by Matt Khourie
Nightmares had plagued her short nap, leaving her restless. Houses obliterated by malachite stars crashing from the skies and people crying out. She shook the images free and began exploring her meager accommodations. A small stained cot occupied a corner. Next to it sat a foul looking bucket. She stretched to the tips of her toes and just barely managed to peek between the window’s rusty bars.
The glow of lamp posts dazzled the thoroughfares and water front of Meridian. Lia had never seen such a spectacle. The ‘city’ below was as foreign a place as the Gloom. It was like having stars close enough to reach out and catch like fireflies, she thought. She suddenly longed to be sitting in Polaris’s lap underneath their tree.
“Get down from there, before you fall out,” Castiel called.
Lia hopped down, searching through the fiery door for the voice’s owner.
“Cripes, imagine that. You fallin’ out the window and Malachai tossin’ me out on after you. Would be just my lot.”
Lia knelt by the door, careful to avoid the bars, finding a spot to peer through. Castiel sat at the table, feet up, rocking back. He toyed with a dagger, spinning its tip on the pad of his thumb. Castiel stared back, contorting his face into a twisted mockup of Malachai’s stare.
“It’s bad manners to put your feet on the table, you know,” Lia said candidly. “My pafaa said so.”
Castiel’s dagger took an errant spin. He bobbled it twice and let it clang to the floor. He stretched to retrieve it and slipped, breaking his fall with a bulbous chin.
Lia stifled a giggle with a swift hand. And then couldn’t help herself. She laughed at the heap of Castiel still collecting himself, straightening his tunic and rubbing his scraped chin. Castiel heard the laughter and followed Lia’s eyes to the stain on his stomach. He laughed, grateful for the break in tension Malachai had provided.
“Are you alright?” Lia asked through a cupped hand.
Castiel carefully extended his hand through the fiery barrier. “I’m fine. Clumsy as an ox, I am. Name’s Castiel.”
Lia shook Castiel’s hand and introduced herself. He withdrew, frantically rubbing at his hand. She chanted, summoning the Breath, pleased to find it came easier now. Her hands gathered up the misty white light. It pulsed in the air around her fingers, rippling like a disturbed pond. She brandished the light at the bars. “I can help.”
“I’m sure you can little one, but I am fine,” Castiel said, presenting the unharmed hand for inspection. “I needed see for myself if you burned with the unholy blasphemy and heresy, blah, blah, blah.” Castiel’s sarcastic smile broadened as he delivered his best Malachai parody.
Lia giggled at the impression and let the Breath’s power fade. She shrugged free of her thick over coat, rolled it into a cushiony ball and plunked down in front of the bars. “When we left it was winter, but when I looked outside there wasn’t any snow,” Lia stated flatly, hoping Castiel would elaborate.
Castiel remembered vividly his amazement with Meridian’s marvels when he had first arrived.
“The Dreamers of Neverdawn have given Meridian many gifts in the name of friendship. Our very streets capture the sun’s warmth and use it to resist the snow. Some of Meridian’s buildings are lined with the same type of stone. That’s why you’re sweating through your clothes.”
With grave concern she sidled tight to the burning gate. “But if there’s no snow, how can there be a Winter Festival?”
Castiel chuckled. “Not to worry. Our Elders disable the warmth when it suits our needs. We have no need for warm buildings in the summer do we?” Castiel sliced a few pieces of crusty bread and mashed a bitter smelling cheese between them. He half-offered the morsel and then quickly pulled away, with a curious eye brow arched high.
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
Lia’s stomach lurched and grumbled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. She nodded enthusiastically. “Promise!” Castiel passed the offering through the green flame, making sure Lia did not come close enough to be burned. Lia warbled through a mouthful. “Thank you.”
Small acts, she recalled Polaris saying. Small acts of kindness and courage.
Chapter 17
The Liche Queen was unaccompanied on this particular visit to her favorite chamber. She could not recall the last time she wandered the drab pathway, filling the last decaying remnants of her mortal lungs with the stale odor of her labors beyond. Perhaps it had been when she had called upon Malachai to serve. The Garrison awaited its queen from behind a veil of black satin. It was the only guard needed.
No one dared enter uninvited.
Nothing stirred within: there was nothing alive to do so. The deepest level of the Nekropolis was restricted to the Liche Queen and her revered guests. It was a sprawling marvel of cavernous recess. Massive slabs of stone were anchored into a morbid cathedral by interlocking twists of petrified branch. The Liche Queen herself had designed the castle’s fusion of wood and stone. It was Pandora’s favorite place in all of her domain. Just inside the veil, a hovering pathway of stone tiles spiraled up to a broad platform. An altar, a similar fusion of wood and stone, resided at the end. An arbour carved in the cardinal runes of the Blight stretched over the altar’s basin of unhewn stone.
Pandora paused, taking in the beautiful symphony of deathly silence. It was a perfect moment in the deep dark. She tilted her head back, straining for any sound at all. Nothing. Not even a draft from the passage was admitted without her consent. She regarded her altar, carved from the Nekropolis by her own hand and birthed into being by her own blood. She circled it, tracing frigid fingertips lovingly up and over the arch, reveling in the devilish magnificence. It was at this very altar she had first conceived the end of Adella’s cursed reign.
The runes flashed to life, excited by the presence of their mistress. One by one they glowed a feverish lava shade. Pandora counted off the thirteen runes in the order they were inscribed, each one burning brighter at its mention. The combined sheen bathed the macabre altar in the light of hellfire. The Liche Queen stroked the altar’s rough surface. “I’m sorry, my love, but it is not you I have come to visit.”
Her fingers fell away and she peered into the pit of darkness beyond the reach of the altar’s jealous light. The disappointed runes faded quickly at their neglect, but returned to slumber confident their hunger would be seen to in due time. The Liche Queen raised her arms high and wide, embracing the dark.
“My children! Your mother has arrived!”
Her greeting shook the Garrison, echo reverberating far and fast, earning a moan from the black castle. A league away in the darkness, a pair of emerald specks began to shine. A second pair. And then a third. Pandora’s icy heart fluttered; it always did when they were awakened. A wave of green orbs spread through the pit. Uniform lines stared back at the Liche Queen as the surge rushed to the Garrison’s entrance, consuming the darkness in its path. And leaving behind something much worse.
The Liche Queen watched as her favorites heeded her call. The glowing Wakeful eyes reflected harshly on the sea of surrounding armors. The legion stood at perfect attention, grasping obsidian swords at eye level in salute to the queen who had gifted them with life eternal. Shoulder to shoulder they ranked ten thousand strong, clad in the suits of jagged plates and spikes that had become a symbol of terror across the land.
How Pandora loved to gaze upon her loyal Wakeful. With a thought she could teleport them to the castle’s gate, unleashing them upon the world at her whim. What a glorious sight to behold: a plague of Wakeful locusts cleansing the world of Adella’s memory. How would have loved to remain in the Garrison forever. But the duties of Her Majesty beckoned.
It pained her greatly to leave the Garrison. Thraal awaited, probably with another tepid lecture on logistics or some other foolish thing. Why did he not simply advise me to unleash the Wakeful’s full might? Why not send the legions to crush and burn all that opposed her will
?
The branch-lift creaked as rolling branches returned the Liche Queen to the Hollow. Servants scurried to make way, forever fearful of blocking the Liche Queen’s path. She took to the wide flight of petrified stairs leading to the war room. She admired her handiwork, every so often stopping to telepathically re-mould an errant branch until the shape pleased her. The door closed behind her with a heavy thud. “General.”
“My Queen,” Thraal replied, with the enthusiasm of wet mop.
Thraal’s emotionless nature was legendary. It was said that no one had ever see him raise his voice in anger. Nor had anyone ever seen him smile. Thraal just ‘was’; a stoic force with little use for anything less than absolute victory. The General had shed his daily attire of dull gray tunic and britches, having instead donned his armor. The Liche Queen was instantly excited. Perhaps Thraal’s summons was meant to announce that the time had come to claim what was rightfully hers from the mountains.
The impressive onyx cuirass was a gift from a grateful Pandora and the only piece of Wakeful armor not bearing the sigil of the Pierced Skull. At his request, his own sigil had been emblazoned in its place. Pandora was all too pleased to see the crest of a fallen dragon impaled on three serrated lances. The mockery of her parent’s own Rearing Dragon was the only motivation needed for her to allow the cruel substitute.
Thraal retrieved Pandora from her ghoulish daydream with a cough. He pulled a high-backed chair from the only table. Pandora’s eyes flared. She did not typically permit such gross insolence. General Thraal was the only man alive afforded the luxury of such daring. She understood the general’s great importance to her campaign. But there were limits.
Impulsive ones...
“Malachai has reached Meridian with the child. Arrangements with the more ambitious men of the City Watch to apprehend his pursuer have been made.”
“Excellent,” Pandora said. “We take the fountain upon his return. I will summon the Legion at once.”
Pandora pushed away from the table in a flourish of cape and whipping raven’s locks. The general caught her by the wrist and guided her back to the chair. “There is to be some delay, your Highness. I have given Captain Malachai leave to remain in Meridian until the creature is in custody.”
A gust of rot scented wind swelled at Pandora’s sudden temper, snuffing the small candelabras and braziers scattered through the room. Pandora’s face contorted. The beautifying enchantment echoing her human beauty fell away, revealing her true features.
The grim kiss of Undeath.
The left side of her face and jaws were little more than bone and scant tatters of desiccated skin. A scattered jigsaw of teeth, jagged of rot and molding, were all that remained beneath the vanished pair of pouty lips.
Thraal was familiar with the indigo fire of Pandora’s, the Liche Queen’s, eyes. He searched the face of the demon for hints of the princess he had helped to raise. What remained of her lustrous mane of curls was nothing more than sparse tufts clinging to a cracked skull. He bit the inside of his cheek, staunching his pleasure at the grim sight. Princess Pandora of the Once Kingdom truly was no more.
The fury of screaming voices in the Liche Queen’s head surrendered to the silence. Gradually, her focus returned. The beautifying enchantment restored itself, filling in the decayed reality of her appearance, restoring the pale-skinned beauty the Nekropolis called Queen. Thraal hesitated, giving Pandora a moment to breathe. “I thought it wise to investigate a creature strong enough to disable a band of your Wakeful. Unarmed. Not to mention one cunning enough to hunt the Captain without his knowledge.”
“Very well, general,” the Liche Queen said curtly. The sudden swell of rage had left tight chains around her chest, threatening to crush what little breath remained in her decaying lungs. She forced herself to focus, shattering her bonds. She ached to fully unleash the fury of the Blight but Thraal had consistently warned against it. The masterful warrior is cunning above all else, always keeping his true strength hidden.
Lessons be damned, she thought, one day I shall let him gaze upon the truest of horrors...
“Let Malachai play his game,” Pandora said. Her eyes sparkled in the returned flicker of candle light. “The child will be mine.”
She burst through the war room’s door and disappeared into the Hollow. Thraal heard the echo of clicking heels fade away into nothing. It was a wise decision to let her leave. Even the general was not willing to press his luck.
***
Pandora twisted the skeleton key, locking the door behind her. A satisfying click sounded as the tumblers fell into place. For good measure she lowered a heavy wooden brace into waiting brackets; additional protection against untimely interruption. One could never be too sure.
The suite of chambers comprising her private quarters was unlike any other in the Nekropolis. Billowing tapestries hung from the vaulted ceiling. A roaring fire cast dancing shadows onto the walls of mortared stone. Pandora retrieved a torch from beside a grand fire place. She walked the room’s perimeter, igniting the baker’s dozen sconces positioned to shed optimal light on the treasured collection of tapestries.
She regarded each piece in turn, letting tattered fabric slide between her bony finger tips, remembering fondly the circumstances of their acquisitions. Banners from fallen kingdoms and routed keeps. She could still taste the acrid smoke from the scorched battlefields, hear the echoes of wailing men as the Blight purged them from the mortal realm.
Glorious.
Pandora returned the torch and drew a dagger from a display case. It was the simplest of blades, unassuming, yet razor sharp. She sliced at her palm, watching as the thin red line wept blood. The act no longer troubled her for so much as a flinch. In truth she looked forward to it now. She slung the handful of blood into the waiting fire. The liquid sizzled, filling the room with a foul metallic odor. In a somber tone she called out to a place beyond the flames.
“Master, your servant awaits. Your will, my hands.”
The fire swirled like a cyclone and was sucked away through the flue. An indigo fire mirroring her eyes replaced the orange and scarlets, arranging into the angled features of a face. The demon god Ahriman stared back from the fire. A single gigantic eye pierced the veil between realms, penetrating into Pandora’s mind. A jeweled horn crowned Ahriman’s head, protruding from above the glaring eye. The demon-lord twisted his three jaws, grumbling.
The penetrating stare brought Pandora to her knees. She pressed her forehead to cold stone, arms extended in homage. The blissful feeling of Ahriman probing her mind reeked of palpable dread and dripped with pending doom. It was the only fear Pandora had ever known. It was her great reward. Ahriman scoured the newly formed memories in her mind, searching for news of the captured child and the statuses of his other agent’s. Her vision blackened. A thin trickle of blood dripped from her nose, spattering the stones. Pressure built between her ears. She winced as it built, laughing, wondering if this time her head were to explode.
The demon god’s inspection concluded with a lurch. Dark fire flared in the hearth and then blinked away, blanketing the room in near darkness. Pandora struggled to her feet, found the wide stone block of her bed and flopped onto it. Every cell in her body ached of Ahriman’s lingering traces. It was a price she was more than willing to pay. She was grateful the dark god had found her. They were of the same wretched soul, possessing the same cynical view of the world. In Ahriman, Pandora had found the means to destroy all she hated. Likewise, Ahriman had found a champion avatar in the realm from which he was barred trespass. One who required little effort to control.
Magic’s abhorrent contamination by the mortals would be ended once and for all.
Pandora sprawled across the stone bed, drifting into the waiting shadows that always followed Ahriman’s visit. She wondered if the dreadful feeling would ever abate as the sleep demons claimed her.
She hoped with every fiber of her being t
hat it never did.
Chapter 18
The walls of Meridian’s most notorious tavern were covered in joyous homage to life at sea. A burnt auburn rudder hung proudly above the bar. For generations Meridian’s sailors saluted the rudder with their last drink of the night. It was a humble gesture that sought safe journey in the morning and respite for friends lost the night before. The Rusty Rudder’s patronage was a spirited collage of sailors and locals. A spattering of wealthier merchants shared in the festive mood, shielded by a phalanx of guards wearing scowl and sword. A lonely musician sat on a modest stage, shouting more than singing into air rife of salt water and spilled spirits.
The half-drunk pirate tossed a handful of coins into the air. “Another round!” Poogs cheered.
A dense crowd echoed the jubilant cheer with shouts of bawdy gratitude. The patrons closest to the bar immediately turned to the bar keep, shouting drink orders over the din. The fair skinned man shouted into the kitchen for extra hands. Two lads looking every bit his progeny quickly punched through a sheepskin covered doorway. They hurried to work, deftly serving drinks without a single spill, slinging flagons down the bar to grubby hands. The barkeep filled a flagon of his own and then downed the foamy ale in a single pull. He smashed the cup into the floor and raised his arms in victory to the crowd’s roar.
Poogs slipped from the bar with four steins dangling from his fingers. A sailor with a crooked nose and a thick mask of stubble slapped Poogs on the back, spilling a waterfall of foam. Poogs saluted the kindness with a fistful of raised drinks. After nudging aside a few more fans, he slid into a booth across from the Beast, proudly slapping the drinks down. The pirate laughed into the crook of his elbow. The Beast flashed a suspicious eye.