovering closer to them.

  “He was ready to kill those people…Margaret and Gerald. He was ready to kill all of us. Just because…because,” Aida stumbled, trying to force the horrible event from her thoughts. She couldn’t explain it, but Balin didn’t just seem capable of violence. Hells, he seemed to be violence itself. How many young women like her had he killed? How many young women better than her?

  Dylan settled down onto the bed, his hand fumbling before finding her knee.

  “Stories. They were just stories. He was trying to make himself feel powerful and frighten us into telling him what he wanted to know. It was nothing else,” Dylan said, reassuringly.

  “What stories? Who was this man? Again, who is the girl?” Dylan’s father asked, growing visibly frustrated.

  “Sorry, father. This is Aida, she was sitting next to me by the fire. Aida, this is my father, Dugan.”

  Dugan nodded a greeting, his expression softening a bit, but he looked uncomfortable standing before them, knees sticking out of his nightshirt.

  “I am not a young man, and one of the only things that disagrees with me more than this bitter, cold weather is interruptions to my rest. Now tell me, what happened to warrant this nighttime interruption? What stories are you talking about?” Dugan said, coldly.

  “A man entered the inn. He started asking everyone in the common room strange questions. At first I didn’t give him a second thought. He seemed to be just a stranger, looking for his companions. But then he didn’t seem to know what they looked like, only that they were an older man and a young woman. He unnerved people, pushing us for inform
ation about them. And then he told us that he needed to find them, or someone worse than him would come…someone who took pleasure in killing folk. He gave me the worst sort of unease, father, so I lied. I told him that Aida and I are traveling south with family, to marry and settle into a home. I can’t explain why, but I had this feeling that he would hurt her, or worse, hurt everyone in that room to find out what he wanted to know,” Dylan said, slowly, after collecting his thoughts.

  Dugan sighed and settled into the chair by the fire. “If I didn’t know you, son, I’d accuse you of taking to the drink. That is quite the tale.”

  “No drink, father–” Dylan said.

  “…he held a dagger to that couple’s throats. I saw it, like he was ready to kill them right then and there. Piss…why didn’t someone do something?” Aida interrupted, her courage slowly returning.

  Dugan’s brow scrunched up, his steely eyes flitting from Aida back to Dylan. “Fear can pull the strength from the bravest men and women. Did this man give you his name? Or did he just walk in, threaten to kill the whole lot of ya, and then leave?” he asked, leaning between them.

  “He said his name was Balin,” Dylan said, and Aida nodded in agreement.

  Dugan sat back in his chair, his icy eyes narrowed.

  “Was he a young man, or was he aged?” Dylan’s father asked.

  “He sounded…well, father, I don’t rightly know.”

  Aida’s stomach turned uneasily, and she burped, the sour taste of stew creeping back up her throat. She wiped her nose on a hand and swiped it against her dress. Yan told her stories about roguish men operating out of the shadows in the capitol, killing and abducting people for their wealthy patrons. The flesh monger had been fascinated with it, unhealthily. She thought them just stories, but now…