by Mark Smylie
“The gods need our prayers to remind them of, and sustain them in, their duties,” his mother had once told him. “A day will come when enough people in the world will have forgotten the gods, and our prayers will have dwindled to a whisper. And when that happens, the gods will forget their duties, and abandon their divine tasks, and on that day the sun will not rise, the dead will wander the earth unjudged, the stars will recommence the War in Heaven, the Devil will take seat upon a throne of brass and fire to rule the wretched Earth, and the world will end once again.”
Thank you, Mother, he thought drily. But at least I have done my duty for this day.
He rose, brushing dust and ash off his jacket and pants as he turned back to the camp. Arduin ignored him as he passed him, calling out to Sir Clodin. “Clodin! We’re breaking camp! Get something to eat while you still can.”
Sir Clodin struggled to his feet, getting up sluggishly, and turned.
“Clodin?” asked Arduin. Stjepan hadn’t really been paying attention, but he heard the worry in Arduin’s voice and caught Sir Clodin’s movements out of the corner of his eye and he stopped, his head swiveling around so that he could focus on the knight. Arduin is right, something is definitely wrong, he thought. Sir Clodin was trying to walk toward Arduin, slowly, stumbling; his face looked like it was covered in white powder, his mouth was open as though he was trying to talk, but all that was coming out were choking sounds and a long low hhiiiisssssssssss.
Stjepan was at a run in an instant, crying out “Lord Arduin! Stop!” as Sir Clodin collapsed to his knees. Arduin started to rush toward the kneeling knight, but something—perhaps Stjepan’s cry, perhaps some instinct about what he saw—made him stop and then jump back with a start. Sir Clodin’s body shivered one last time and then became still. Stjepan reached Arduin and a few moments later there was the sound of pounding feet and jangling armor and Erim, Sir Helgi, Sir Holgar, and Sir Theodras were there as well, weapons drawn. They all stared at Sir Clodin, kneeling motionless a few paces away.
He was dead, his flesh an odd grayish-white color, his mouth gaping open, his eyes sunken like black holes into his head.
“King of Heaven, what happened to him?” Arduin gasped out.
Stjepan stepped forward until he was almost touching the knight’s body, peering closely at it as he went into a crouch.
“Stjepan, don’t,” said Erim behind him, but he raised his hand.
“The amulet . . . Leigh’s amulet, the ones he got from the enchanters at Mizer . . . I don’t see it anywhere, he’s not wearing it,” Stjepan said.
“Aye, he said he didn’t want to wear any heathen magic charm,” said Arduin. “He said he preferred to rely on his faith in the King of Heaven, which had always stood him in good stead, Islik be praised.”
“Then your King of Heaven is what happened to him,” Stjepan said quietly, standing straight and relaxing a bit. “The Sun Court cursed Uthedmael in His name. Leigh said a couple of days ago that the curse on Uthedmael was to punish those that sided with Githwaine, the Last Worm, and aye, that’s true. But the curse was also intended just as much to keep men from even entering into Uthedmael, though for what reason only the Sun Court knows. The curse doesn’t care who it touches; devout Kingsman or heathen Yheran, foul Devil-worshipper or simple unbeliever, the wind from the Wastes drives some men mad, poisons the life out of others, and cares not a whit who you pray to or even if you pray at all. Don’t lose your amulets. And if you do, tell Leigh right away so he can give you another.”
He started to walk away back to camp, and Erim fell in behind him.
Arduin cried out angrily. “Here, we have to burn him! Send his ashes to the Heavens!”
Stjepan looked back over his shoulder at the Aurian lord. “He’s ash already.” And he turned and kept walking back toward the center of camp.
Arduin and his knights stared at Sir Clodin.
Arduin took several tentative steps forward until he was standing in front of the kneeling body. He reached out with his booted foot and gave Sir Clodin a push.
The body toppled over and the armor it was in cracked and shattered as though it were ancient, brittle, rusted iron, and the flesh encased in that armor broke into great clumps of ash that spilled out across the hard ground. Small flakes of ash started to float up into the harsh wind. Sir Helgi, Sir Holgar, and Sir Theodras stepped back, making signs to ward off Evil.
Arduin took a sharp breath. “King of . . .” He cut himself short. He stared at Sir Clodin’s ashes floating in the breeze for a moment, and then turned away.
They discovered that three horses had also perished in the night, collapsing into ash and clumps of hard stone. It was hard to tell if the amulets that had been woven into their hair had simply fallen out, or if someone, perhaps Sir Clodin, had removed them; one of the horses that died was his destrier.
Their progress that day, the 2nd of Ascensium, was slow going. The old funerary road that they were following had long fallen into disuse and disrepair; horses or men on foot would have had a better time of it, but with wagons and a coach they were forced to stop several times to sort out difficult turns or a stuck wheel. The lead wagon became stuck once, requiring six men to get it moving again, and the coach became stuck about an hour later as the road followed the top of a deep ravine. Some delicate and nerve-wracking moments followed for all while Annwyn and Malia dismounted from the coach and were helped to safe ground, and then Godewyn and his men were able to free the wheel that had gotten stuck.
A few hours later and they were stopped again, spread out on the funerary road through a stretch of dead and petrified trees and gnarled, thorny brush. They had cleared the ravine and were now on the other side of the Bale Mole; to their south ran the great central ridge of the hills, while now to their north they could see down a broad valley leading into the great central plain of the Vale of Barrows. Stjepan and Erim were on point, dismounted at a crossroads. The funerary road split in three different directions in front of them. One possible path turned back toward the south, back up into the hills. The middle path followed the curves of the hill line that they were on. And the third path turned north and down into the valley, toward the flat river plateau and the barrows and pyramid mounds that were dotted across it. Erim peered off into the Vale with curiosity and dread; in the eastern Middle Kingdoms, burial grounds and cemeteries were unusual, as most of the people were worshippers of the Divine King and were cremated in their last rites, and the idea that the great highland plateau that they now looked over was filled with the bodies of the dead was mesmerizing and frightening. Across the flat, desert-like terrain Erim could see a mountain line far to the north, the great snow-capped peaks of the Harath Éduins, and a part of her wanted to scream in delight that she had gotten so far into the wild world as to see such a sight. Another part of her wanted to flee in terror back down the road on which they’d came.
There was a marble statue of some kind at the crossroads, damaged and decayed enough over time as to be unrecognizable. She was pretty sure it was a woman, though, or perhaps even a goddess. In the Old Religion, the goddess of the Dark Moon, Djara Luna, was also said to be the goddess of crossroads, and she guessed that the statue was meant to represent her. Strange amulets and stick figures made of branches dangled from the petrified tree branches nearby, swaying in the breeze. She wondered who had left them there, and how long ago. She turned to ask Stjepan, saw that he was busy consulting his journal and a book of maps, a frown on his face, and she shrugged and bit her tongue.
Gilgwyr and Leigh were in the front wagon, along with Caider and red-haired Giordus, who were nervously eyeing the countryside around them. Gilgwyr glanced at Leigh; the enchanter had his eyes half closed, staring back at the rest of the caravan. Gilgwyr followed his gaze. Arduin and his knights were clustered around the Ladies’ Coach, forming a protective phalanx around it on their armored destriers. The Aurian lord was fuming, a dark cloud upon his face, and a sober shroud had settled upon his shoulders and
that of his men. Gilgwyr hadn’t seen them look so grim and dour since the death of their squire back on the river. That seemed like ages ago when he thought about it. He couldn’t even remember the young man’s name.
“I think our patron would very happily see Stjepan hanging from the nearest tree,” said Gilgwyr lightly to Leigh. “That’s two of his that we’ve lost on this trip.”
The enchanter snorted. “And no doubt more to come. But our patron would likely be happy to see all of us hanging from the nearest tree,” said Leigh. “He may now hold a special hate for Black-Heart, but I do not think that any of the rest of us are exempt from his condescension. A man like that knows in his heart that he’s better than everyone around him by birthright. Makes it hard to find friends.”
It was Gilgwyr’s turn to snort. It’s true, I suppose; thanks to us and to Harvald, that family’s entire life has been turned upside down and likely ruined, with the end of their line in sight, unless we can find a magic sword buried in the middle of nowhere, he thought. And yet my own dreams promise me a great day is coming. Why am I the only one to see the possibility of such joy?
He jumped down from the wagon, on the sudden impulse to stretch his legs. As he settled his tricorn on his head he decided to join Stjepan and Erim at the front of the caravan. He slung his scabbarded rapier over his shoulder and sauntered up the hard trail to join them at the crossroads.
“I am beginning to sense some growing disquiet in the ranks,” he said jovially. “And this day was already off to a bad start.”
“Apologies, Master Gilgwyr,” said Stjepan gruffly. “We are at a crossroads, as you can see, and I just want to make sure that we head in the right direction.” He pointed to the northward path. “That path leads down into the Vale, and that is not where we are going. But of the two remaining paths . . . I’m pretty sure the one to the south eventually turns toward Lost Angharad. The one in the center follows the hills out to a spur that juts into the Plain, and upon which sits Geniché’s Throne, the great carved seat of rock where legend says Geniché once sat in the days when this was still part of her great Garden, and to which she was said to return on occasion to watch over the dead of the Vale.”
“You took that with Harvald once,” Gilgwyr said.
“Aye,” said Stjepan. “Two summers ago.”
“Did you sit on the Throne?” Erim asked. “Is it true you can see the Future, and talk to the Dead there?”
“I chose not to sit on it,” said Stjepan with a shrug. “Wasn’t my time to do so, I don’t think. But Harvald did. I never asked him what he saw. But he didn’t talk for a day afterwards.”
Gilgwyr laughed. “Now that’s an act of real magic,” he said. “So which road do we take?”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Stjepan said. “We’re headed for someplace in between Angharad and Geniché’s Throne, so I have to figure out from my other maps of the area which of these two roads has a side trail going where we need to go.”
“Fantastic,” said Gilgwyr with a smile. “Hurry the fuck up.”
He turned and rather than returning directly to his perch, he decided instead to stroll toward the rear. He could hear one of the squires whispering the Prayer for the Dead for Sir Clodin as he approached the coach. He promptly doffed his hat and nodded gravely to Arduin and his knights and squires as he passed them, and they icily ignored him. He heard Leigh laughing quietly behind him, and he winced a bit at that. No need to provoke them with laughter, he thought. I know you’re laughing at me, but they don’t. As he slipped his hat back on he stole a glance into the coach, but despite the fact that the window was ajar it merely opened into darkness, and he caught no glimpse of Harvald’s beautiful sister.
As he approached the last wagon, Godewyn was pacing by its side, throwing angry glances up the column toward Stjepan in the lead. His men were ringed around it on foot, their motley assortment of weapons ready at hand, but there was a certain boredom mixed in with their nervousness. “How much longer, do you think?” Godewyn said, walking up to Gilgwyr with big Cole Thimber and Too Tall right behind him. “What’s the delay? Where in the Six Hells are we going? Are we lost?”
“We’re not lost. Well, not exactly,” said Gilgwyr. “There’s a crossroads up ahead and Stjepan isn’t sure which fork takes us to where we’re going. He’s just checking his maps, we’ll be fine.”
“Black-Heart knows the rules out here! Unless you know you’re in a safe place, you don’t stop moving unless you’ve got a magician’s wards set around you!” Godewyn snarled. “And hanging out on the side of this hill most definitely is not—”
“Hey, new guy! Careful over there!” shouted Handsome Pallas.
Godewyn and Gilgwyr both turned to look at the shout, following Pallas’ line of sight. Isham Wall had wandered away a bit up the hillside, apparently taking a break to relieve a bloated bladder. He’d found a slightly sheltered spot behind a large, twisted, and petrified tree a few dozen paces away, and had dropped his pants to urinate on the ground.
“What the fuck? Get back here!” shouted Godewyn, turning and starting to unlimber his broadsword.
Isham glanced over his shoulder at them and made a bored wave. “Be right there, chief!” he shouted.
“Islik’s balls,” Godewyn spat, already starting to move. “I said—”
And then Isham gave a scream as his legs were swept out from under him, and he pitched back and was dragged with stunning speed halfway into the earth under the tree. Suddenly he stopped, momentarily jammed in place.
Godewyn, Pallas, and Too Tall were at a run in a shot, Godewyn cursing loudly as they drew their weapons. Gilgwyr was so startled by the sight that he lost a step or two and was behind them, and big Cole Thimber who was naturally slow wound up bringing up their rear. Gilgwyr glanced back up the caravan and saw the knights turning their horses about in alarm, and found himself thankful that Sirs Theodras and Theodore had put spur to flank and had started riding back toward them.
By the time Godewyn reached him, Isham was being pulled slowly further and further into a small hole of earth and rock in the ground under the base of the petrified tree, still screaming at the top of his lungs. “Fuck! It’s got me! It’s got me! Fuaccckkk!” he cried. Godewyn and the others immediately grabbed his arms and started pulling as he pleaded, but in an instant they knew it was a losing battle. Whatever had a hold of him was incredibly strong and even though the hole looked very, very small it was making some progress at pulling him inside. Their efforts held him suspended for a moment, and his scream became wordless as he was pulled in both directions. His upper thighs and hips had been what had jammed him up in the hole, his exposed manhood flopping uselessly about for a moment, still free and urinating from both need and fear, until he got pulled in another few inches and his member was crushed into the hole along with his hips with the sound of bone breaking. His scream went up an octave and blood and liquid spurted onto his abdomen. Gilgwyr arrived just in time to wince and look away.
Isham and Godewyn locked eyes for a moment. They both knew he was going to get pulled under the tree.
“Sorry, mate,” said Godewyn quietly. And then he plunged a dagger into Isham’s neck. As the blood arced out of his jugular, Isham gurgled and his eyes started to roll back into his head, and his body started to go limp as he bled out.
Godewyn’s gang let go of him as he died, and Isham was pulled from their sight, disappearing under the tree with a sickening crunch of bone and flesh. They spun away, shouting and screaming in rage and fear, weapons pointed at the ready as they stared at the hole, waiting for something to emerge.
And then suddenly Leigh appeared amongst them, a blur of blue-black robes, and he threw a bottle etched with runes at the hole. It exploded in a whoosh of blue flame as all of them leapt back and the horses of the two knights right behind them reared and whinnied in shock and surprise, almost throwing Sir Theodras to the ground.
“Begone, things of the cursed dark! Begone, things of the cursed
earth! I bar you from this portal!” he cried out.
No one moved for a long moment.
Leigh slowly straightened, surveying his handiwork with a self-satisfied air; the hole in the ground was filled with blue fire, and the petrified wood of the tree was being slowly enveloped in the crackling blue flames, black and white smoke curling up from its branches.
He nodded. “Sorry about your lad. You did the right thing,” he said to Godewyn. Then he turned and walked away from the burning tree.
Godewyn stared at the hole in the ground. He breathed in heavily. “He knew the risks. We all do,” he said quietly.
The group moved away from the burning tree, at first slowly and then with increasing speed, hurrying back to the rear wagon. Cole and Too Tall clambered back up into the driver’s seat of the wagon, their eyes and weapons still pointed back up the hill toward the growing conflagration, but Godewyn and Pallas keep marching, past the knights shifting about on their horses, past the first wagon toward Stjepan and Erim at the front of the caravan. Gilgwyr and Leigh followed in tow, and Giordus jumped off the first wagon as well, and Arduin urged his horse forward to see what was going to happen.
Stjepan and Erim had come back about halfway to the first wagon from the crossroads on hearing the shouts and cries from the back of the caravan, and now they waited there wordlessly as Godewyn walked right up to Stjepan. He swung a big fist with startling speed right at Stjepan’s head, but almost seemingly by accident Stjepan half stumbled, half ducked out of the way at the last second and Godewyn caught nothing but air with his punch.
And then Pallas and Gilgwyr and Giordus were holding the big man back as he tried to get at Stjepan again, but already his heart wasn’t in it, and then Erim and Leigh were stepping in front of him with hands upraised, separating the two men.
“Get us moving, you fucking Athairi, before any more of us die!” Godewyn shouted angrily. He let himself be dragged away by his men as they said soothing words to him until finally he shook himself free and turned around and started walking back toward the rear of the caravan, cursing and waving his arms dismissively. Arduin moved his horse out of the way with pursed lips, a look of satisfaction on his face as he let Godewyn and his men pass him. He looked coldly at Stjepan, and then he turned Ironbound and walked the destrier back to the coach and his waiting knights.