Mortiswood: Kaelia Falling (Mortiswood Tales Book 2)

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘How much more of a story do you imagine there is?’

  Aleinia’s reptilian gaze was unwavering. ‘If I knew I would not be asking.’

  ‘You should not be asking either way. I am your leader and it will serve you well to remember my power.’ With a flick of his long, black hair, Thom strode away from Aleinia and into the group of loyalists.

  ‘What shall we do with the body parts, Leader?’

  Thom paused, and then turned to face the Loyalist—a dark alchemist—who had asked the question. ‘Do you know what?’ An evil glint sparked in Thom’s fiery eyes. ‘I have had it with all of the questions.’ Stretching his fingers out straight so the ragged nails protruded, Thom sliced the dark alchemist’s neck before the man had a chance to move.

  Surprise widened the man’s eyes and he clutched at the gaping wound. Blood bubbled up and out of his mouth as he sank to the ground. No-one else dared as much as breathe. The loyalists all froze, moving only their eyes as their leader stooped and cupped a handful of the dying man’s blood in his hands. They watched Thom lift his hand to his mouth and drink the warm blood, eyeing each of them in turn.

  Thom rose and licked his lips. ‘I trust you all understand.’

  Aleinia folded her thin arms across her chest but did not speak; neither did any of the others.

  Shrouding himself in purple smoke Thom juddered and shook into his decaying horse form. Rotten muscles rippled as he galloped towards the shadow gateway back to the human world. His decaying, flayed flesh bounced in putrid ribbons across his wide back, and foul steam snorted from his flared nostrils. Only when Thom’s matted horse-tail had disappeared from view did the remaining loyalists dare to breathe again.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bran’s Home

  ‘As long as you stay within the circle of Barzian trees, you’ll be safe here.’ Bran, weakened by the wounds to his neck, leant against a tree trunk. The point of his dark hair flopped over his pale forehead. He licked his lips. They were dry. He needed a drink. Preferably a strong one.

  ‘Where’s here, and what are Barzee-whatever trees?’

  ‘Here is my place.’ Bran pointed to the silvery trees with rust coloured leaves encircling an area of woodland, which in turn surrounded a tall tower. ‘And they are Barzian trees and when planted next to each other in a circle they provide protection against unwanted intruders.’

  ‘Similar to a protection spell?’

  ‘Sort of but they respond to the voice of the person who nurtured them from seed. That would be me, of course. All I have to do is whisper to them and they keep out, or,’ Bran said meaningfully, ‘they will kick out visitors who choose to misbehave.’

  Cadence swallowed. ‘How do they kick people out?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘But they’re trees, meaning they’re natural.’ Cadence squared her chin. ‘Also meaning I can control them. I am Sifar still.’

  ‘You can’t control these trees. The seeds were given to me by Hel herself, no living being, no matter their strengths, can control them.’

  ‘I am a Draugr. Draugar are dead,’ Cadence pointed out.

  ‘The dead cannot control them either.’

  ‘So how can you?’

  ‘You ask an awful lot of questions.’

  ‘I’m interested. Well?’

  ‘I can control them because I straddle both worlds, the dead and the living. Now, if you have quite finished with the inquisition I would welcome a break from your whiney Draugr voice.’

  ‘Are we still in Mortiswood?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bran pulled the handkerchief from his neck which he had been using to stem the flow of blood, the material was sticky and fibres clung to his skin. Gingerly, he felt around the raw wounds before slapping the sodden material back over them. ‘Great, four more scars to add to my collection.’

  Cadence slowly turned around, looking up at the tall trees surrounding them and over to the tower. ‘You really live in a tower?’

  ‘Where did you expect me to live, in a cave?’

  ‘I thought you’d live in a house.’

  ‘What, in the middle of a nice suburban street? That would be so me.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘Well, excuse me if I’m a bit tetchy at the moment. I was mauled by a Vontanderbeast.’

  Cadence rolled her eyes. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful or something because you rescued me?’

  ‘Honestly, yes, I think you should be. If it hadn’t been for me, The Salloki Loyalists would be drinking your blue blood right now.’

  ‘You didn’t turn up to save me though, did you? Did someone send you to find me?’

  Bran peeled his back off the tree trunk. Sweat had penetrated his shirt and it clung uncomfortably to his skin. ‘By someone I assume you mean the human physician.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You and he had a thing, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Do you still have a thing for him?’

  Cadence shrugged. ‘So what if I do?’

  ‘You chose this life,’ Bran pointed out. ‘I sent the wimpy physician to the Draugr realm to bring you back, you were angry with him and wanted to sod off with Thom and become immortal but still the physician tried to save you by hunting for a Rosealrium bloom, and then when he returned with one, you stuck two fingers up at him again and chose the Draugr. Why would he want to send me to save you? You dumped him in the worst way possible.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding!’

  ‘Why did you even ask the damn question in the first place?’

  ‘So, you’re saying no-one asked you to come rescue me?’

  ‘No-one asked me to rescue you. Why would they? I’d be the last person anyone asked anything for.’

  Cadence’s shoulders drooped. ‘Then why did you rescue me?’

  ‘I thought it would piss Thom off if I took away his new toy.’ Bran pressed a fresh handkerchief against his neck and staggered towards the tower. ‘But the real reason I went to The Salloki was to tell them they also need me to melt the blade between Vanagandr’s jaws. I thought it was time they knew.’

  Cadence eyed him sharply. ‘To take some heat off that bitch, Kaelia.’

  ‘To borrow your reply about the physician, maybe.’

  They had reached the tower. It was wider at the base than at the top, and purple veined vine meandered up its surface. The building’s shadow was long and cold.

  Cadence shivered. ‘Hurry up and open the door, it’s freezing out here.’

  ‘Your Sifar side must be taking over. Draugar are immune to the cold.’

  ‘Well I’m not solely a Draugr.’

  ‘No, you’re a cross-breed.’

  ‘I prefer to think of myself as a hybrid.’

  Bran laid a palm against the wooden door. A stream of violet coursed visibly through his veins and light glowed from the underneath of his hand. When he removed his hand, a glowing handprint remained for a second on the wood before evaporating. The door creaked open and Bran lurched inside.

  ‘Great,’ Cadence said. ‘A chance to warm up properly.’ She made to pass through the doorway but was instantly blocked. She tried again but her foot was met with an unseen resistance. ‘Hey, let me in. Is this your idea of a joke?’

  Bran, leaning on the bottom banister post for support, looked over his shoulder. ‘It would appear my tower does not trust you. You cannot come in.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s your tower, your spell. Change it!’

  ‘No can do I’m afraid. This tower is made of stone from the shores of Nastrond. Hel cast the magic inside each and every one of them. No-one who holds an ounce of ill-will toward me can ever enter. It was the only way Hel ever permitted me to leave her realm in the first place. The tower’s protection counts Thom out for one. I’m sure over the centuries it has kept many of my enemies at bay while I slept.’

  ‘I don’t mean you ill anything!’ Ca
dence charged at the open doorway using her shoulder to ram the invisible protection but she ricocheted, landing in a tangled heap on the grass. ‘This is ridiculous!’

  Bran clambered up the first few stairs. ‘I can’t do anything about it. Even if Hel rose up from her realm and knocked on the door, if she meant me harm, she couldn’t enter.’

  ‘But it’s cold out here!’ Cadence wailed.

  ‘You’re part Sifar,’ Bran reminded her, struggling up the spiral staircase. ‘You can always light a fire or something. Again, you’ll be safe as long as you stay within the circle of Barzian trees.’

  ‘Don’t you care if I freeze to death on your doorstep?’

  ‘You’re already dead.’ Bran waved the door shut with a flick of his hand, snuffing out Cadence’s spluttering. Appreciating the welcome silence, he climbed the rest of the stairs to the first floor.

  The staircase widened onto a small landing. A twisting corridor led away from the stairs and to the left was another wooden door, which Bran stumbled to and pushed open. Ghostly, evening light sliced through the tall, narrow windows casting the room in a silvery-grey sheen. A sofa, enveloped by a heavy damask cover, sprawled against the wall opposite the three windows. On a low table in front of the sofa was a gilded, empty bowl.

  Bran dropped onto the sofa, and removed the blood soaked cotton handkerchiefs from his neck wounds. The wounds throbbed, pulsating with the echoes of his heartbeat as fresh blood leaked from the sliced skin. He dropped the ruined handkerchiefs into the gilded bowl on the coffee table before him. Miniature clouds formed in the golden bowl, swirling around the bloodied material, and tiny crackles of violet lightning forked from within them, drawing sparkles of Bran’s own violet light from his fingers in response.

  ‘Kaelia,’ Bran whispered. ‘Show me where she is.’

  Closing his eyes he conjured up an image of Kaelia in his mind, of her in the depths of Mortiswood, her copper-fire hair billowing in a crisp, autumn breeze, and, he grinned, her neat little bottom in a pair of those skinny denims she liked to wear.

  Opening his eyes he peered into the miniature cloud storm and waited for the swirling to abate. The tiny forks of lightning stilled and the clouds dissipated into a grey fog which rapidly dissolved, revealing a shimmering disc in the bottom of the bowl. The material was gone and Bran waited for an image to appear.

  ‘Where are you, Kaelia?’ A fresh surge of blood wetted Bran’s neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt and running warmly down his chest. ‘I need your healing powers.’

  Splaying a hand above the shimmering in the bowl, Bran willed it to work. He had to see her, had to know where she was so she could hear him calling.

  ‘Damn it!’

  He clenched his hand into a fist and the shimmering disc bubbled, wisps of fog rising from the surface.

  ‘Kaelia!’ Bran straightened his hand and the bubbling subsided. ‘Where are you? Hear me!’

  His hand trembled, not from anger but from weakness. It was taking him over, draining his strength as blood leaked from his wounds. There was no way he could leave the wounds unattended for much longer but he could not use his own powers to heal them.

  ‘Kaelia!’ Bran tried once more, staring hopefully at the bowl but no image appeared.

  It’s no good, a tiny voice whispered in his head, she has abandoned you...or she’s dead.

  ‘No!’

  With his outburst the shimmering disc at the bottom of the bowl shattered into a dozen shards which erupted out of the bowl and impaled into the wooden table. Bran shrank back, another injury was exactly what he didn’t need right now.

  ‘That’s it then,’ he said hollowly. ‘There are only two options.’

  On shaky legs he rose and staggered over to a small box fixed to the wall by the far window. The front of the box opened when he pressed it, and revealed a small assortment of emergency medical equipment. He reached in and selected a clear bottle filled with a murky liquid, resembling the colour of a dirty puddle. Unscrewing the cap, his nose wrinkled.

  Everstrain, extracted from the juice of a corpse melted with Hellhound saliva. Smells like crap, will sting like hell. It’s either this or asking for help. From Her. From Hel. All he had to do was call and she would send someone, something, to carry him to her.

  ‘No bloody way,’ Bran said.

  Grit your teeth and get on with it. Stop pansy-arsing around. You’re a necromancer. You’re THE Dark One. You got this. You’re four-hundred-and-thirty years old. This is nothing. You’ve seen worse. Suffered worse. The scar Thom gave you on your face was worse than this; it was filled with Draugr poison. Four teeny tiny scratches from a Vontanderbeast are nothing in comparison, he told himself.

  Bran clutched the glass bottle, his grip weaker than he cared for.

  Come on, do it already. You couldn’t strangle a mouse to death at the moment let alone defend yourself against the Draugr if he comes knocking.

  The putrid stench wafting from the bottle was cloying and Bran coughed.

  ‘This had better work,’ he mumbled, holding the bottle up.

  Bringing it close to his neck, he stretched his head over towards his shoulder, exposing the wounds. Gagging, he tipped the small bottle up and the liquid slowly drooled from the opening, suspending in a big droplet. Bran shook the bottle hard and the drop plopped free. From the corner of his eye he watched the liquid wobble through the air. Time slowed, he held his breath as the drop neared his flesh. He gasped, feeling its heat before it made contact with his skin. Then, as soon as the droplet so much as grazed him, he screamed.

  Pain dragged Bran to his knees. A rancid stench of burning flesh filled his every breath. Spots of white light distorted his vision. The room flashed in and out of focus. A cold sweat prickled the hairs of his body into painful spikes. Bile rose in his throat. For a moment Bran wondered who was screaming in such a high, frenzied pitch before realising he was the one making the racket. A tremor charged through him, flipping him onto his side. Molten skin slid from his neck and pooled in a rippling mass, stopping short of eroding his chin. Steam rose from his neck, the remaining skin around the burnt area stretched little by little, pulling the edges closer with every tiny, painful movement. His fingers itched to scratch the wound to assess the amount of damage but Bran knew better. Touching it while it was still healing would mean he’d lose his fingertips too.

  The smell of molten flesh made Bran gag. Although he couldn’t see the skin re-growing over the wounds, he suffered every pull and tug. It hurt worse than when the Vontanderbeast had inflicted the wounds. He screamed once more as pain shot down his arm and up his neck, into the back of his head.

  Fool, the little voice in his head whispered, you should have gone to Hel. She could have saved you from this agony. This torment. You may think you are wise but you are still nothing more than a young man. Ignorant. Foolish. Emotional. Alone.

  Yes, you are alone. Where is Kaelia now, where is she when YOU need her? You freed her from Hel’s clutches, you helped her friends when they needed help, and what has she done in return for you? Nothing. She used you to gain access to Hel’s realm so she could free her grandmother’s spirit. She used you to further the growth of her own powers. You must use her. You must stick to the original plan. You shall gain her loyalty so she will not question it when the time comes for you both to melt the blade between Vanagandr’s jaws.

  Bran’s eyelids slid closed in exhaustion.

  You must destroy everyone Kaelia cares for so she has no-one but you.

  You must make her love you.

  * * *

  Moonlight bathed the sleeping form of Bran, casting his slender shadow behind him on the wooden floor. Pale beams stroked the raised scar on his face, making the edges resemble glow worms. His fingers twitched and he stirred. Bones creaked with his waking stretch. His eyelids flittered open and he remembered the pain. Tentatively feeling his neck he held his breath, exhaling with relief.

  Nothing.

  Despite the absen
ce of pain, Bran’s legs still wobbled as he scrambled to his feet. An acrid aroma lingered, and the puddle of melted flesh from his neck remained on the wooden floor, although it had dried to a consistency akin to a spilt, raw egg.

  Leaving the room behind him, Bran followed the winding corridor to the bathroom. Without daring to look in the mirror he brushed his teeth to dislodge the fuzzy sensation in his mouth, it was as if a mouse had crawled right on in there while he had been passed out and somehow mummified from the putrid stench of his burning skin. A mix of blood, toothpaste, and an icky brown sludge swirled down the plughole when he spat his mouthful out. A bitter tang clung to his tongue so he squeezed an extra-large globule of toothpaste on the brush and scrubbed furiously until the whole inside of his mouth tingled.

  Freshened, he steeled himself for seeing his reflection. The newly grown skin was shiny and pink. The Everstrain had burnt away more than just the slice wounds from the Vontanderbeast; it had chewed out an irregular patch the size of his whole hand.

  ‘Fan-bloody-tastic,’ Bran hissed at his reflection. ‘Everstrain’s a scar free way of healing wounds. Is it hell!’

  The mirror steamed over. Frowning, Bran wiped the condensation away with the cuff of his shirt sleeve. The glass instantly steamed up again. Hairs prickled on the nape of Bran’s neck, the newly grown skin tightening with the drop of temperature in the room. With each breath he expelled, vapour trails corkscrewed from his lips, chilling them.

  Was it Her? Had She risen from her realm to walk the earth as She had always wanted?

  Bran listened intently; bracing himself for the sound of a million tiny scales moving with Hel’s every step.

  It can’t be her. He’d feel her, surely. Sense her. No, she couldn’t enter if she meant harm, this was something else entirely but who, or what, can breach the tower’s protection?

  Bran clenched and unclenched his fists.

  You cannot be afraid, not you, Necromancer, he told himself.

  Violet light fizzled from his tensed fingertips. Light power surged throughout his body, illuminating his coal-black eyes with a ring of cool purple.