‘G-Gaulter?’ stammered Yol, lowering his blade just a fraction.
Too much. The risen corpse slashed its own weapon, a rusted sabre, across in a wide arc, and there was a splatter of bright crimson. The Dezraed guard fell, clutching an opened throat, gurgling and choking. He splashed into the water, and his former companion leapt upon him and drove its sword into his chest again and again.
‘Move!’ shouted Toll, grabbing Captain Celtegar under the arm and hauling the heavyset man to his feet. The water boiled to life as yet more rotting bodies clambered upright. The witch hunter fired and a corpse came apart in an explosion of bone and flesh. The stench of rot and acrid gunpowder choked the air.
‘This way!’ shouted Ghedren, splashing through the water towards a rising bank of dead leaves.
They staggered after him, weaving their way through the mass of decaying bodies. As they dragged themselves up onto the muddy bank, more dead things erupted from the water, scraping and clawing at their legs. Callis saw a skeleton rise up ahead of him, a curling branch of thorns protruding from its eye sockets. He drew his pistol and fired. The bullet smashed the skull into a thousand shards of wet bone, and the thing slumped back beneath the surface. Then they were out, on their hands and knees, dragging themselves free. Toll grabbed Callis’ hand and hauled him up. Callis turned, searching for the Dezraed woman, Brujda. She was wading after them, hacking at the bodies rising around her, eyes terrified.
‘Come on,’ roared Callis, stretching out his hand, straining to reach her.
She was only an arm’s length away when half a dozen dead things surrounded her and bore her down. Her scream cut off abruptly as she went under, and bubbles broke the surface. Callis and Celtegar tried to cut their way down to reach Brujda as she thrashed underwater, but more of the dead were rising with every moment, blocking their path and dragging themselves onto the shore. The foetid surface of the swamp turned a deep crimson.
‘She’s gone,’ said Toll, firing round after round, the grey-black smoke from his pistol churning with the pale, white mist.
An arm wrapped in rusted chainmail reached out of the mist to grasp the witch hunter around the throat. A leering skull appeared over the man’s shoulder, its yellowed fangs snapping as it sought to bite down into Toll’s exposed neck. Toll drove an elbow into the side of the thing’s head and there was a crunch of breaking bone, but its grip did not relent. Callis stepped forward, trying to keep his balance while straining to reach Toll. He lost his footing in the slick mud and fell, slipping and cursing, back towards the marsh water. Somehow he managed to grasp a fistful of gnarled roots to stay his descent. He looked up to see Toll stumbling backwards, the skeleton still tearing at his neck. The witch hunter fell, seemingly in slow motion, swallowed up by the mist.
‘Toll!’ shouted Callis, crawling forwards on his hands and knees, searching for his companion. There was no reply, and he could see nothing but the ghostly shapes of shambling figures drawing ever closer. He fired and one of the figures dropped to the ground with a rattling groan.
‘He is lost, Armand,’ shouted Ghedren. He loosed his bow and an arrow sailed past Callis’ head to smash a skeleton to the ground. ‘We must run! This way! Follow my steps.’
Callis took one last look into the thick fog.
‘Hanniver?’ he shouted, but heard only the echo of his own words in response.
It was hopeless. To blunder out into the gloom with the dead all around would be to seal his own fate alongside the witch hunter’s. He felt numb. It seemed absurd – all that he and Toll had been through, only for the man to fall here. Cursing, he turned and followed Ghedren, who led them higher, along the crest of the mound. It was a strange formation, Callis noticed. There was an almost artificial curve to it, a gently sloping arc through which rose a great, twisted tree of black wood. Ghedren stopped beneath its creaking boughs, watching the others as they approached him. The ground suddenly groaned beneath their weight, the roots splintering. Soil and clusters of leaves tumbled away into a pitch-black hole. Callis tripped and fell, sliding towards the drop, clutching desperately for a handhold on the mud-slick roots. He stared up at Ghedren.
‘Help us,’ he shouted, but the man did not move a muscle.
‘Forgive me.’
Ghedren reached down and tugged hard at a thick cluster of vines, raising his long dagger in one hand. He sliced down, again and again, and with a loud crack the roots came apart. The ground beneath Callis and Celtegar fell away. They toppled end over end as the world spun. Callis tried to grasp a hold, but could find no purchase. Something ripped at his cheek and blood splattered across his face. Dirt blinded him and filled his mouth. Suddenly, he struck something with enough force to blast the air from his lungs. Everything went dark.
Callis was dragged back to consciousness by a stabbing pain in his face. He brushed a hand against his cheek and felt torn flesh. Groaning, he struggled to his feet, spitting foul-tasting soil. He stared up and saw a trickle of light filtering down from above. That snake, Ghedren. He had led them here, like lambs to the slaughter. But where, exactly, were they?
Someone moaned beside him. He saw a gleam of metal in the darkness. It was Celtegar. The Dezraed man stood and teetered, favouring his left leg.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Callis.
‘Just fine,’ spat the man. ‘I warned you we could not trust that wretch. Now, where are we?’
‘Good question,’ said Callis. He squinted, waiting impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. They appeared to be in some kind of tunnel. It looked too smooth to be a natural formation. He ran his hand down the wall to his left and felt something hard and cold. Stone. So this was some kind of ancient structure they had fallen into, built from…
His hand brushed over a stone and he felt a circular indentation. Below that, he ran his fingers over a row of sharp objects, a surface of irregular curves and indentations. A shiver of fear ran down his spine.
‘Skulls,’ he whispered. ‘Skulls in the walls.’
Celtegar bent and picked up his blade. Callis gathered his own and recovered his pistol, his heart thumping. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could see that all around them were bones, packed into the earth – row upon row of grinning skulls and the curving beams of ribcages. Fingers and teeth arranged in spiral patterns that turned his stomach. Hundreds upon hundreds of dead things, packed and piled upon each other. Not just human bones, but the fanged skulls of forest beasts and the delicate frames of dead birds. He stepped forward and felt the crunch of more bones underfoot.
‘By the God-King,’ whispered Celtegar. ‘What is this place?’
Ahead, the tunnel curved and descended. Callis moved forwards carefully, the carpet of bone crunching with every footstep. Ahead, the tunnel ended at the mouth of a cave, a pitch-black archway of stone from which hung several objects that clattered and tinkled in the wind. Animal bones, bound together with long ropes of knotted hair, formed into gruesome marionettes. Runes were carved into the black surface, in a language Callis could not read. They were harsh, childlike etchings, and their simplicity somehow made them all the more unsettling. He edged closer and felt the dangling totems clatter against his leather jerkin as he eased past them. Beyond, a low-ceilinged chamber was formed from tangled roots, which curled around each other to create an enormous throne of twisted briar. Upon the throne sat a skeletal figure, head bowed. It was draped in robes of white cloth and a silk gauze covered its face. Around this figure were scores of skeletons, a congregation near one hundred in number, their heads bowed in supplication. Men, women, duardin and aelves. Some were full-sized. Most were small, delicate things. Children, Callis realised with horror. He moved closer. Behind the throne, he noticed another tunnel, thick with vines and thorny brambles. This one appeared to slope up, and he could see the faint shimmer of light.
‘This way,’ he muttered to Celtegar, who nodded. Together, the
y began to inch their way through the chamber, between the kneeling dead. They drew closer to the enthroned figure. Its fleshless hands rested upon the knotted armrests of its seat. In its right fist, it clutched a silver dagger.
At the very foot of the throne, kneeling amongst the throng, was a tall, broad-shouldered figure swathed in a black cloak, and a silver aetherhawk embroidered across the back glittered in the dim light. His shoulder-length hair was black, smeared with mud and dead leaves.
‘It’s the Junica boy,’ muttered Celtegar, starting forwards.
The man’s head lolled at a strange angle, and his neck was coated in dried blood.
‘He’s dead,’ said Callis. ‘We must leave.’
‘We need to retrieve the body,’ said Celtegar. ‘Here is the proof that the Lord Dezraed is innocent of any crime.’
‘If we stay here, we’ll end up as dead as this one. We have to move.’
The soldier ignored Callis and slowly reached out a hand towards the dead man’s head. The wind whistling through the chamber grew louder. Something clattered behind Callis making him spin around, raising his sword. He saw nothing but the sea of smiling skeletons. He turned back, shaking his head.
The figure on the throne snapped its head up to look straight into Callis’ eyes.
He cried out and staggered backwards. The figure rose, drifting up from its throne and into the air, throwing its silk-wrapped head back to reveal a gaunt and terrible face, a half-necrotised, feminine visage with eyes the colour of deep water. A crown of thorns rested upon the creature’s brow.
‘Il thua ca na men,’ it hissed, in a voice like splintering glass. ‘Worach mach bar!’
And then the spirit opened its mouth and screamed.
The sound drove a knife through Callis’ heart. He collapsed onto his back, mouth open in horrified agony as his chest tightened and his muscles tensed so hard that he felt the bones of his left hand pop from their sockets. He spat blood, and his vision swam with crimson. That awful sound. It was a keening wail of pure misery and hatred. His heart skipped a beat and he tried to breathe, but found he could not draw in the air. Panic gripped him and he almost blacked out.
Abruptly, the keening stopped. Callis lay there, unable to breathe, unable to move. Slowly, awfully, the spectre drifted above him, staring down at him with malice. The spirit bent down to embrace him, placing its ice-cold fingers upon each side of his head. He gazed into its night-black eyes and saw nothing but a deep and unquenchable hatred. His terror was absolute.
The spirit’s mouth yawned open, exposing blackened teeth. It came closer and closer. He tried to scream but could not form the sound.
Suddenly, the wraith’s eyes snapped off to the side, widening first in surprise, then in rage. A sword swept through the air. The spectre hissed as the silver metal swept through its incorporeal form. It spiralled away from the strike in a wisp of green-white light. Callis felt a hand grab him by the shirt and lift him upright. It was Toll. The witch hunter raised his pistol, the barrel a mere inch from Callis’ temple. As they heard the first awful, discordant notes of the spirit’s keening wail, Toll fired. The flash of the muzzle left a scar of light across Callis’ vision, and he was thrown backwards.
This close to their ears, in the cramped confines of the low chamber, the effect of the gunshot was akin to a cannon discharging. Callis heard nothing but a painful, piercing ringing. He gasped for breath, blue in the face, and finally sucked in a ragged mouthful of air. He saw Toll, standing before the floating spectre, one hand clasped to the comet symbol around his neck, the other wielding his silver rapier. The spirit rushed forward, its ragged mouth torn open in a silent scream, its dagger seeking the witch hunter’s neck. As the ghost swept in, Toll hurled himself to the side, slashing at the insubstantial body of the creature. The banshee screeched, then whirled and came for the witch hunter again. This time, Toll reached to his belt and hurled a handful of white powder. The spirit recoiled, mouth twisted in agony. It slashed its dagger across and Toll fell back, a spurt of blood erupting from his left shoulder. The witch hunter’s sword spun away into the field of bones. The banshee swooped towards the prone man, hands reaching for Toll’s throat.
Callis scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over the corpse of Captain Celtegar. The man lay staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, blood pouring from his eyes and mouth. Callis dived for Toll’s fallen rapier and took it up in two hands. It was light and perfectly balanced – even holding it seemed to still his thudding heart. The banshee wrapped its bony fingers around Toll’s throat. The witch hunter kicked, struggling and gasping for breath.
Callis leapt forwards and drove the tip of the rapier into the spirit’s side. The banshee arched its back and began to jerk, sickly green light pouring from its mouth as it spasmed. It turned to look at Callis, and the pure, cold hatred on its withered face almost stole the strength from his sword arm. He drove the blade into that awful visage and right down the creature’s throat.
The spirit rose into the air and, even through the ringing in his ears, Callis could hear its awful, high-pitched screech, this time a sound of pain. Then, in a blinding flash that hurled him from his feet, the banshee came apart, erupting into a thousand motes of baleful light. Around them, the bones of the kneeling dead crumbled into dust.
Callis collapsed to the ground, panting, exhausted.
It took several minutes for the ringing in their ears to subside. Even then, it did not completely disappear, nor did the pain fade away. They lay there for a long while, neither speaking. Eventually, Toll hauled himself upright and extended a hand to Callis, dragging him to his feet. The ringing in his ears was agonising still, a piercing pain that jolted through his mind like a lance of fire.
‘We should return the body,’ said Toll at last, his voice muffled as if it were echoing over a great distance. ‘That should spell the end of the Junica and Dezraed feud, at least until they find another reason to come after one another.’
‘Doesn’t feel like much of a victory,’ sighed Callis.
‘They rarely do,’ said Toll. ‘Leave the glorious victories to the soldiers, Callis. We deal in solutions.’
They took hold of the body of the lost Junica boy, and began to drag him towards the tunnel at the rear of the grotto. Callis glanced towards the fallen Captain Celtegar as they left.
‘We’ll send someone to claim his remains and those of his soldiers,’ said Toll. ‘And a priest to see these folk get a proper burial.’
It was a long, awkward struggle to haul the dead body up the sloping channel, but eventually they clawed their way out of a bank of close-packed soil and back into the gloom of the Ulwhyr. Callis sucked in a mouthful of air and slumped to his knees.
‘I never thought I’d be glad to see this place,’ he said.
‘You slew the White Witch,’ came a voice from behind them. They spun to see Ghedren leaning against the thick trunk of an age-old hardwood tree. He had his bow drawn and raised, aimed straight at Callis. Yet there was only defeat in his eyes, and slowly he lowered the weapon. ‘You are not the first. Just because she is gone for now, it does not mean she will not return. Nor that our children are safe. Killing you now will change nothing.’
Callis charged at the man, grabbed him by the neck and hurled him to the floor. Ghedren did not struggle, even when he drew his sword and pressed it to the man’s neck.
‘You led me there to die,’ Callis snarled.
It was a familiar sensation to Callis. The bitter sting of betrayal, and the sick surge of shame and rage as he realised how easily he had been manipulated. Was this how it always ended, he wondered? Trusting someone, only for them to drive their rapier into your unguarded spine.
‘Do it,’ said Ghedren. ‘Kill me, if you must. I do not begrudge your fury. I am sorry that it came to this, but I had no choice. She always returns, Armand. She always takes her due. The curse cannot be bro
ken.’
‘The children?’ said Toll.
Ghedren nodded, a single tear trickling down his face.
‘When it began, I do not know,’ he said. ‘Before my father’s time, and before his father’s. A tithe born of her hatred for the living and her sorrow for a life that was taken from her, some say. The firstborn child of the tribal elder must be delivered unto the White Witch, lest her wrath fall upon all others. Every generation, another sacrifice. By giving one life to sate her fury, the people may survive.’
‘Lord Junica’s son,’ said Callis. ‘You led him to that beast as well?’
‘There are no longer any tribes, but the White Witch still demands her due. The Azyrites rule over us, and so they must pay the blood price. We tried to explain. We tried to tell them what lay within these woods, and the danger they courted by straying into the depths of the Ulwhyr in search of profit. The silksteel plantations, they strayed into her domain. We tried to warn them that her wrath would be terrible unless an offering was made, but they would not listen. They would not believe. And so, for the good of all, I acted.’
‘The Dezraed soldiers,’ said Toll. ‘How did you dispose of them?’
‘Their feud with Aldrec Junica was real enough,’ said Ghedren. ‘It was simple fortune that I was there that night, accompanying my lord’s son to the house of his mistress. We passed the Dezraed soldiers on the road. They were drunk and eager for a fight. Aldrec was never one to back down. Insults were exchanged and swords drawn. He slew one of their number and the rest pursued him. I saw a chance and took advantage of it. I led him deep into the Ulwhyr. The Dezraed followed, and one by one they were claimed by the forest.’
Callis slammed the man’s head against the ground. ‘And what? Murdering us was an attempt to cover up your crimes?’
Gods & Mortals Page 34