by Scott Hale
“You think this will stop me?” Atticus yelled, struggling to turn himself over. “We are everywhere!”
A woman emerged from the crowd. “Cut open his neck.” She wore a cloak that was almost as dark as her skin. “I don’t want another fake Gravedigger.”
The soldiers grabbed his head and jerked it back. Several men, eager to please the woman, went in and hacked at his neck until he died.
“Is he breathing?”
“I’m not sure, Captain Yelena.”
Atticus snapped back from the Membrane. He held his breath, stayed still. Someone kicked him in his stomach, burying the heir deeper inside him. He cried out and curled into a ball. The soldier continued to drive their boot into his organs, as though they were trying to pop them.
“Amazing,” the woman, Captain Yelena, said. She crouched down in front of Atticus and picked his head up by his chin. “Sorry for the rude awakening, but we’re on a bit of a time crunch.”
She smiled, and looked deeply into his eyes, trying to find something there. “I heard you were headed to Eldrus. Don’t worry, though.”
She came to her feet, took one of Atticus’ chains, and started dragging him across the room. “Your friends left you behind. Sometimes, it takes something like this to really see just how much someone cares about you. But hey—” she stopped; her forearms bulged as she held the chain up, like he was her marionette, “—good news, you’re still going to get to meet King Edgar. Because we’re going to take you to him.”
CHAPTER XXII
After a while, Atticus lost count of how many times they’d killed him on the road to Eldrus. The soldiers, Captain Yelena included, were transporting him in a large, covered wagon with two compartments for prisoners like himself. By the third or fourth week, the compartment they kept him in smelled so bad they had to take a break from the torture for a few days to clean it. Afterwards, they stopped trying to bleed him dry and started hacking off pieces of him altogether. With a quick tourniquet and a damp cloth of Clot, much to his surprise, this turned out to be far less messy than repeatedly cutting open his neck, wrist, and thighs.
As it turned out, Atticus wasn’t completely out of luck when it came to losing a limb. He couldn’t grow another one—even immortality had its limits—but as long as they fastened it to the place where it fell off, his body would repair the damaged site and make everything, more or less, good as new. So far, he had reattached both his hands and his feet.
If there was a benefit to be had from this mutilation-by-the-minute madness, it was that it left Atticus weak enough to explore the Membrane for longer periods of time. He was dying so quickly, so often, that it was taking longer and longer for his soul to return to his body. With every mortal wound they inflicted on him, he bought himself a few more steps toward Pulsa diNura and, hopefully, his wife and son.
Any other day, he would have fought these fucks off for the hell of it, but in a way, they were doing him a favor. If they kept him dead long enough, he could see Clementine and Will, know that they were okay, and tell them it would all be over soon.
Captain Yelena tightened up the chains that bound Atticus to the compartment. “What do you think would happen if we cut off his head?”
Her two lackeys, George and Robert, shrugged.
“Might be too much, sir,” Robert said.
George ducked out of the compartment for some fresh air. Outside, he said, “Sir, don’t you think we’ve put him through enough?”
Captain Yelena grabbed the bucket they’d been bleeding Atticus into and threw it at George. “King Edgar said to put him to the test.”
“It’s just… it’s getting old, sir.” George brushed the blood off his armor. “If we break him…”
“Then he’s not the Gravedigger, is he?”
Robert cleared his throat and crossed the compartment, minding the strips of flesh that slickened its floor. “George has a point, sir. Immortal or not, he might have his limits, too. Sir, say we have the genuine Gravedigger here and we find his weakness and kill him? King Edgar wouldn’t be too happy about that.”
Captain Yelena groaned. She grabbed a knife and ran it into Atticus’ neck. Blood spluttered out, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even feel it. Not anymore.
“King Edgar would be happy. Because King Edgar doesn’t want anything to do with something that has a weakness,” Captain Yelena said. “You two shut your mouths and go do something else. I will not have you ruin my one chance.”
Captain Yelena went to work on Atticus after that. But as the day grew darker and the road more run down, even she began to lose interest in testing him. Her cuts became less precise, more superficial. She resorted to weak punches rather than forceful stabbings.
Now, with the sun dipping behind the horizon, she was trying to remove his head from his body. By the time she hit bone, she was too tired and too worn down by the routine of it all. Captain Yelena’s saw ground to a halt in his spine. Before he did the dying thing, he saw a softness in her face, a disgust in her eyes—a realization of what she’d done, what she’d become. In those not-so-final moments, he crossed his fingers and hoped she’d kill herself soon. After all, he was about to die, and if she did commit suicide, he might be able to find her in the Membrane and teach her a thing or two about suffering.
Atticus fell forward. Before he hit the compartment’s floor, he was already plummeting through the Membrane on a sinewy streak of light. The fleshy walls of the place shot up around him. He willed his body towards them, hand reaching out for an outcrop. Looking down the vertical drop, he wondered how much further he could fall before he hit the Abyss and it swallowed him up.
Maybe I’ll always stop myself. His fingers skidded across the walls, over hair and cloth. Maybe, for me, all these ledges lead to the same place. Atticus turned himself and brought his other hand to the wall. Maybe this place can’t take me. Maybe I have to give myself willingly. His hands closed shut on a stony ledge. With everything he had, he locked his arms and stopped his falling momentum.
Come back, keep going, Yelena. He clenched his teeth and hoisted himself onto the ledge.
Atticus didn’t know why he did it—time was not something he had to waste; he’d be alive any moment now—but he looked back, over the edge. In the past, he’d never seen anything but darkness at the bottom of the tunnel. But as he leaned forward, feet kicking off the Abyss’ pull, he saw, in the darkness, lights and clouds of color. It was as though a piece of the night sky had been cut away and woven across the tunnel’s end. It was an unexpected beauty in a place that had about as much beauty as the bottom of a boot. The star-like light, the astral swathes of purple and pink—was that the Abyss, or those within it?
Atticus turned around and headed down the path there. It wound through the walls of the Membrane, past groves of Death’s Delirium.
Please, take me to Pulsa diNura, he thought. All roads lead to the same place. The floor slanted upward, and he climbed a rocky hill. This is my damnation, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t do as I say. At the top of the passage, he saw light creeping across the walls; around the bend, the path seemed to open up to something wide and—
“Atticus?”
He stopped dead in his tracks. The voice. Her voice. Clementine’s. Had it been hers? He squinted. Ahead, someone was leaning out from the bend in the passage. A woman. Red hair. It was her, but was it her? The thought, the possibility—it left his mind paralyzed to the point that nothing made sense. A woman. Red hair. Was it—?
“There you are!”
Clementine came out from behind the wall. She ran and threw herself into him, knocking him off his feet. They smacked into the ground, her arms and legs wrapped around him.
“Where were you?” she cried, kissing his face and neck. “Oh my god, what happened to you?”
“Clementine.” About all Atticus could muster was her name. She was here. She hadn’t given up. There was a stab wound in her side, from where Blythe and Bon had killed her, but that didn�
��t matter now. She was here. With him. And she hadn’t given up.
“What did they do to you?” she begged, unwrapping from him.
She smelled good. Or maybe she didn’t, and he thought she did. He touched her hair, touched her skin. He looked into her eyes, ran his thumb across her lips. He’d lost so much of himself, and yet all it took was a moment with her to feel whole again.
“I’m okay,” he said, coming out of the shock of seeing her. He caught his breath. “I know I look like hell. Are you okay?”
“I am now. Yes.” She smiled and held his face. “You’re mangled, Atticus. What did Blythe and Bon do to you?”
“Not them. Listen. Where’s Will?”
Clementine bit her lip. “He’s here. He’s here. It took a long time to find him. He’s with that man, Herbert North. He said he knew you?”
“Good, okay, good.” Atticus took her by her shoulders. “I’m going to be gone in a second.”
She pushed him back, screaming, “What? No!”
“I don’t have a choice!”
As she curled into a ball, he grabbed her and held her close.
“I can’t die. Which means I can’t stay in this place for long. I don’t know what happened, but I can’t die. It doesn’t make sense, I know, but Clementine, listen to me.” He lowered his head, to her ear. “I’m going to get us out. I’ve been working at this for months, you hear? I’m going to get us out. There’s a way. I need you and Will to hold on until then, okay?”
Clementine shook her head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re saying. You can’t, anyways. The shepherds brought us here. Herbert said we’re stuck, like him.”
“He was taken too?” Atticus moved past the question, because it didn’t matter right now. “I can. I will get you out. I love you, and I’m not leaving you, not ever. I’ll be back.” He buried his face into her hair and kissed her everywhere he could. “I’m going to open this place up and take you and Will out.”
“Okay,” Clementine said. “I trust you, Atticus. I believe you. I know you will, baby.”
He moaned. “I don’t want to leave you again.”
She shook her head. “Please, don’t.”
The sight of Clementine alone was enough to make him forsake everything he had planned. For months, he’d been starved of her, and now he was so absolutely ravenous for her affection, he’d sacrifice just about anything to have a morsel of it.
“I won’t,” he said, having decided to stay in this place, having instantly forgotten that he could not. “You’re right. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll make this work, you and I and Will. It’s not so bad. It’s worse up there. We can make this—”
Atticus sputtered to life in the cramped compartment and sat there awhile, drinking his own blood in bitter disappointment. He could still feel her body pressed against his, the warmth of it radiating through his skin. For now, that would be enough to get him through the cold nights to come.
By the time Atticus realized they were in Eldrus, they were already pulling up to the gates of Ghostgrave. Five soldiers in slim, obsidian armor were waiting for him as Captain Yelena and her two lackeys hauled him out of the wagon.
“Looks like you had your fun with him,” one of the soldiers in obsidian boomed.
“I didn’t want to embarrass myself again,” Captain Yelena said. She kicked Atticus to his knees. “He is as they say, Roderick.” She handed the chains to the soldier in obsidian. “Keep him on a tight leash. He’ll fight like a rabid dog.”
Roderick yanked on the chains until they were choking Atticus. “I doubt it.” He loosened his grip and then said, “Ever been to Eldrus, Gravedigger?”
Atticus decided to stop breathing, because it was making his neck hurt too much.
Eldrus. It finally dawned on him that he was here, where he needed to be to put an end to all of this. His eyes were dirty, encrusted with blood and sweat and whatever else they’d manage squeeze out of him. But he could see the city-state well enough.
Similar to the armor the soldiers wore, Eldrus was all right angles and black stone, like ancient obelisks unearthed and commercialized for use. The sky overhead seemed to be constantly overcast, as though it reflected the grim living of those who lived beneath it. Of course, Ghostgrave didn’t look much better. The keep sat on the hill, a bloated mess of uneven walls and crooked towers, with sagging balconies from which the privileged could observe the city and only see its pretty superficialities. But, hey, unlike Eldrus, at least the keep had character.
“Real nice place you’ve got here,” Atticus said at last. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in a month and a half, so when he vomited all over Roderick’s feet, he vomited blood and bile. He grinned and said, “My bad, sir.”
Roderick smiled. “Think nothing of it. Captain Yelena, where’s his confederates?”
“The Marrow Cabal?”
Atticus shut his eyes tight, as though that would somehow dampen the news.
“Gravedigger was the highest priority. The Marrow Cabal took down a few of our men and escaped.” She shrugged. “This movement is pathetic. Once they realize we have their one trump card, they’ll break.”
Roderick pulled on Atticus’ chain. “So you let them get away? Word is he was traveling with a few creatures similar to himself. You may have just elected a new problem for us to deal with in the future.”
Captain Yelena exhaled slowly. She turned her back, saying, “Then you go get them. Oh wait.” She looked over her shoulder. “You don’t give a shit, either. No one does.” She started walking away, beckoning her lackeys to follow after. “Have fun with the Gravedigger. I’ll be expecting payment soon.”
Roderick snapped his fingers. One of his men came forward and threw a hood over Atticus’ head. He tightened it in place with a belt—it’s not as though he didn’t already have enough bindings—and helped Atticus to his feet.
With the assistance of this soldier and another, Roderick forced him forward, through the gates, up a set of stairs, past a door, and another door, around a corner, up a flight of steps, down a flight of steps, through a heavy door, and then a small door, around another corner, into a long hall, down a winding staircase, through a triple-locked door, and into a moist room that smelled of mildew and shit.
Roderick ripped the hood from Atticus’ head. He gave him a moment to take in his surroundings, as though he would be surprised by where they’d brought him. Atticus had seen his fair share of dungeons in his lifetime. Being Poe’s Hangman would do that to a person. But this was easily the worst of the lot. The prison cells were festering pockets of filth, fleas, and flies. The ceiling and the floor were crooked and crumbling. Rats ran freely in the rotund area at the dungeon’s end, chittering and clicking, probably boasting about all the diseases they were going to spread.
“Did you bring me some company?” a woman called out from one of the cells.
Atticus cocked his head. It was then that he noticed that, besides this woman, there were no other prisoners here.
“I don’t know what Yelena did to you exactly,” Roderick said. He started forward, tugging on Atticus’ chain for him to follow. “But I want to apologize for her treatment of you. I can see that she took things too far.” He stopped at the center of the dungeon and turned Atticus to face the cell where the woman sat. “King Edgar asked that you be isolated. I think you’ve been isolated long enough. I’m not saying she’s good company.”
Atticus squinted and tried to pierce the shadows the woman waited in. She looked small, fragile, like she’d been down here a long time.
“But she’s better than nothing,” Roderick said. He ordered the jailer, who Atticus hadn’t even noticed until now, to open the cell beside the woman’s.
“Why the kindness?” Atticus asked. Roderick had his men unshackle him and, for a moment, he considered running.
Holding out his hand for him to enter the cell, Roderick said, “Because I am a kind man, like most here in Eldrus. Don’t let peo
ple like Yelena convince you otherwise.”
Atticus nodded and walked into the cell. His neck, wrists, and ankles felt strange out of their fetters. The skin where they’d been fastened was pale and raw.
The jailer closed the cell door and locked it.
Roderick leaned into the bars. “I don’t have any advice to give you, Gravedigger, other than you better figure out how to die, and you better do it fast.”
“Your momma give you that name?” the woman in the next cell over asked.
Atticus ignored her, gripped the bars, and pressed his face against them. He watched Roderick and his soldiers leave the dungeon, along with the jailer, who was probably too repulsed by the place to stay in it any longer than he had to.
“I got a weird name, too, so I guess I shouldn’t talk,” the woman went on. She stood up and went to the bars that divided her cell from his. “Name’s Lotus.” She extended her hand for him to shake.
“Atticus.” He took her hand and gave her the once-over. She wasn’t much to look at, and the two shiners and busted lip weren’t doing her any favors. Yet he found himself attracted to her. Maybe it was the blood loss talking, or maybe there was something about her, something unseen, in the air, that gave her that alluring quality.
She nodded. “Atticus, again, I have no room to talk, but have you seen yourself lately?”
He hadn’t. But when he turned his neck, he felt it gape open, which meant Captain Yelena’s sawing attempt hadn’t healed yet. Holding his hand there, he noticed the gouges and patches of stripped flesh along his forearm. At some point during his ride from Nyxis to Eldrus, he’d gotten in the habit of not looking at himself. He doubted now that he was missing anything.
“Do you know who I am?” Atticus took his hand back and moved away from the bars.
“I’m guessing I should, but since I’ve been locked up in here for a few months now, I can’t say that I do.” She raised her eyebrows, twisted her mouth. She went back to her place on the floor. “Have a seat. It’s about all you can do in here.”