by Kit Hallows
I slipped off after a time, my dreams full of strange, eerie places I’d never seen. I wondered whose dreams they were, mine, or my other’s? Or perhaps I’d acquired them from the demons. Fevered thoughts circled through my mind until I fell asleep once more, and somehow stayed there.
We ate bread and cheese for breakfast, and Astrid ordered a pitcher of fruit juice that tasted of caramel and blackberries. It was delicious and as soon as we finished the last drop, we left, much to the landlady’s relief.
Samuel led us across town to an inn frequented by coach drivers. Most were lined up outside, waiting for trade but as soon as he whispered where we were going, none seemed keen to take the fare. Smelling opportunity, one agreed, a hunched man with the haunted look of a soul in thrall to avarice. He demanded double the going rate and Samuel grudgingly handed over the coins.
“Wait here,” the driver said, as he vanished into a large, ramshackle barn. Moments later he trotted out atop a ragged old carriage pulled by a mangy-looking nag.
Icy rain fell as we left Gallowmorn and our journey through the foothills was cold and sombre. The wind whipped around the carriage and streamed in through every crack, hole, and gap in the contraption.
Soon, the rain turned to hail and the tap, tap, tapping it made on the roof put me in mind of Sindaub. It seemed he’d gone, that the completion of our pact had freed him to move on to whatever hell or afterlife awaited his kind. It might have just been fanciful thinking on my part, but it felt true.
I shuddered as the darkness inside me began to swell, as if drawn up by my thoughts of the demon and the horrors of De’ Nix and Heathersage. I was bombarded with thoughts and memories of the creatures I’d taken the magic from and the echoes of their personas rattled my soul.
“Can you tell me where we’re going now?” I asked. But it wasn’t me speaking, it was my other. He stared from Astrid to Samuel, assessing how quickly they might get to their weapons.
Before I’d managed to force him from my consciousness, Samuel had bound my wrists with golden twine. My other struggled, trying to loosen the knots, and the look he gave Samuel was nothing short of murderous. I shoved him away again and apologized. A moment later he returned even stronger, and the fight between him and Samuel was enough to cause the driver to pull his carriage over and order us out.
We emerged onto a narrow road. The open plain to one side was more grass than snow, and on the other was a slope leading down to a forest of pine trees. Ahead, in the distance, towered an immense dark stone structure that seemed to rise all the way to the grey, clouded sky.
“Eh, it’s not that far,” Samuel said, with his customary cheer.
It was warmer than when I’d first arrived in Penrythe, but a cold wind swept over the plain of grass and rustled the trees below. We trekked in silence, our eyes on the dark stone edifice. Samuel and Astrid were no doubt contemplating the need for our visit, while I lingered in what might have been somewhat blissful ignorance if it wasn't for the fact that something about the place was setting my teeth on edge. Then the sudden sight of blood spattered through the grass beside the road caught my eye. “That’s not good,” I said, “care to free my hands so I can help?”
Samuel nodded grimly and the look he gave me as he cut me loose was warning enough. We followed the bloody trail down the grassy slope to where a herd of cows lay still, their dead glassy eyes staring back at us. Most had been eviscerated and others had clearly been dragged off into the woods.
“Yeah, that really doesn’t look so good,” Samuel agreed as he pulled his bow from his shoulder.
Something stirred in the brush and I caught a glimpse of a tall, lumbering figure. It was huge, its eyes bright and blue. Undead. A Hexling of sorts. It looked bewildered and purposeless as it stumbled away, dragging a deer carcass behind it.
“No one’s commanding it,” Astrid said, “it doesn’t know what to do.”
“Stroud’s handiwork?” I asked.
“No,” Astrid answered as she cast a glance back to the stone building in the distance, “It’s probably one of theirs.”
“Whose?” I asked.
“The Sons and Daughters of the Shadowed Way,” Samuel said.
“They sound like a friendly bunch,” I said. “So they make Hexlings and leave them to roam and tear apart livestock, why?”
“It probably escaped,” Samuel said. “We'll let them know about it when we get there. Come.”
We made our way back to the path, amid the occasional crashing din from the forest below and as we drew closer to the tower, its immensity left me in disbelief.
The stone bridge on its own would have been considered a marvel by any standard. It spanned the valley, linking the ridge where we stood to the tower, as well as the forest and hills on the other side. Unfortunately, there was nothing even remotely welcoming about the place. It seemed cold and detached, and I felt the twinge of my other’s anger. Perhaps he’d finally realized what had brought us here. If he had, he kept it from me.
Two guards emerged from the tower and strode across the bridge toward us, and as they neared I realize they were Hexlings. They were tall and lean and their eyes below their wooden masks had the same spectral quality as the others I’d seen.
“Who are you?” one asked, in a rasping voice.
Samuel introduced us, his tone serious once more. “We’re here to see Haxby. I sent word from Skyrehaven. He's expecting us.”
The Hexling stared at Samuel and cocked its head, as if someone was whispering in its ear. “Hand over your weapons. They are to remain here until you leave.”
The other Hexling approached, holding out an empty wooden chest as it waited for us to disarm. Samuel and Astrid deposited what they had, and I followed suit. The Hexling shut the lid and stowed it along the side of the bridge and nodded for us to follow him to the tower.
The bridge was hewn from stone yet it seemed to shake and sway in the shrieking wind that blew along the valley. A wave of nausea passed through me as I glanced over the side to the distant, seething river below.
“Alright?” Astrid asked, watching me closely.
“Never better,” I said, ignoring my growing sense of disquiet as we entered the tower’s shadow, and stood before the stout black doors that led inside.
44
The door opened and a man stood before us, the top of his head lingering perilously close to the stone frame. He had closely cropped hair, an almost devout posture, and fast, lively eyes. I glanced at the chain around his neck. Whatever dangled at the end was obscured by the folds of his chocolate-brown robe, but it began to glow as his lips moved and he looked out at us in utter silence.
The place appeared to be a monastery of sorts. Desolate and empty, with bare stone floors and walls. I gazed up into the heavy gloom that had collected in the recesses of the high ceilings as robed figures strode past, casting curious glances toward the door.
As the man finished intoning, he nodded and gave a disarming smile that didn’t even begin to put me at ease. “Haxby,” he said to Samuel as he waved us inside, “you must be Samuel,” he turned to me, “and this is the afflicted.”
Afflicted? I was about to speak but Samuel beat me to the punch.
“Yes, my cousin, Marvin. He’s from-”
“He’s neither Marvin, nor your cousin.” Haxby held his hand up.“We do not require honesty at the tower, but we do recognize and appreciate it. So, we’ll begin again. And you are?” he asked me.
“Morgan Rook.” There seemed no point in lying.
“And you?” he asked, his face softening as he regarded Astrid.
She introduced herself and the easy smile on Haxby’s lips faded as he addressed Samuel once more. “You should know we did not appreciate the way you contacted us. Messages by bird are not a secure method of communication in these troubled times, especially where confidential transactions are concerned. Now,” he said, “to business.”
“Would you give us a moment?” Samuel asked me.
“Sure.” I wandered off so they could talk privately, about me no doubt. It was clear the tower was a place focused upon magic and learning, but there was also an air of suffering within its archaic walls, darkness too.
I watched the robed figures meander through the halls and narrow, gloomy passages. One, a young woman with long full coppery hair and a pale, slender face, hesitated as she passed, appraising me with even more intensity than Haxby had. It seemed, by the disconcerting glint in her gaze, that she knew me but I’d never set eyes on her before.
“Morgan,” I said, offering my hand.
She glanced away and hurried off. I followed her to the short corridor where she’d turned, but when I got there, there was no sign of her.
“Morgan.” Astrid's voice echoed along the stone and I wandered back to the main hall. The doors were still open, admitting the icy breeze, and it gave the impression that it was not yet decided whether we were staying or going. I sincerely hoped it was the latter. Haxby turned to me, pulled a pair of enchanted glasses from his robe and balanced them on his pitted nose. The lenses were thick, and bright aquamarine light flashed across the surface as he leaned in to examine me. “His affliction’s quite pronounced,” he said, as if I wasn’t there.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Simply put, we have ways to perform the extraction, but the dark energy you’ve taken in will complicate matters. Tell me, how did you manage to acquire it?”
“I don’t know, I just did.” It was true, I still had no idea how I’d assimilated the demons’ or any of the Nightkind’s sorcery. It seemed it had something to do with my other, or my father, or both. Was that why Astrid and Samuel had brought me here?
“You don’t know? Really?” Haxby raised an eyebrow.
“Can you extract the dark energy first, before you work on the other problem?” Astrid asked.
Haxby pursed his lips. “Yes. It won't be easy but we can purge it. For two hundred more.”
“Two hundred?” Samuel asked. “Now that’s just robbery, and I should know!”
“That’s the cost, and it's more than fair, considering….” Haxby said.
“Fine,” Astrid agreed. Samuel muttered as he removed a pouch from the folds of his cloak and counted out the coins. As Haxby watched him, Astrid leaned in close and whispered, “I’m sorry.” She gave my wrist a slight squeeze. “Don’t worry, you’ll get through it.”
“Through what?” I asked, fighting to hide my growing irritation.
“Warroll,” Haxby called.
A short, balding man approached. His grin was about as sincere as Haxby’s and he shared the same air of piety, but I was fairly sure the priests and priestesses in the halls were about as pure as the three of us were.
“This way,” Warroll said. His voice was surprisingly soothing. Astrid looked over with a final, watery smile as he led me away and as we turned the corner I saw her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. It didn’t bode well.
I tried to make conversation as Warroll led me down a long narrow flight of stone stairs. He spoke so softly I couldn’t hear his replies, so I gave up and followed him silently through a maze of cold musty corridors and down another plunging well of steps. I jerked and reached for the sword I'd surrendered like a fool as someone let out a primal howl that echoed along the walls, but if Warroll heard the desperate cry, he showed no sign.
Finally he stopped before a heavy, studded wooden door, gave it a shove and gestured for me to enter. I found myself in a hollow room that was so dark I couldn’t see its walls amid the shifting shadows. In the center was a single, dim lantern and two stone tables arranged side by side.
“Hand me your clothes,” Warroll said.
“All of them?”
“You may spare your modesty.”
I let out a long, uncertain sigh and wondered what in the hell was going to happen. What could have made Astrid tear up like that as I’d left her? Whatever it was, it wasn’t looking good. I considered running for the door, grabbing my weapons from the Hexlings and heading south to face Stroud. That was the reason I’d come to Penrythe, after all.
But instead, I decided to trust Astrid and Samuel, and whatever arcane process was about to take place.
“Morgan,” Warroll said, and I realized I’d been gazing at the table in silence.
“Right.” I removed my coat, stripped down to my boxers and folded my arms against my bare chest in order to preserve the meagre warmth left in the dismal place.
Warroll took my things, vanished into the gloom, and returned empty handed. “Now lie down, if you please.” He gestured to the table.
I did as he asked, mumbling foul words as the cold stone bit into my back. “What now?” I glanced up, looking for the priest but he’d gone, leaving me alone with the darkness.
Without warning or explanation hushed footsteps and whispers encircled me. I tried to control my racing heart as a small robed figure glided from the murk. Its face was lost in the shadows of its cowl, but I knew what it was. I’d encountered its brethren in Faerie.
Four more appeared, their withered, bony hands glistening in the muted light as they reached up toward me. I stared at the shadowed ceiling and did my best to not to flinch as they laid their frosty, reptilian claws on my arms, legs and chest.
They paused and I heard a strange hum. Then their nails pierced my skin, and as they released me they gave scratchy, contented gasps.
The pain struck me like a hammer and their eyes began to glow in their hoods. It felt like sulfuric acid had been injected into my veins. I screamed and tried to draw away but I was paralyzed. My other shifted inside me and attempted to seize control, but with a violent jolt he let go, retreating from the agony.
The toxins burned like molten fire and the eyes that surrounded me grew ever brighter, illuminating the creatures’ scaled, olive green skin and long, tight-lipped mouths.
Images flashed through my mind. The asylum where I’d fought the Hexling and Stroud. Talamos Gin’s lair. And finally Heathersage and the demons. I saw them all, their memories and the sick, twisted vignettes of casual sadism and cruelty they'd all indulged in. There were so many thoughts I wished I could erase; glimpses of suffering that made the agony I was in pale to insignificance.
My other slithered within me like a snake as he tried to rise from the table, but the creatures held firm, their claws piercing my skin while their venom kept my limbs as still as stone. They rifled through my memories, witnessing every dark atrocity I’d ever committed.
Agonized cries built inside me like a storm threatening to tear the entire world apart. And just when I thought they were finished the creatures held up their bloody hands, and white fang-like spurs burst from their scaly wrists. They thrust them into me, bringing a new wave of torture.
The first spur pierced the crown of my head, the second my forehead, the next my throat, then my heart, solar plexus and groin. My back arched as they pricked my naval then the final spur was thrust into my spine.
I screamed myself hoarse and fought to rise as they fed on the darkness within me.
Cold sweat broke over me and ran slick across my tortured flesh.
“Please…” I managed to beg.
“Enough.” Warroll emerged from the shadows. I thought I caught a sly, contented smile on his lips, but when I looked again, his expression was impassive. The creatures retracted their spurs and a fresh wave of pain hit me as they withdrew into the murk.
“Here.” Warroll held out a clay cup. I reached for it surprised to find I could move, but doing so brought utter torment. Foul vapor wafted up from the thick blue liquid in the cup, its scent reminiscent of fermented grease and brine. “Drink it down, quickly.” Warroll said as he placed a bucket beside me and lifted the cup to my lips.
The repulsive flavor of rancid fish oil and rotting liver slipped gelatinously down my throat. A moment later I puked, filling the bucket with an effluence as black as night. My limbs trembled and the liquid began to spin,
round and round like water swirling down a drain. I watched it, hypnotized as I realized it was the malevolence I’d absorbed from the stolen magic, then I passed out.
I came to as Warroll lifted me from the table and escorted me to a far off room. I blacked out in jolting flashes as I stumbled along, but somehow remained on my feet.
A door squealed, bringing me back to the present, and I found myself on a small, narrow bed in a windowless room with a flickering fireplace in one corner. I pulled the blankets up and they fell over my head like shrouds.
I slept in fevered sprints. Heavy torturous nightmares plagued me, and then I’d wake only to slip back into my own darkness. Round and round I went until waking and dreaming blurred together. Eyes on stalks watched from the high ceiling while a plant-like tendril waved beside me, wafting its deadly scented night perfume. I looked back to the eyes. They were a peculiar shade of green, the same shade as Stroud’s.
He’d seen me. He knew I was here…
Someone moved in the darkness at the foot of my bed, their form lost to the gloom. They whispered and I caught a glimpse of coppery hair in the light of the dim fire… the woman who'd stared so intently at me when we’d arrived.
I felt her eyes upon me again as I blacked out.
45
When I awoke, the room was still and dark. The fireplace glowed just as it had before I’d slept, but I had no idea what hour, day, or month it was. I felt light, incomplete, like something had been stolen from me. My bones felt like balsa, my flesh tissuey and thin.
The magic was gone, the dark magic that had once belonged to others, and the loss of it left me feeling naked, defenseless and vulnerable.
Something stirred in the shadows by the foot of my bed. I sat bolt upright, triggering pains that raged across my body like a storm.
"Is someone there?” Memories of the ritual and the small menacing creatures that had drawn out my pain and fed upon it filled my mind along with the horrors I’d glimpsed before the priest had half dragged me to this room and abandoned me to whatever lurked in the shadows. The coppery-haired woman…