The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  By that point, however, they wouldn’t care.

  Regret would be saved for the morrow.

  “You’re sure about this?” asked Anastasia.

  “No,” said Hugh.

  Morwyn sniffed disdainfully.

  “Then why risk it?” asked Anastasia. “Heading up there tonight, in the dark, to face this Szidora. Why not just leave it be?”

  “Because we need that fort.” Hugh stared at the ashen froth of the falls which rumbled just beyond them into the pool below. “It’s not just Aleksandr. Not just my brother’s orders. It’s Baron Niestor, too. There’s more going on here than we understand. Aleksandr might just be the tip of it. There are forces moving against us. I think Jarmoc’s part of it. We need that fort, we need it garrisoned, and we need to be ready for trouble. We wait a year, we’ll all be swept away.”

  “Send for your brother,” said Anastasia. “Have him occupy Erro. Tell him -”

  “What? About the salt smuggling? Have him come rushing into Aleksandr’s ambush?”

  “Then let the fort wait. Let’s meet with Aleksandr first, learn what his plans are, and then send for your brother. We won’t need a fort if we’ve several thousand men camped in the forest.”

  Hugh rocked back and forth, mulling Anastasia’s words over. “Elena? Your thoughts?”

  “This is dangerous,” said the lisica, voice soft. “More, perhaps, than we know.”

  “Captain?”

  “Whatever you command, my lord. I’ve no opinion on the matter.”

  Anastasia gave an exasperated snort.

  Hugh kept his gaze on the falls. “Tonight she’s at her weakest. My brother will need that fort if he comes. We’ll need it if we’re to hold off enemies without him. The Fate Makers won’t move to cleanse it till next year. It’s now or give up an essential piece of our defense.”

  “We can wait,” said Anastasia.

  “No,” said Hugh. “For better or worse, tonight’s the night. We do this, or we give up the fort. I can’t imagine the havoc a spirit like that would play on troops if they moved in without dealing with her first. We need that fort. We take it tonight.”

  “Very well,” said Elena. “Though I fear what’s to come.”

  “As you command,” said Morwyn.

  “Fine, fine,” muttered Anastasia, smoothing down her uniform. “Though the thought of going up there in the dark is frankly terrifying.”

  “Let’s gather lanterns and flasks of oil,” said Hugh. “I’ll find a mason’s hammer and chisel somewhere. I want to be able to destroy whatever tethers Szidora to this world.”

  “Poor Szidora,” said Anastasia. “To die like that after confiding in her husband.”

  “I’m sure the tale is more complex than even Hohemias knew,” said Elena, voice soft. “There is much here that doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Like what?” asked Hugh.

  “Like the fae coming three nights later. Why the delay? My kind is impatient. What we wish for, we take. Perhaps he made a vow to her, or she to him. Perhaps she didn’t spurn him after all, but asked for time to say goodbye to her husband.”

  “Guess we’ll never know,” said Hugh. “But no matter. We’ll cleanse it all the same.”

  “Or die trying,” said Morwyn.

  Anastasia rounded on her. “Do you intend to be this amusing all the way up there?”

  Morwyn smiled blithely. “I’m not being paid to be humorous.”

  “True,” said Hugh. “So keep your quips to yourself. Be back here as quickly as you can. Fetch what you need for this mission, and then we’ll head up.”

  “Very well,” said Elena. “Anastasia? Come with me to the house?”

  “Of course,” said Anastasia, linking her arm through the lisica’s. “See you all soon.”

  Morwyn leaned against the railing once more. “I’m ready. I’ll await you all here.”

  Hugh set off toward River Street. Someone would have a hammer and chisel, and a wood ax wouldn’t go amiss for the keep doors. He thought he saw shadowed shapes off between the trees, heard murmurs and small gasps. The locals weren’t wasting any time. How strange that he and his companions were heading into such horror when everyone else was diving into delight.

  Stepping out onto River Street, he thought of the real reason he was pressing tonight’s attack. Thought of Birandillo’s face, his glittering eyes, his unquenchable hate.

  One year. It’s all I’ve got. Either I see this done now, or not at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hugh led his companions high into the mountains as the sun sank below the horizon in a welter of blood-red clouds. The view, when it appeared to them in breaks in the tree line, was magnificent; but the knowledge of what awaited them chilled Hugh’s desire to stop and appreciate it. Up they climbed, following the curves of the road, higher and higher into the deepening gloom, until at last the road straightened out and Hugh saw the dark bulk of the fort off to their left.

  “There it is,” he said. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  Nobody spoke as they stepped up alongside him. The fort was as ominous at dusk as it had been at dawn. The arrow slit windows were impenetrably dark, the battlements crooked and worn like snaggled teeth, and Hugh saw now that a large, dead vine clung to the fort’s facade like a huge, black vein.

  Nothing moved within the gate. No sign of life behind the arrow slits. Casting around, Hugh saw for the first time twin plinths of stone rising up on either side of the road about which were tied mighty ropes.

  “What’s that up there?” he asked, pointing further along the road.

  Zarja rose to her tiptoes. “A bridge, it looks like. Just beyond the fortress.”

  “Ah,” said Hugh. “That makes more sense. I thought it odd, the fort being built randomly by the side of the road here.”

  “Beside a ravine, however, it would command the approach completely,” said Morwyn. “Take down the bridge, and the enemy would be helpless on the far side.”

  “My estimation for this place grows,” said Hugh.

  “And you’re sure you saw something?” asked Anastasia. “This isn’t a really terrible and extended jest of some kind?”

  “I wish,” said Hugh, moving forward. “The place is even worse for knowing what happened here.”

  “A long time ago,” said Zarja. She’d allowed her human guise to slip, and now stood in her true form, her bushy tail emerging from under her tunic, her fox ears poking through her golden hair. “I can sense…”

  Hugh stopped and looked at her. “Yes?”

  The lisica extended her hand and closed her eyes. “Very faint. But the passions here were once so strong. A bitterness, an anger. Like a scent that hangs over it all.”

  “You can smell emotion?” asked Morwyn, surprised.

  “Only that of the fae, and only of our more powerful members.” Zarja opened her eyes. “A prince of my kind once walked here, and his fury and sorrow burned with such intensity that even today, a hundred years later, I can feel his passing.”

  “That much at least was true, then,” said Anastasia. “Which makes the rest more likely as well. Why does that not cheer me?”

  “But the emotions are old?” asked Hugh. “No recent visits?”

  “Not by him. He is long gone, whichever power he might have been. No. But I can sense more. The wild does not wish to reclaim this structure. The forest does not seek to tear it down.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Anastasia. “Why not?”

  “Revulsion, I believe,” said Zarja, voice soft. “Aversion. The fury of that prince scalded the area, rendered the fortress and its land sterile. Little will grow there but lichen and moss.”

  “Hence the dead vine,” said Hugh. “I’m starting to wonder if we shouldn’t just pull this place down and build anew.”

  “Might be wise,” said Zarja, slipping her hand into his own.

  “And ruinously expensive. And probably impossible to justify to my brother.”
/>   “True,” said Anastasia. “Given the duchy’s lack of funds, it would never be approved.”

  “So we die for bureaucracy,” said Morwyn. “Typical.”

  “Well, let’s get this over with.” Hugh drew his blade. “We need to find and destroy Szidora’s tethers. I’m guessing they’re going to be down in that basement in which she was killed.”

  “Of course,” groaned Anastasia. “Of course they will be. Lanterns?”

  “Lanterns,” said Hugh, unhitching his from his belt. In short order they had them lit, and their warm, honey-yellow glow pushed back the shadows. Holding his lantern aloft, Hugh couldn’t help but feel that in truth the lanterns did little more than mark them out as targets.

  “Here we go,” he said, and moved into the dark archway. The portcullis lay as before, a ruined, twisted mesh of rust and iron. The lantern light illuminated the dark curvature above his head, and Hugh saw the arrow slits therein from which guards could attack with impunity.

  Was that movement behind one of the slits? Impossible to tell - and gone, now. He resisted the urge to call on the Reavers. There was no cause - yet - and he didn’t want to fall into the habit of taking comfort in their power. No. He could face this with his companions.

  For now.

  Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the damp masonry, and then they emerged into the tiny bailey. Hugh looked up to the window in which he’d seen Szidora before, but it was a dark, soulless portal.

  “Up there,” he said, pointing the window out with his blade. “That’s where she stood.”

  “That some manner of keep?” asked Morwyn as she studied the building in the back corner, voice tense now and without scorn. “Or a particularly large and squat tower?”

  “Both,” said Hugh. “It must have housed the living quarters for the castellan and his wife. Kitchen, storerooms, perhaps a chapel to the Fate Maker. Soldiers would have been garrisoned in the twin towers.”

  “No well that I can see,” said Morwyn, turning in a slow circle, lantern raised. Shadows fled from her light, every imperfection along the walls and the buckled bailey flagstones leaping into sharp relief. “Though there has to be one. In the cellar, perhaps.”

  “Right,” said Hugh. “Notice how strong those doors are. If the enemy won through, they’d find themselves trapped in this bailey and attacked from above. There’s no room to bring a battering ram into play down here. They’d have to hack the doors down with axes, all the while being shot with arrows.”

  “Neat setup,” said Morwyn. “Small, but lethal. ‘Course, the walls being only fifteen feet high means that a determined force with ladders could swarm the place.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Hugh.

  “Can we save the architectural admiration for after?” hissed Anastasia, swinging her lantern from side to side as if expecting to catch the ghost creeping up on her. “Please?”

  “This place smells foul,” said Zarja, voice cold in a way Hugh had never heard before. “Rotten emotions, rotten deeds. Can you not sense it? Great evil happened here. It will take much effort to cleanse these stones.”

  “Yes,” said Anastasia. “I can really, really sense it.”

  “Easy,” said Hugh, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’re more than capable of handling this threat. I won’t leave your side.”

  “I’m sorry.” Anastasia forced a smile in the gloom. “This just reminds me of the worst of the Academy. The sublevels. The cells where we’d be placed in solitary confinement.”

  “The more I hear about the Academy, the less I like it,” said Zarja.

  Anastasia gave a low laugh. “Oh, you haven’t heard anything yet.”

  Morwyn stalked forward. “Let’s try the door to the keep.”

  Hugh sheathed his blade and unslung the wood ax from his shoulder. Stepped up before the old door. It was broad, its stout timbers having weathered the decades, the heavy bands of iron rusted but so thick they’d held true.

  Morwyn reached out and gave the door a shove. “Locked on the other side.”

  “More like the timbers have swollen within the doorframe, and given the state of these metal bands, the interior hinges must be rusted to the Ashen Garden,” said Hugh. He swung the ax back, then brought it down with a grunt in the door’s center. The wood was swollen with moisture, and the blade sank an inch with barely a thud, and there stuck.

  Gritting his teeth, he yanked it out through main force, and swung again. Another dull thud. Six times he swung, and each time the damp, wretched timbers absorbed the blow with seeming indifference.

  “Going to take all night at this rate,” said Morwyn, stepping in, lantern held high. “The wood’s too thick and swollen. I can barely make out your chops.”

  Hugh grimaced. “Too damp for fire. Hinges are on the other side. Looks like I’m going to have to brute force this.”

  “Or not,” said Anastasia. “Step aside?”

  Hugh and Morwyn did as they were told and watched as Anastasia picked her way back to the crumpled portcullis. There she peered through the wreckage till she found a large spear of twisted metal which she pulled free.

  Over this she crouched, murmuring, wand tracing runes down its warped length, each of which glowed for a second and then faded away. When she was done, she glanced around the bailey, making sure everyone stood clear, and then made a wiping motion across the spear of metal, as if flicking a card across a felt table.

  The twisted spar shot forth through the air, faster than Hugh could track, and smashed into the doorway. The huge planks crumpled before it, metal bands bending, and with a cacophonous crash the whole of it collapsed into the keep beyond.

  “There,” said Anastasia, wiping her hands together and trying not to smile. “That should make things easier.”

  “Well, shit,” said Hugh, looking at his ax and slinging it back over his shoulder. “Nicely done.”

  “Nicely done?” Zarja rose to the balls of her feet and clapped. “That was amazing!”

  Anastasia lost her battle to not grin, and instead tried to cover her expression by smoothing her hair aside. “I have my uses, I suppose.”

  “Do you ever,” said Zarja, hopping over to her and squeezing her hand. “I can’t wait to see what you’ll be able to do once you slip your restrictions.”

  Morwyn raised her lantern as she stepped over the wreckage of the door and into the hall beyond. The doorway seemed to exhale damp, fetid air, rich with the tang of silt and mold and rotting wood. Hugh drew his blade and followed, footsteps muffled, lantern swaying side to side, skin prickling with nerves, throat constricted, eyes darting at every shadow.

  The hall was the entirety of the ground floor, low ceilinged, with badly rotted furniture here and there. A large table ran down the room’s center. Chairs on their sides or shattered altogether. Old banners and tapestries reduced to rotten ropes or faded rags. Tarnished pewter candle holders. A massive trapdoor in one corner. Stairs leading up against the far wall.

  No rats. No insects. No old cobwebs. No signs of life whatsoever.

  Yet despite that, Hugh felt watched. The skin on the nape of his neck crawled, and he had to fight the urge to spin around.

  Anastasia and Zarja stepped in behind them.

  “I’ve not been in a place this foreboding in a long, long time,” whispered Zarja, as if reluctant to disturb the ghastly silence. “Not since the catacombs beneath spider-haunted Zochna.”

  “Nothing here,” said Morwyn, reaching the far wall and turning back to them. “Upstairs? Down?”

  The darkness behind her roiled, a shape coalescing from nothing. A mane of writhing black hair, eyes that gleamed like pockets of black oil, teeth bared beneath splitting lips, skeletal hands reaching.

  “Morwyn!” cried Hugh, leaping toward her.

  The hands grasped Morwyn’s shoulders and yanked her back into the seething shadows.

  Her lantern and blade crashed to the ground, the light going out. She was gone. Hugh staggered to a stop, casting
around for some sign of her. It was as if she’d never been.

  “Morwyn!” His bellow echoed off the walls.

  Somewhere within the keep, the sound of screaming began.

  “Oh gods, oh gods,” moaned Anastasia.

  Zarja raced up and placed her hand against the wall, snatched it away. “Where are those screams coming from?”

  Hugh tried to pinpoint the sound. Upstairs? From below? Outside? He couldn’t tell. It was Morwyn though, screams rising higher, causing his gut to roil, his gorge to rise, his fury to seize him as frustration and helplessness mounted.

  “Morwyn!” he shouted again and ran to the door that led out into the bailey. The screams echoed off the walls - and then went silent.

  Sweat drenched Hugh’s brow, prickled down the slope of his back. “Damn it! To the cellar, hurry!”

  He dashed past Anastasia to the great trapdoor, and with a heave yanked it free and hurled it back so that it crashed against the ground. Broad, shallow steps led down into the darkness as if into a pool of ink.

  “Stay close!” He led the way, ducking his head to peer under the floor, but the darkness seemed supernatural, resisting his lantern light. “Morwyn? Morwyn!”

  No answer. The air was dense, frigid, and pressed in at him like a damp sheet. Down he went, the stairs sinking three, four, five yards into the earth - and then opened into a broad cellar, as wide and deep as the room above.

  But here his lantern light barely illuminated a few square yards around him. Showed the bare dirt beneath his boots and nothing more.

  Footsteps behind him, Anastasia and Zarja creeping down, lanterns held aloft. Anastasia’s eyes wide, Zarja’s narrowed.

  “The darkness is unnatural. I can’t see through it as I should,” said the lisica.