by R. A. Miller
“What did this to you?” she asked.
The priest labored to speak. His words coming out in dry gasps.
“Town...cursed...to live dead...”
“I don't understand,” Cora answered, “What killed the people downstairs? What did this to you?”
The dying priest tried to get the words out again but in the end just did not have the strength. His body slid down to the floor where his head smacked into the wooden floor with a sickening thud.
The priest was dead.
Cora took a moment of silence to mourn another priest passing. Before long she heard a sound from the stairs. Something was moving very slow up the stairs and it had a heavy gait to its walk.
About the same time there was a shuffling sound coming from the rooms next door and across the hall. Something finally knew she was here. It was coming for her.
Eight or more shadows were making their way towards her from the hallway and the stairwell. Cora stood up and prepared herself for a fight.
Whatever had killed the townspeople was now coming for her. Cora would not allow any more innocents to die.
Cora’s eyes were focused on the doorway, waiting for whatever horror was about to walk through. She was not prepared for what she saw. Stumbling through the door was another woman, this one also appearing to be dead, yet she was standing.
The dead woman shuffled her feet as she walked and her head leaned to one side. Hair full of knots and skin sagging, the woman looked as if she had just risen from the coffin.
Behind her came a man who also walked with shuffling feet, but this one had a hole in his abdomen. Cora saw his intestines hanging out, trailing between his legs and almost touching the floor.
Both dead humans moaned at her as they shuffled towards Cora, as if trying to tell her something. Over the shoulders of these two she saw what was making its way to the top of the stairs. It was the woman from the lobby, the very same one she had seen as she came in only minutes earlier.
Cora watched as these three, and then five more, tried to pile into the room after her. The first dead thing was almost to her when she shook off the shock and went into defensive mode.
She took a swipe at the closest one, using her hands. She was surprised at how easily the woman's flesh tore away. The bone could be seen where Cora had just attacked, but no blood found its way out.
Now she knew they were dead. This comforted her. She didn’t have to hold back on corpses. She could fight full force without worrying about killing them. She smiled.
The first woman reached for Cora with her right arm. Cora caught the blow and tore it off at the shoulder. This did not stop the dead woman though. The corpse continued to come at her. It lunged at her, mouth open trying to bite the vampyre.
She picked up the arm she had just ripped off and proceeded to smack the dead thing with a series of blows. These made the dead woman stumble back, knocking over the dead man behind her. Cora could see that being dead meant it was going to take more than torn limbs to take them down.
More moaning could be heard outside. She stole a glance out of the large window behind her and saw an entire town’s worth of dead people slowly shuffling their way towards the inn. She needed to dispatch these few in front of her quick so she could get out.
Turning back towards the dead woman without an arm, Cora grabbed her with both hands around her head and squeezed. The dead thing’s head popped like a melon, spewing brain matter against the walls with a wet splatter.
Covered in the blood and brains of the dead woman, Cora lowered her head and said a silent prayer to the gods. She had been violent before. She had been in a large-scale battle before. But that did not mean that she enjoyed it. She knew if she were going to get out of here she would have to kill, so she prayed to her gods, and Father Jessop, for the strength to act.
She fought her way to the top of the stairs, leaving smashed heads and loose brains covering the walls as she went. One rushed her from the stairs but she caught it with a palm to the face. She tore off each arm one at a time, snapped its neck, and kicked it back towards the stairs.
A moment later it got back up and charged her again. This time she sidestepped it, sticking her leg out and tripping it. The dead man fell face first to the floor where she connected her foot with his head, splattering brain across the floor and her leg.
Once she had cleared the hallway, Cora turned her attention to the hoard of dead people coming up the stairs and filling the lobby of the little inn. There seemed to be no end to them.
At least a hundred were already in the building with more trying desperately to get in. Cora grabbed the first walking dead thing in front of her and easily put her fist through its head. She picked up the body at the belt and ripped a leg from its socket. She would use it as a club.
It was a good idea for the first ten corpses or so, but then the dead things started bunching up, making it harder for her to single out any of them for a solid attack. She had reached about the halfway point of the stairs, and was starting to feel tired. Taking a step back, she surveyed her situation, and dropped the arm she was holding.
Cora crouched down and readied herself to leap. She was going to attempt to jump over the mass and land on or near the dead things at the door and fight her way out from there.
“Young vampyre,” boomed a voice from behind her.
Cora spun around to face the voice that had just yelled at her, but no one was in the hall. She blinked and a shadow with glowing yellow eyes stood at the end of the hall. He spoke again, this time offering her help.
“Come with me if you want to survive this.”
She could feel the magic creeping all around her; even without opening her eyes she could see it. She welcomed it, like an old friend come back from a long trip. The thin tendrils of dark magic attached themselves to her like vines on stone and crept up her enormous body until they covered her from head to claw. She fluttered the ends of her massive wings and the magic gripped tighter, unwilling to let go.
This was when she realized that the magic, though familiar, was also somehow different. Tainted. Tighter and tighter the tendrils grew until she felt almost suffocated. Then she heard the words. The words that would force her awake from her century long slumber. Words that were close, but not quite right. Now the magic was penetrating her scales and burying deep into her flesh. The pain, now unbearable, caused her to struggle against the tendrils that were growing larger the deeper they bored into her.
This was all that she could take. She knew she must awaken and find out who was summoning her, then eat them for all the pain they were causing.
No Gaelach would be this careless, she thought.
She opened her eyes and immediately tendrils grabbed at the eyes and bore into her pupils. She lifted her mighty back and pushed the dirt above her. She pushed harder and harder until sunlight, something she hadn't seen in over a hundred years, began to warm her cold scales. Finally busting through, she caught a glimpse of a two-legged being, not a Gaelach nor human from the smell, flailing in the air in front of her. She snatched him in her large jaws and swallowed him whole.
The magic released its hold on her and began to fade away. Without its restriction, she could stretch her wings. She let out a roar to sound her return. And signal her brethren that Brostaigid had returned.
CHAPTER 6
Samuel tugged at Myra's sleeve, pleading with his older sister not to go on. The small Gaelach, or elf as her captors called her, was scared and refused to go into the barren ruins known as The Ghostlands. Myra’s studies as a youngster told how the lesser races of man and dwarf nicknamed all Gaelach as elf or elves.
It was widely believed by her kind that the nickname was due to those of lesser blood being unable to pronounce much of the Gaelach language. Myra and Samuel’s parents in particular believed it to be due to man and dwarf being less intelligent. Never having any contact with man or dwarf, Myra tended to believe the former.
She had been moving almost
non-stop for over six hours now and they were so close she could smell it. Her little brother had come along under protest, and now that they stood upon the threshold of The Ghostlands he was being reluctant once again.
“We can't, Myra,” Samuel pleaded, “Horrible things live there. That place is not right.”
“Hush now, Samuel, we'll be fine. I know what I'm doing.” The older Gaelach smiled at her younger counterpart, trying hard to reassure him. Such things were difficult when she wasn’t sure herself.
Myra had never been this close to The Ghostlands, let alone in them. There was a fence that worked to keep her and the other Gaelach close to the castle and away from anywhere that someone could see them from the outside. At least that’s what it was supposed to do. More than six hours ago she took Samuel and climbed over the fence.
Now she was nearing unknown territory. No Gaelach had ever successfully escaped the camps and made it across The Ghostlands. They knew this because no one ever made it back to free them.
According to the stories being passed around the camps, The Ghostlands were created by the invading vampyre over a hundred years ago to keep out the humans. When the terrible vampyres invaded the Gaelach homeland of Elvintika, they had a need for privacy.
The area known as The Ghostlands stretched from where she stood to the River of Emerald, about twenty miles across. It took up the entire river’s edge from the Briar Forest in the north to the Honore Sea in the south, more than a hundred miles long.
They had to cross The Ghostlands if they wanted to be safe. The longer they stood around here the more likely they would be caught. She knew what would happen to them if they were ever caught and shook it out of her head with a shudder. They had to keep moving.
“Come on Sammy,” Myra begged, “We have to keep moving. We can't let those filthy vampyres find us. Do you know what they do to runaways?”
“Yes,” the boy nodded, “They eat them.”
The two young Gaelach took each other’s hands and crossed over into The Ghostlands. As Myra stepped from the thick green grass of the field to the hard packed, dusty ground that covered The Ghostlands, she felt cold. The temperature dropped and she felt her brother shiver.
“Stay close to me, Sammy,” she said, “There are dead things here.”
****
After less than two hours in the cold and desolate Ghostlands, little Sammy was ready for a break. The little Gaelach stopped moving, Myra losing her balance and nearly falling over from the resistance of her still brother. She turned around and looked at Sammy with confusion. Large brown eyes looked up at her as if pleading her to stop. A single drop of sweat slid down the bridge of Sammy’s nose to perch at the end of his nose. Myra smiled.
“We have to keep moving Sammy. It’s not safe here.”
“I know,” Sammy said, “But I’m tired and thirsty. Can’t we rest…just for a minute?”
Myra continued smiling at the brother, ready to give in. She knew they could not linger for long, but she would need to let him rest if he was going to keep up. She had not see any water source yet. She began to note how much colder it was getting the further in they traveled and then she saw the form behind Sammy.
She did not know what it was at first. A white mist, barely visible, materialized behind her brother. A shapeless blob, it soon began to take the shape of a man. As the white shape became more solid she corrected herself. It was not the shape of a man, but rather, an orc. Myra jumped up and grabbed Sammy, bringing him close to her and away from the misty orc.
“Stay away,” she yelled, “Stay back.”
The orc laughed, a very hearty laugh for something made of mist, and lunged for the boy. Myra pushed her brother out of the way as the orc grabbed her arm. It was ice cold and moist, but very solid.
“Run!” she said to Sammy. Sammy did not move. The little Gaelach watched the orc with wide eyes. The creature pulled Myra in close and sniffed her. Myra’s mind wandered to the storybooks she read many years ago, before they were all burned for warmth. The orcs in those tales were green with big lips and dirty teeth. This one was white, but otherwise the same. She cursed those same books for leaving out the part that would have told her how to kill one.
Myra did the only thing she could think of and jammed the index finger of her free hand into the right eye socket of the orc. The orc screamed and dropped her arm. Wasting no time she grabbed her brother and ran. A few feet away Sammy tripped and fell to his knees. In tears, her brother tried to get up but found that he could not put pressure on his right ankle.
“I can’t walk, Sissy,” Sammy said, “It hurts.”
“We have to keep going, Sammy,” Myra said, “That nasty orc is coming.”
She looked back the way they had come and saw the orc floating towards them. For the first time since the encounter she noticed that it had no legs. As it floated faster in her direction, Myra scooped up Sammy in her arms and continued running.
Two hours and a pair of sore arms later, Myra and Sammy stopped for another rest. She had been running without slowing to stay ahead of the orc ghost, or whatever it was that was chasing them. She gently put Sammy down then looked back. There was no sign of the orc or anything else.
The dry bones covering the ground had torn up Sammy's knee pretty bad. She had not noticed it when they began running but looking at it now the skin was ragged, and the blood had run all over the knee and down his legs before drying there. The bitter cold made her shiver. She stood next to Sammy, trying to sooth him.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Only when you touch it.” He said.
“Can you walk yet?”
Sammy slid to the edge of the bones he was using as a seat and gently put his sore foot down. He eased himself down, applying pressure to the ankle. He seemed quite pleased with himself when he could stand normally on it. He looked up at Myra and smiled. His big, wonderful smile almost immediately went sour.
“Sammy?” she said, “Sammy what’s wrong?”
Myra looked behind her and saw the orc, or possibly another, coalescing a few feet away. As she looked on another formed to the right of the first, then another, and another. All around them ghost orcs and ghost men materialized and surrounded them.
“Please, sissy,” Sammy said, “Don't let the ghosts get us.”
“Don't worry buddy,” she said, “I won't.”
Mustering all of the knowledge and training she had been given, mostly in secret, Myra balled her fists and muttered old Gaelach under her breath. The air grew colder and blue mist began to rise from her fists. Sammy grabbed her leg and held on. He had seen her try this before, with disastrous results.
“Bas, beo athnugud abaidi. Fuil, feoil, athnugud. Brostaigid anchuinseach, Bas athnugud, bas athnugud. Beo athnugud.”
When she spoke the words her voice echoed with a deeper, more visceral sound over top of it. The ground underneath her shook for a moment then was quiet. The mist around her hands began to dissipate and the cold retreated a bit.
The ghosts moved closer, laughing as they advanced. One of the orcs spoke in a language she did not understand. The way it laughed afterwards told her she probably did not want to understand. She tried the spell again.
“Bas, beo athnugud abaidi. Fuil, feoil, athnugud. Brostaigid anchuinseach, Bas athnugud, bas athnugud. Beo athnugud.”
This time the blue mist, cold as the air around her, began swirling around her and Sammy until they were enveloped in a whirlwind of blue. She could just barely make out the forms of the ghosts through the mist. One by one she saw the forms disappear. Believing her spell to have worked, she smiled down at Sammy who was still holding her leg.
“I think I did it,” she said, “I think we’re safe now.”
The mist began to recede back to her hands and the whirlwind wall around her vanished. The ground rumbled again. She was still smiling and pleased with herself when she noticed the dark figure standing where a ghost orc had been. She recognized the figure as one of the
ir captors. She knew his name, as well. This was Brandon the slaver, Brandon the jailer. All that mattered to Myra, however, was that Brandon was vampyre.
“This is the end of the line, little elves.” the vampyre said.
“No,” Myra said, “We won't go back. You'll have to kill us where we stand…we won’t be your slaves anymore.”
“You were never going back, little one,” Brandon said, a devilish grin plastered on his face, “Escapees are executed. Your lives are forfeit. So I suppose, in a manner of speaking, you get to have it your way.”
Sammy hid behind his older sister while Myra stood ready to fight. She knew that she stood no chance of stopping this creature from killing her and Sammy. This knowledge did not stop her from trying, though. The ground rumbled again and this time Myra saw the bones that littered the ground shake and jump with each rumble. The dusty stone beneath began to crack. Behind the vampyre, Myra watched a faint red light shine up through the cracks in the earth.
“Now be a good little slave and hold still,” the vampyre said, “This will only hurt a little.”
The vampyre moved as lightning quick as she expected and had them both in hand before she could move. Both her and Sammy struggled to free themselves but to no avail. The vampyre lifted Sammy up so that his neck was at the perfect height to bite.
“I think I will eat this one first.”
Another tremendous rumbling came from beneath them. The rumbling seemed to emanate from deep underground and grew increasingly louder and more violent. The vampyre only staggered at first, and then as the rumble became worse, he dropped both children and all three figures dropped to the ground. The rumble was now so intense and loud that Myra felt it pulse through her in waves, causing her headaches.
Sammy covered his ears and began to cry. The vampyre took some great effort on his part to get back to his feet. Myra and Sammy remained on the ground.