by A J Dalton
He went into a half-crouch and then flat along the ground to get into some thorny bushes at the edge of a clearing not far up ahead. The prick of needles in his flesh and the water seeping through the material at his elbows and knees barely registered. The scene before him captured his full attention.
A bear stood on its hind legs in the middle of the clearing, dancing and pawing the air. Trying to circle it was a woman in moss-green leather holding a loaded crossbow. She seemed to be intent on getting a clear shot at a corpulent man who was making sure to keep the bear between him and the huntswoman.
Saltar looked more closely at the bear. It seemed to have been gored in the stomach, but by what? It couldn’t have been the woman. The blood matting the bear’s brown fur looked old and black, yet its wounds still glistened. Was that the shiny sheath of its intestines he could see? Most animals would die of such a wound. Something was odd here, for the bear wasn’t displaying typical ursine behaviour either. Despite its angry growling, it wasn’t rushing forwards to attack; rather, it seemed more interested in protecting the fat man.
Saltar turned his examination to the man, who moved quickly despite his size. He was dressed in innocuous, homespun wool, and looked for all the world like a peasant. And yet that was wrong too, for a poor woodsman used to physical labour shouldn’t be as fat as a rich city-merchant who sits all day in his counting room. The man seemed to be muttering to himself constantly, which could only mean he was mad or praying to his gods… or using magic.
The woman moved faster than the lumbering bear, but the bear only needed to shift its bulk slightly to block her line of sight, especially with the man mobile behind the creature. Saltar could see the woman’s dilemma: she would need to be very sure of her shot before releasing because she would not get another before the bear was on her. Why not shoot the bear first, he wondered.
The bear roared again, and a cloud of flies drifted from its maw. Now Saltar was sure. The bear was already dead and the man was its dark master. A crossbow bolt would be of no use against the undead beast and once the bolt was spent the bear would no longer have to worry about a line of sight. It would finally run the woman down – for although a bear did not necessarily change direction as fast as a running woman, it was faster over the ground.
Saltar pulled back into the bushes and slowly began to work his way round behind his target. The tableau of the clearing, its players locked in place by their opposition to each other, seemed hauntingly familiar. They could not move or even flinch because of the threat of destruction. Not having the freedom to act, they were not really in control of their own destinies. Only those that accepted their place and did not fight against it managed to survive.
Remotely, he anticipated disrupting the existential balance represented in the clearing and found the prospect pleasing! It promised a vindication of what he now was. And it promised more than that. It promised the chance to take destiny by the throat and throttle it to death. It promised the downfall of gods, and freedom from their demands and whims.
He was so close. Then, Mordius shuffled into the clearing and the hanging, suspended universe turned its head to regard him in surprise. Even time decided it had a few seconds to spare.
‘May I be of service?’ he grinned foolishly.
Saltar fought the inertia that gripped them, gritting his teeth in an old reflex. Mordius, you idiot, not now! I was almost there! He pushed through the bushes and reached for the animal-necromancer, who was slow to turn.
A hand under the chin, a hand to the back of the head, a savage twist, and the animal-necromancer, villain of the piece or not, was dead. The bear whined and toppled forwards onto the hapless Mordius, who went down without a sound. Saltar was left facing the hard-eyed woman on the far side of the clearing. She raised her crossbow and fired.
The bolt flashed across the clearing but hit only shafts of sunlight. Saltar stalked over to the woman, who now assumed a fighting stance and brandished a dagger from a sheath at her belt.
‘Why did you do that?’ Saltar growled. ‘I was unarmed, so you could have moved in closer before shooting. Are you as green as your garb?’
His questions caught her out, as he suspected they would, and she straightened up though still making sure to keep the blade between them.
‘I mistook you for some sort of monster. Your shirt is covered in blood and in a few seconds you killed a man I have been hunting for some weeks.’
When he had been alive, he would have considered the woman not unappealing. She had striking, if somewhat severe, features. Her nose was sharp and well defined; her cheekbones were large but gave her cheeks a hollowed and gaunt look; and her thin lips gave her a constantly disapproving look. She wore her dark hair scraped back from her head, which made the lines of her face even stronger. Her eyes were the colour of verdegris, which was accentuated by the green of her leather tunic and trews. Such a complementarity of colour suggested a streak of vanity in the woman, which offset her martial look.
‘Would you like help with your friend? I take it he’s your friend,’ she said, snapping him out of his trance-like contemplation of her.
He turned to survey the fallen bear. One of Mordius’s hands stuck out from underneath it, but that was all that could be seen and he didn’t appear to be moving. But he can’t be dead, Saltar reasoned, because I’m still moving.
They heaved the massive beast over and stood together looking down at the figure flattened in the mud. He wasn’t moving, but the softness of the ground had probably saved him from the worst injuries. Saltar crouched down and gently slapped his face.
‘Mordius?’
‘Leave me here!’ the necromancer said without opening his eyes. ‘I can’t feel much, which is the closest to comfortable I’ve been in a long while.’
Saltar prodded Mordius’s injured arm.
‘Arrrgh!’ he shrieked, sitting up. ‘You clumsy oaf! Oh! Hello!’ he said bashfully. ‘Sorry, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Mordius… a merchant.’
‘I’m Kate,’ the green woman said, offering him her hand so that he could pull himself to his feet. ‘A King’s Guardian.’
Mordius hesitated, gulped and then took the proffered hand with the hand of his good arm. ‘Nice to meet you, Kate. I trust my bodyguard, Saltar, has been well-mannered enough to introduce himself already.’
Saltar looked uncomfortable for a second and then reasserted himself. ‘I was too busy dodging crossbow bolts to exchange social niceties.’
Kate still refused to apologise or thank them for their initial intervention. ‘What are the two of you doing out here? It’s dangerous, especially without any weapons… although Saltar here seems to manage well enough without them.’
Saltar glared at the King’s Guardian. ‘That’s none of your…’ he began.
However, Mordius smoothly interrupted: ‘Yes, I’m afraid our horses ran off with all our baggage and weapons. It is fortunate for us that we met you. Why…’
Saltar caught the necromancer as he swooned and effortlessly lifted him into his arms. ‘He is ill,’ he explained unnecessarily. ‘He has an arm injury and fever. We have been walking a long time, so he is probably exhausted too. Do you have anywhere dry where we can rest and get him warm?’
‘And I bet you’ve forgotten to mention hungry along with all that. It’s amazing he’s lasted this far. How have you managed?’ the Guardian asked curiously, her head cocked sideways.
‘Do you have anywhere dry? ... I will answer all of your questions once I have seen to Mordius’s needs.’
***
Kate searched the body of the fat animal-necromancer but found nothing. Lifting him under the arms, she dragged him over to the bear. Saltar stood looking on, cradling Mordius to him. She took two flasks from inside her tunic, used the liquid from one to dab the foreheads of the bodies and then doused them with the liquid from the other. She struck a spark using a piece of iron and flint from a tinderbox and watched the bodies begin to burn with blue and green flam
es.
Without turning her head to look at Saltar, she asked, ‘Would you like to warm him at this fire or shall we look for the necromancer’s abode?’
‘The abode. The ground is damp and cold here. Perhaps the smell of the cooking meat will rouse him, though. Do you think the bear’s flesh will be edible?’
‘Shakri’s holy menses, no! You fellows must be desperate. That beast has clearly been dead for weeks. Besides, we might rouse him, only to have him throw up when he realises he can also smell cooked human flesh. He strikes me as the sensitive sort. We could end up making him weaker than he already is.
‘The abode shouldn’t be too hard to find,’ she continued. ‘The tracks of these two look easy to follow. I would need to find the abode at any rate, since it’s part of my job to destroy such places, and every last vestige of unholy magic that clings to them.’
‘Fine. Lead the way!’ Saltar encouraged.
She had called Mordius the sensitive sort. Saltar wondered what sort she thought he was. What made Mordius sensitive, anyway? Was it his weakness or vulnerability? If so, Saltar didn’t want to be thought of as sensitive. Why was he suddenly worried about how he was perceived? He put it down to his concern that Kate might recognise him as one of the dead and then seek to kill Mordius. Yes, that was it. He must try to act as normal and alive as possible for her.
He strove to remember how he might act in this sort of situation when alive. Should he try to engage her in small talk? Should he be flirting with her? For the life of him, he couldn’t recall what was involved in flirting. Maybe he hadn’t really indulged in it when alive. He’d probably been a bluff general who was used to having his every order obeyed.
He watched her in front of him as she led them down a path of sorts. Every so often, she would bend over slightly to examine the spoor on the trail, when her muscled legs and lower back would push back against the leather she wore and make the lines of her lean body more obvious. She was wiry and toned, and probably had the supple strength of an experienced fighter. He resolved to keep her in front of him as much as he could… since she was liable to be a threat.
They travelled on in silence for some time. The forest itself had fallen still and silent; not a single bird chirruped, no mouse shifted the piles of leaves it passed under, not a single insect whirred past. All Saltar could hear was the suck and slurp of their feet, Mordius’s wheezing and Kate’s gentle breathing.
‘This quiet strikes me as unnatural!’ Saltar called slightly too loudly, straining to moderate his voice so that he would not be betrayed by the flat intonation of a zombie.
Kate half glanced back. ‘Yes, it is oppressive. It suggests we are approaching something significant.’ She fitted a bolt to her crossbow.
A few paces further on and the sound of moaning drifted to them from between the trees. It spoke of an agony beyond mere screaming, a pained hopelessness that was so absolute that it should have negated its own existence. The blood visibly drained from Kate’s face and she half raised her hands to her ears, thinking to block out the sound, but realising it was futile because it was something that went straight through a person and almost penetrated to the very soul. Saltar’s legs trembled and he almost lost his grip on Mordius’s frail form.
‘Kate! We must hurry! It is affecting Mordius. He is worsening.’
She turned a bleak stare towards him. Her eyes were empty. Shaking, he pushed past her and drove forwards along the path. He didn’t wait to see if she followed. He drove on and on, as fast as his manikin legs would allow.
The path widened and came to an abrupt stop, almost taking an involuntary step back from the sudden and cruel scene ahead. Kate bumped into the back of him.
A crude, wooden house stood in an opening in the forest. Staked to the ground around the house was a series of naked bodies. Growing from each body was a huge, scarlet plant. Each plant ended in a bell-shaped flower and stood as tall as a man. The roots of the plants merged with the flesh of each host, the dark, branching patterns of discolouration on the pale flesh of the victims suggesting that the tendrils burrowed so far and deep that they could not be removed without fatal consequences to the hosts. Some of the roots were translucent, and blood could be seen moving sluggishly from the human to the plant.
A few of the prone bodies did not move, but the others twitched and moaned. Mordius spasmed in Saltar’s arms. His skin was grey.
‘Kate! Your knife!’
She did not respond and stood vacantly, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. A nearby flower slowly turned its head towards her and puffed spores into the air. Her eyelids slowly lowered.
One of Saltar’s knees buckled and he placed Mordius on the ground. He hobbled over to the listless Guardian and reached for her knife. He hesitated for a second and then grabbed the handle.
As had happened the last time he had dared touch a weapon, he was transported to a netherworld battlefield covered in the eviscerated dead. Red giants dripping with gore prowled amongst the fallen, looking for those that still held a breath in their devastated bodies. He knew these giant warriors and that he had once fought side-by-side with them slaying the numberless legions sent against them. The nearest giant grinned at him, showing an ogre’s teeth, and spoke with the voice of a thunderstorm: ‘Brother, there you are! Be ready! The strongest of them soon enters the fray!’
Saltar looked down at his hands and saw he clutched the knife tightly still. It seemed a pitiful, ineffectual tool in this place but he knew he was actually the weapon and the knife but the edge. He looked around him for the enemy and saw large bloodworms feasting on those newly struck down. He moved for the nearest of them and it reared up, yawned its blind, serrated maw at him and released a thick, poisonous gas towards him. He plunged his knife into the worm and began to hack its head off. Putting the befouled blade between his teeth, he pushed his hands into the deep cut and tore it open with his hands.
A thin, high-pitched scream started somewhere. The surviving bloodworms began to writhe and released more and more of their noxious gas. When his vision cleared, he was back in the Weeping Woods, facing the deadly blooms. One of them had been hacked from its stem, where blood flowed freely towards the ground. It was the victim of this plant that screamed, his eyes rolling sightlessly. Saltar quickly slit the poor man’s throat. A surprisingly small amount of blood was released, but it would be enough.
There were another five blossoms. Should he deal with them now or get Kate and Mordius inside the dwelling, where it was presumably safer? He knew he had to act now because he could feel his limbs beginning to stiffen. He hesitated, knowing he was making a life and death decision, a decision that might become death and death. If he didn’t stop the further spread of the soporific spores, then the house might not actually be safe.
Clumsily, he cut the throats of two more blossom hosts, an old man and a middle-aged woman. Another two appeared dead already, their blooms blackened at the edges. There was one more: a young man who made no sound, only watched and watched. The parasitic plant rooted into his vital organs was smaller and paler than the others. And he wasn’t yet unseeing as the other hosts had been. He had to be a recent victim. Perhaps he could be saved, but that would have to wait.
Saltar’s hand spasmed and the knife thudded to the ground. One of his knees locked straight and he had to swing the whole leg round to take a step towards Mordius’s recumbent form.
‘Kate!’ he croaked, but she failed to respond and continued to stand with eyes shut.
The only way he could get down to the necromancer was to let himself fall full-length next to him. He grabbed the scruff of the necromancer’s neck, got his one good leg under him and pushed himself back upright. His thoughts were becoming clouded and he was overtaken by lassitude. What was he meant to be doing? Maybe it would come back to him once he got into the house. Why was this unconscious man out in the garden? Was that woman asleep while standing up? And the bodies, the blood, the grotesque flowers …
He didn
’t want to be here. Slow step by slow step, he dragged the unconscious man towards the house. As he passed the woman, he took her by the arm with his other hand. She followed compliantly. He reached the door and kicked it several times until something gave and it swung inwards. It was dark inside, but he took them all in. He pushed the door closed, put his back against it and slid down until he was sitting. The corpse stopped moving. There were a few last sparks amongst the synapses in its brain and then it ceased to function. The air and the damp atmosphere began to nibble away at the body.
***
Colours flashed and moved chaotically without meaning. There seemed to be patterns but they weren’t predictable in the way they formed and shifted. A reference point was necessary, but what was it that made up a reference point?
Thunder echoed all around, at moments deafening, at others distant. Was that wailing or just the wind? There was definitely the sound of breathing, but it faded unhealthily.
The air reeked of ozone as if the sky were too low. The claustrophobic smell was made worse by an insidious, underlying scent of sickness. And it had a sickly-sweet edge of death and putrefaction.
There was metal in the air; the iron found in blood that sticks in the back of the throat. Salt from the blood and salt from too much sweating made the atmosphere tangy but thirsty.
The surface of the wood was created of valleys and mountains laid out in courses and ranges to form a grain of majestic proportions. Touching it was as epic world of experience that was all but overwhelming.
It all came crashing in on him at once: the colour and shapes; the crying and breathing; the cloying smell of sickness and death; the taste of blood and sweat; the feel of the wooden floor beneath his hands. He almost blacked out with the sudden inrush of sensory information. Was the room moving or was his head lolling and reeling?