by Lucas Thorn
And, across the back of her neck, shadows swirled as worms of darkness danced in her blood.
EPILOGUE
The bloodstained field of the Wolfpaw Plains was abandoned by mostly all but birds which feasted on the dead. Chukshene's wychdemons were gone, unsummoned when no longer needed. The creature with its chains had also gone, returning to the Deadlands with a crack of thunder and a flash of black lightning.
He'd left nothing behind but carnage wrought from his hate and had exchanged no further words than the one he'd thrown at those he killed.
And Hemlock's army marched west of the Doomgate to a wide hill overlooking the plains. They drifted to the top and knelt in the grass. Bowed their heads and were silent.
The necromancer was unsure how to release them. How to send their souls back to the Shadowed Halls. He'd tried and failed. He promised them he'd find a way, but they gave no sign they understood his words or cared either way.
Their eyes glowed green and their weapons lay in the ground in front of them. With heads bowed, they watched any approach with a cold lack of regard and answered no questions. Rain washed their rotting flesh and dribbled between their bones. Bones knitted together by ancient magic made more terrible by the Wall's mysterious purpose.
They lifted their heads only once, when a noise at the far end of the empty battlefield drew their cold attention.
Click of stone as boots skidded in the mud and kicked up vile debris.
Small boots.
A young girl, eight years old or so, lifted her face from the carpet of corpses and stared open-mouthed at the Doomgate.
“Yes,” she said, as if answering a hidden voice. Or voices. “It is huge. But if he only needed the towers, then why build the walls, too?”
A few more steps.
She trod carefully, picking her way. Trying not to step in the more grotesque puddles.
“Oh?” She hugged herself tighter. The dress she wore was torn. Little more than a rag. She was cold, and hoped she could find more clothes soon. It had been a long time since she'd been warm. Tucked in a rope tied around her waist, a small dagger. Its edge worn and old. “I didn't know that. But if it was a joke, then why did he keep the name? It's a silly name, really. My ma always said I shouldn't say it, or he'd hear me. She didn't want him to hear me.”
The young girl stumbled, sending crows cawing in all directions as they suddenly noticed her presence.
They circled high above, yellow eyes wide and crazed as they saw what human eyes couldn't see. Many flew from the field, too afraid to return. Others, deranged by the stink of the dead and the promise of meat, chose to settle out of her path and kept watch on her as she trod slowly toward the Doomgate.
She giggled suddenly, the unexpected sound breaking the sombre quiet. “Don't tease me! No, I shouldn't say it. Really, she told me never to.” Then she looked around as though expecting her mother to leap from the shadows at her. “Alright. I'll say it. But only once, okay? Rule. There. I said it. Now leave me alone. Please? You're giving me a headache.”
“Hey!” An ork stood not far off, a stick in his hand. He'd been picking through the corpses. There were a few like him, sifting the pockets of the Caspiellan soldiers. Some items were pocketed. Others would go to families of the Fnordicmen who'd been killed. The ork frowned at the girl. Then shuddered as her face snapped toward him and he saw her eyes were completely black. Like there was nothing in her sockets. But there was, he'd tell everyone later. There was something. And it looked at him. Saw him. “What, uh, what are you doing out here?”
She pointed to the Doomgate. “I need to go inside. She's in there.”
“Who?” The ork eyed her nervously. “Who's in there?”
“Mother.” The girl smiled, and the smile chilled the ork to his core. And when she spoke again, he didn't bother to pretend. He turned and ran. Ran as fast as he could and never looked back. “Mother is here.”