“Now what?” Lucien asked.
Serafima looked for a way to get inside the tower but saw no windows or openings. Then she looked up to the roof to see the host of savage beast men staring down, their dark eyes overflowing with malice and murder. Serafima grunted and slid her sword back into its sheath.
“Climb,” she said as she thrust herself off the level section of the tower and slid down its smooth surface. Lucien scrambled down the side of the tower behind her just as the vile creatures leapt to the peak of the tower above with ease and crawled down after them.
Their descent was perilous and the smooth stone of the spire offered little in the way of footing. They did not climb so much as slide, fall, and tumble down the length of the bending structure until they reached the ground and sprinted towards the winding passageway that led back up to Mournshire. The bloodthirsty things above, however, clung easily to the stone surface and scampered after them with frightening speed. Neither of them bothered to draw their weapons when they heard the foul horde pour down to the ground and give chase.
The man-beasts closed the distance quickly, but the intruders were far enough ahead to reach the cracked doors safely. Serafima immediately threw herself against the iron door and Lucien joined her. They heard the fanged monsters drawing nearer and as desperation bolstered their strength the heavy door finally moved. Rust broke loose from its ancient hinges and the door finally slammed shut. They heard a locking mechanism click into place somewhere inside it. A thunderous crash echoed throughout the cavern as the horde of beast-things broke against the black iron like waves upon a sea wall.
Before they could rest their weary limbs, a shrill scraping sound pierced their ears. The sound was unbearable and they covered their ears before their eardrums split. Then the scraping grew louder and faint impressions appeared in the metal door.
“They’re clawing through the door!” Lucien said.
“Up the stairs!” Serafima said. The scraping echoed through the stairwell as they fled.
The humid swamp air tasted almost fresh when Serafima and Lucien climbed out of the stairwell and burst forth from the gates of the great obelisk in the center of Mournshire. They had scarcely caught their breath when a familiar but almost forgotten voice greeted them.
“Well, isn’t this an unexpected surprise?”
They looked up to see Ilesha standing before them. A pack of the foul man things flanked her, almost cowering in her presence. Her left hand was sheathed in a strange, wiry bracelet that covered her entire forearm and wrapped elegantly around her fingers. Its metal bands were gold and it was crowned with glowing emeralds and ebony gemstones. Something about Ilesha seemed different as well, her eyes were cold and her face betrayed nothing but cruelty and hate.
“Ilesha?” Lucien said.
“Who are you, witch?” Serafima asked.
“I am Ilesha Vanitos Thuria, priestess of Tzaladar.”
The mention of the cruel kingdom of Tzaladar made Serafima’s lips curl with hatred, for it was the Tzaladarians who slew her father through treachery and still continued to set her countrymen against one another.
“We know what you did Narim and the others,” Lucien said.
“Ah, poor Narim,” she said. “He thought he had everything planned so well. The fool! He made my task easier than I dared to hope. There is no greater weakness to be exploited than greed. I must admit, however, that I misjudged your quality. I had hoped my newfound servants would dispose of you, but you seem to have done quite well for yourselves. How interesting. Perhaps I might find a use for you…after you’re dead, of course.”
Serafima knew her words were no mere idle threat. She was well familiar with the practices of Tzaladar’s necromancers.
“What are these creatures?” Serafima asked.
“Why, these are the people of Mournshire. Narim had no comprehension of what occurred here a thousand years ago. The great race that built the city below us possessed knowledge we mortals could only dream of. They built their empires deep beneath the feet of our ancestors. But they saw in us a great potential, for our puny flesh could be easily molded by their sorcery into whatever they so desired.
“Mournshire was their grandest experiment. They sunk the town into the earth and captured all who lived here. Then their sorcery turned the people into the killers you have seen here. But their creations were difficult to control, so they made this.” Ilesha held up the strange bracer affixed to her left arm.
“It is attuned to the ever burning flame below us. The flame is the enduring legacy of the great race, the source of their magical power. This harnesses the power of the flame and bends it to my will. While I wear it, these creatures are mine to command, body, mind, and soul.
“But the creatures revolted against their masters. The strongest among them gained possession of this and used it to destroy their creators. They escaped to the surface, but found that their escape had been in vain, for their bodies could not endure the cold that surrounds this valley. Some of them froze to death trying to escape, but most returned to the palace below. Over the centuries, the creatures degenerated into little more than animals and the truth of their past was lost. Those who now reside here are their descendants.
“But now, with my aide, they can leave Mournshire, and in return they will bring me fortune and glory. Once I learn the secrets of this sorcery no soul will be beyond my power. All will bend to my desires, even the mightiest lords of Tzaladar. A pity you will not live to see my glorious ascension.”
Ilesha turned away.
“Kill them,” she said. At the sound of her voice, the pack of creatures charged forward. Ilesha disappeared into the mist, as if the outcome of the battle was already a foregone conclusion.
Serafima and Lucien reacted instinctively, as only years of experience in battle can teach. Serafima crushed the skull of the first to reach them and Lucien skillfully hewed another. There were more than a dozen of the things, but the two companions had no intention of backing down. Their ferocity unnerved the creatures as they hacked and cut their way through them. For the first time in their lives, the beasts felt fear and they faltered, but Serafima and Lucien showed no mercy. They stormed through the mob, leaving only a trail of mutilated, inhuman corpses in their wake as they charged through the foggy ruins of Mournshire in pursuit of the Tzaldarian witch.
Ilesha did not get far before Serafima overtook her. The barbarian lunged for her with blow that would have cloven the witch from shoulder to midsection had she not narrowly sprang aside. Ilesha recovered her balance quickly and grabbed Serafima’s leg with the jeweled bracer. Intense pain lashed through the limb and it gave out, sending her splashing into the mud. Ilesha drew her dagger and would have driven it into the back of Serafima’s neck had Lucien not charged out of the mist just then. His blade cut nothing but air as she slipped away from his weapon’s edge and darted out of his reach.
“That will be quite enough of your meddling!” She pointed her jeweled bracer at Lucien and smiled as green fire lashed out from the ancient device.
Lucien threw his hands up in a desperate but puny act of defense as the sickly flame washed over him like a venomous liquid and melted the skin away from his bones. His exposed skeleton turned black and crumbled into ash that was eagerly consumed by the baleful flames. Ilesha laughed, drowning in the sick satisfaction of her newfound power.
As the last remains of Lucien’s body were scorched away by the sorcerous fire, Serafima sprang to her feet and attacked. Ilesha’s expression of perverse pleasure gave way to shock as Serafima’s sword cut through metal, flesh, and bone to sever her arm a few inches above the wrist. A sharp crackle of lightning snapped through the air as the metal blade cut through the golden bracer.
Ilesha staggered back shrieking and dropped to her knees, holding the bloody wound close to her body. Serafima looked down at the piece of the bracer still wrapped around the witch’s severed forearm. The jewels within it faded and then crumbled into a grey dust that s
ank into the thick mud of the swamp.
Suddenly the earth beneath them trembled and nearly threw Serafima to the ground.
“What was that?”
“The palace,” Ilesha said. “The breaking must have disrupted the flame below; without its power the palace will collapse!”
“And bring Mournshire down on top of it,” Serafima said.
“You’ve doomed us both, you fool!”
The ground shook a second time and a familiar sound drifted out from the fog behind them.
“The children of Mournshire come…,” the witch said.
Her eyes widened.
“I no longer have control over them! They’ll tear us apart!”
Serafima looked at the pile of ash and melted flesh that had recently been Lucien. She then glared down at Ilesha, her blue eyes alive with loathing.
“A better fate than you deserve, witch.”
Serafima broke into a sprint towards the path of thorns that led out of that fetid valley of sorrow. She didn’t look back.
As she raced through the ruins of Mournshire the tremors grew more intense. By the time Serafima reached the town wall, the earth was beginning to split open in places and she could hear the rabid creatures behind her drawing closer. She could scarcely keep her balance when she finally spotted the thorny path that led up to the surface and scrambled up into the thick fog.
Then the earth beneath her fell away and the path of thorns started unraveling. Serafima ran, crawled, and climbed upwards, hoping to stay ahead of the abyss that was opening below. The sounds of pursuit ceased abruptly as she at last cleared the fog and its absence spurred her to quicken her pace. She jumped to grasp a strand of thorns dangling over the edge of the valley as the path disintegrated. The thorns cut into her hands but they held her weight as she hung staring into the abyss below.
Serafima managed to pull herself up to the snowy ground above and lay there motionless for several minutes before hauling her weary body to its feet. She took one long, final look at the ugly gash in the earth and thought of Lucien, who among those who died that day least deserved it. But most of all she cursed the Tzaladarians, who seemed incapable of resisting the temptations of dark powers and knowledge that were better left buried with the dead worlds they had destroyed.
Then Serafima of Rostogov turned her back on the valley of Mournshire. She hoped that her memories of its depths would fade from her mind as quickly as it faded from her sight.
The Siege of Osric
Originally published in Encounters Magazine #12 (2014).
Another story featuring Serafima Vladekovna, “The Siege of Osric” is a cross between a Robert E. Howard Conan story and a Warhammer Fantasy RPG adventure module. While Serafima would become a more complicated character in the Rostogov novels, she was a fairly straightforward action heroine in her early short story appearances. Written between 2004 and 2007, these stories owe a massive and fairly obvious debt to Howard’s Conan tales. I’d been reading a lot of Howard at the time, so his influence on my writing was quite pronounced during this period. Although “The Siege of Osric” was written after “The Cauldron of Vanthos,” I’ve placed it here because the events of the story take place earlier chronologically. Serafima would go on to appear in two more stories after “The Siege of Osric.” One of these stories, “Blood and Consequence,” never made it past the initial draft, and the other, “The Wolf Queen,” was heavily rewritten to replace Serafima with a different character in a different setting.
The rain started almost an hour before sunrise. A few soothing drops preceding a downpour of water from the thick, broiling clouds. The deluge was at first a relief, extinguishing the fires that had burned throughout the smoldering ruins of the city for the better part of two days. But it did not relent. The cold water gathered in puddles that swelled to wide pools before midday. By evening it was spilling over the clogged reservoirs and damaged walls to mix with the blood soaked grime of the stone streets. Mangled corpses of the innocent and the wicked, victims and murderers indistinguishable now in death, rose to the surface of the foul waters. And still the rain poured down, adding to the misery of those who yet lived, trapped within the shattered mazes of broken stone. It was as if the gods had seen enough of man’s self-inflicted horror and sought to wash the memory of the ghastly scene away with their tears.
Crouched upon the rubble of a collapsed wall deep inside what had been the city’s poorest slum, a small group of survivors huddled together for warmth. They were dressed in crude, dirty rags and they shivered as the near freezing rain bombarded their weary bodies. Standing apart from the others, however, was a woman who seemed unfazed by the grim conditions. She had the sternly set features and hardened physique of an experienced warrior, and she was as tall and muscular as any man. Her leather jerkin and breeks were soaked and tattered but she seemed oblivious to the chilling weather. Instead her attention was focused on her surroundings, her hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of the sword sheathed at her side.
Serafima Vladekovna Volodarid was a creature of instinct, more at home in the fierce, rugged wilderness than in the civilized world of hidden secrets and queer formality. Her senses had not been dulled by years of life within the comfortable confines of the city. Now that the Nemerian siege engines had blasted the veneer of order and civility away from the city of Osric, she was far better equipped to survive the chaos that followed than the descendents of its founders.
Seeing nothing threatening through the haze of pounding rain, Serafima motioned for the others to follow her down from the rubble. She splashed into the street and trudged through the knee-deep water towards a large stone building that appeared to be intact. Halfway across the street, she tripped on something beneath the water and nearly fell. The hidden obstruction gave slightly when her foot struck it.
It was too light to be a chunk of rubble. Most likely another body weighed down by armor.
After pointing out the obstacle to the exhausted man behind her, Serafima forced the building’s splintered door open with a shove. Inside the water was just as deep, but she at least had cover from the rain for the first time that day. The interior was little more than a large, open room and appeared bereft of anything of value.
But Serafima had not singled the building out for looting. From the outside, it looked large enough to have a second story and she was pleased to find a set of wooden stairs along the far wall that led up through the low ceiling. If they were lucky, the roof would still be intact, and they would have a dry place to pass the night. As her companions filed through the main door to get out of the rain, Serafima quickly crossed the room and bounded up the stairs.
Fortune, it seemed, had chosen to grace them at last for the second floor of the building mostly dry. Rain had swept into the room from the uncovered windows and though the roof appeared almost soaked through with moisture, it was only dripping in a few places. Much like the room below, there was nothing of value to be found there. The building had obviously been abandoned by all but the poorest gutter-dwellers of the city. Its most recent occupants, however, were sitting on the floor with their backs against a wall. A dead man stared blankly into space, his arms wrapped around the bodies of two small children. His wrists had been cut, as had the children’s throats.
There was a rusty, bloody knife on his lap.
Serafima regarded the dead children with pity but cursed the craven weakness that had led their father to provide them with certain death instead of a chance of life. She then stripped the bodies of their clothes and threw them out of the nearest window before calling down for the others to join her upstairs.
Andron made his way up first, followed by his son, Renart, and his two daughters, Letice and Aaline. Exhausted after the arduous scramble across the ruined city and scarcely able to reach the top of the stairs, Andron still managed to help his weary children climb. His younger brother, Guimar, seemed to be fairing better. He followed the others up the stairs with his pretty young wife in tow. Serafim
a did not know her name.
Andron immediately saw to the care of his daughters, neither of whom were yet of childbearing age. He took the armful of dry clothes Serafima offered him and either did not notice or chose not to ask her about the dried blood that stained them. Renart, who was almost old enough to have a family of his own, helped his father wrap the garments around the shivering girls. Meanwhile, Guimar and his wife huddled together in a dry corner for warmth. The girl kept muttering to herself, her wide doe eyes darting about franticly while her husband tried to console her.
After she looked out the window to be sure that no one had followed them, Serafima allowed herself a moment of rest. She shook the excess water from her short auburn hair and dropped to the floor with a grunt.
Guimar’s wife began sobbing.
“Keep her quiet,” Serafima said.
Guimar nodded and pulled the girl closer to him, burying her face in his chest as she continued to cry.
Andron left his daughters in the care of his son and walked over to sit next to Serafima.
“How are they?” she asked.
“They’re traumatized,” Andron said. “What do you expect?”
“Well, at least they have a chance to rest before we try to reach the walls.”
“The walls? You don’t mean tonight, do you?”
Serafima gave Andron a puzzled look.
“You told me you wanted to get your family out of Osric. Tonight may be our only chance.”
“But the rain…”
“The rain is the only reason the city isn’t overrun with Nemerian soldiers right now,” she said. “Once the weather breaks, they’ll move inside to finish what they started.”
Serafima did not bother explaining what that would entail. The Nemerian army had struck the city of Osric with a brutality that was wholly unexpected. They had not requested any terms of surrender and seemed determined to slaughter everyone within the city. Osric’s walls had been crumbling centuries before the attack began and they offered little resistance to the bombardment of stone and fire from the Nemerian siege engines. Only the sudden, heavy rain had prevented the city from being burned to ashes.
Distant Worlds Volume 1 Page 25