The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  “What is it?” Oriken asked.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “How confident should we be that the city is deserted? Can we assume that every Lachylan citizen died during the blight?”

  “Huh? Of course. Even the ones that escaped are long-dead by now. Why do you ask?”

  Jalis gazed past Dagra’s shoulder into the mist-hazed graveyard. “So, you’re saying that we three fearless freeblades are the only people here?”

  Dagra frowned. “I know that tone, lass, and it’s never a good sign. If you’ve got something to say, just say it. If not—”

  Jalis’s distant look turned stony. “I was just wondering why it suddenly seems to be grieving hour in li Gardine dessa Mortas.”

  “I have no idea what you—” Silenced by Jalis’s expression, Dagra followed her pointed finger. Oh, gods, he thought. No…

  Frail-looking figures were emerging from the mist and moving listlessly among the gravestones. More were materialising in the distance among the ground mist, difficult to discern from the blackened trees and the more ornate grave markers. One was closer than the rest – Dagra had already looked right at it and mistaken it for a short, twisted tree. It swayed in the breeze, its skeletal limbs held before it like reaching branches and twigs.

  “Please tell me,” Oriken whispered as he stared at the shambling figures, “that somebody ordered a guided tour of the graveyard and forgot to mention it.”

  Steel hissed as Jalis drew her daggers. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What are they?” Oriken asked.

  As Dagra stared at the wraith-like forms, Jalis’s observation in the Chiddari crypt came back to him, that the footprints only headed in one direction. He’d assumed someone else had been in the crypt, but what if…

  “We go,” he said. “Now.”

  He broke into a run along the centre of the Litchway, with Jalis and Oriken hot on his heels. The mist was quickly thickening to a rising, heavy fog, the clouds above bunching in mimicry, darkening the early evening to a fake dusk. More figures were approaching from the far edges of the graveyard, heading slowly, but surely, for the Litchway.

  Up ahead beside the pathway, a withered hand grasped the rear edge of a crypt and a grotesque form stepped into view. What remained of its clothing had become one with its blight-ridden body, the age-darkened flesh flapping alongside the fabric. The sunken face turned towards Dagra. Its shrivelled lips and blackened gums with broken shards of teeth hung open in a silent scream.

  He slowed as the creature took halting steps towards him. The rays of Banael broke through the clouds for just a moment, falling on the decayed face and deepening its shadowed cavities. The corpse lifted a hand to shield its face. It faltered in the sunlight, but continued its slow advance.

  “Dear, sweet Aveia,” Dagra breathed. “It’s dead. They’re all dead. Merciful gods, Cunaxa Chiddari did move! I knew it! She moved, and we just stood there chatting!”

  As Oriken came alongside, he grabbed Dagra’s arm and gave it a rough squeeze. “Snap out of it, Dag! Don’t gawp. And use your energy on running rather than blabbing.” He ran on, his long legs taking him quickly along the wide Litchway.

  The prospect of falling behind was enough to jolt Dagra from his rising panic and spur him onward. He pulled his eyes from the leering corpse and pumped his short legs faster. Jalis caught up and matched pace at his side.

  “The dead of Lachyla,” he gasped between breaths, “are supposed to stay in Lachyla.”

  “The dead everywhere are supposed to stay dead,” Jalis said. “But if you’re right, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  In every direction, the place was filling with the creatures. A guttural moaning began from the nearest; a wet, crackly whisper like thick liquid pouring over crisp leaves. The noise intensified as more of the dead lent their voices to the ghastly chorus. Within moments, the graveyard rang with the sibilant murmur of its denizens.

  Oriken’s bounding run took him quickly along the tumbledown pathway, directly towards a crowd of corpses. As he leaped over a raised flagstone, his hat flew from his head. He snatched it from the air, hit the ground running and fixed it firmly back where it belonged, without even the slightest pause.

  Despite the surrounding horror, Dagra barked a laugh at Oriken caring about his hat even while the Pit itself broke out around them.

  As Oriken reached the horde, he swept his sabre in a high back-slash across the front line of corpses, the curved blade biting into their faces and throats. Unbalanced by the force of the blow, they staggered backwards and a couple toppled over. One wasted head toppled from a parchment-thin neck and thudded to the stones. Oriken smashed the sabre’s hand-guard into the face of the nearest corpse, then slammed his boot into another’s chest. Within moments, the way was cleared for Dagra and Jalis to run through. Dagra’s palm sweated as he clenched the gladius’s leather grip. He shared a grim glance with Jalis, and they pushed onwards.

  The pathway and the barren soil to either side was lost beneath a rising blanket of fog, forcing Dagra to slow his pace as he stumbled over loose debris and sunken stones. The fog had consumed the shorter headstones, and the upper portions of crypt entrances protruded like the bows of sinking ships, their statues of stone or metal serving as grim figureheads. Skeletal horrors and mouldering abominations flailed between it all like drowning passengers.

  Oriken was a blur of motion in the thickening haze as more creatures wandered towards the Litchway. He hacked and slashed, punched and kicked his way into them. He shouted over his shoulder, but the words were lost to Dagra amid the clamour of the dead. Dodging a corpse’s grasp, Oriken struck it with a glancing left punch, almost pitching it over, but it took a faltering step in Dagra’s direction and paused. Hunched over, its ruined features seemed to sniff the air, sensing him.

  Then Dagra was upon it, swiping the gladius in a brutal upward arc. The blade sang through the fog and bit deep into the corpse’s raised forearm, shattering the bone. The almost-severed appendage dangled uselessly, the fingers twitching into the curls of fog as the creature made to follow him, but Dagra pushed on, his terror muted by raging adrenaline. Visibility was all but gone now. The mist forced him to slow to scarcely more than a jog as he navigated hidden obstacles of uneven paving stones and other detritus. His eyes darted from side to side as he stumbled through the gloom. The dead lumbered on, moaning their unholy lament.

  “There!” Oriken shouted from somewhere ahead. “The gate!”

  Thank the gods! Dagra thought. Almost there.

  A corpse loomed before him. He loosed a yell, but swallowed his fear and slammed a shoulder into it. The corpse flailed backwards but righted itself. It stood firm, blocking his way.

  Dagra’s chest heaved as he stared in revulsion. The once-elegant dress and vaguely feminine shape marked the corpse as a woman. Its eyes were messes of crusted gore over sunken cheeks. Swollen pustules covered the cavity of the missing jaw. A cyst popped as it gurgled through its throat-hole. Dagra retched, and the corpse jerked into motion.

  He lunged and drove the gladius into its chest. As he pulled the blade clear, the head lurched forwards and exploded, spraying him with foul ichor. He flung his arms up to protect his face, and staggered backwards.

  Oh, blessed gods, I’ve got its head all over me. Aveia, how did I deserve this?

  The headless corpse pitched over into the mist, replaced by the unmistakable profile of Oriken.

  “Ha! Straight through the face!” Oriken grinned and raised the haft of his sabre to his shoulder in mock salute, the blade dripping with gore. With a wink at Dagra, he pinched the brim of his hat with a filth-streaked finger and thumb.

  Too horrified for words, Dagra nodded his gratitude.

  Another corpse emerged from the fog behind Oriken. Dagra began to issue a warning, but Oriken had already caught the look on his face; he spun and lashed out. The sabre sliced deep into its throat. He slammed his boot between its thighs with a sickening crunch. The corpse crumpled
, swallowed by the mist..

  From somewhere behind, the sound of soft and brittle things being rapidly and repeatedly sliced grew until it was right behind Dagra. A final rending swipe and a triumphant grunt, and Jalis emerged, brandishing her daggers. Silverspire’s slender blade was now as dark as Dusklight, its partner in carnage. Jalis’s face was set in a mask of concentration, at one with her craft. She remained by Dagra's side, and on they ploughed behind Oriken through the nightmare madness.

  Dagra couldn’t be sure they were still heading in the right direction, but he trusted in Oriken’s lead as his friend carved a route through the onslaught of corpses. Time lost meaning; it had become one long moment that hung suspended, and it seemed an age since Oriken announced he’d spotted the gate.

  But the portcullis is closed, he recalled as he stabbed a corpse in the face and kicked it away. If only we’d operated that damned winch. But how were we supposed to foresee this? There was no way to pre-empt such madness, and the guild's handbook didn’t cover how to deal with the undead, of that he was certain.

  Gnarled hands continued to reach for him, and he continued to hack at them, but as the shapes fell away, they were replaced by more. Oriken had disappeared into the murk. Jalis, too, was nowhere to be seen. He was alone again. The ungodly moaning of the blighted dead was swallowed in the haze. The muted sounds of fighting ricocheted in the mist, seeming to come from all directions. He waded through the nightmare dreamscape, plunging blindly onward. He called out for Oriken and Jalis, but his shouts fell flat and were not answered.

  Yet another monstrosity burst from the mist and bore down on him. Cataracted eyes stared from its lacerated face, the flesh hanging from its cheeks like curls of jerky. Mildewed teeth gnashed as it lunged towards him. Its fingers grasped his shirt. He floundered, teetering backwards as the thing clung on to him. He pitched over. The backpack struck the ground, padding his fall.

  Within the grey-green fog, the corpse’s features clouded to a shadow. Its pungent reek assailed Dagra’s senses. Its weight pressed onto him like an insistent lover.

  He struggled against it, trying to shift his sword-arm but it was pinned across his chest. All he could do was push against it, grappling with his free arm as it crushed down on him. A foul stench assailed him. His throat clenched as he breathed a lungful of the stuff. For a moment, the fog thinned to reveal the snapping maw inches from his face. His muscles strained as he pushed against the mindless onslaught.

  The gnashing teeth paused. The corpse gripped him and locked its eyes with his. “Lie…” it hissed.

  Gods please get it off me get off sweet Aveia help me!

  Its broken nails raked at his shirt, snagging in the drawstring neck, scraping, gouging at his flesh. He fought with all the strength he could muster, punching wildly. His fist mashed into its neck.

  Moans and shuffling feet of more of the undead drew closer. In his periphery, their shadows shifted like ghosts in the mist. His heart hammered loud in his ears. Stars swam in his eyes, a cry trapped in his throat.

  “Lie,” the corpse repeated, the word a bubbling gurgle.

  In desperation he struck it again and again, mashing his fists into its flesh in quick repetition. A final, crushing blow and its head pitched to the side with a gristly snap. It was the break Dagra needed. He pushed it away and cast it to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he caught movement at the edge of his vision as hands touched his shoulders.

  He whirled around, grabbed the nearest corpse and heaved it into the others, planted his fists on two of their chests and shoved hard.

  As he stepped backwards, taloned fingers wrapped around his ankle. He stabbed the gladius down into the curling fog, and the blade found its target. He kicked at the unseen corpse’s hand, but it clung on. He stamped down, his boot scraping across the gripping fingers, and felt them crunch beneath his heel. Shifting his aim, he slammed his boot onto the dark haze of its head and put his weight into it. Bone cracked and his foot sank in, lodging and sticking fast. The fog swirled, dissipating enough for him to see his heel wedged into the side of the corpse’s head. He recoiled, and his boot wrenched free with a slurp.

  Sweat dripped down his face. Exhaustion engulfed him. The crowd of corpses were closing in, their liquidy hisses rising with intent. He gripped the sword and spun about, but all he could see through the fog were lurching shadows.

  The corpse on the ground struggled into a sitting position and turned its broken head towards him. “Liar!” it rasped.

  “Fuck off!” He staggered away and broke into a stumbling run. He screamed the names of his friends, but no answer came. Muted, unrecognisable noises were everywhere and nowhere. Blood of the Pit! Where’s the gate? Where are Jalis and Orik? I’m lost! “Aveia, help me!” he wailed.

  “Dagra?”

  “Avei— Orik? Orik! I’m here! Can you hear me?” Dagra strained to listen as he hurried forward. It was Oriken, he was sure of it. He sounded close, but how close? And in which direction? “Here!” he called again, reaching blindly and stumbling through the gloom. “Where are y— Gah!”

  Something snatched at the wrist of his sword-arm and gripped tight. A shadow loomed before him, filling his vision. He threw a sweeping punch…

  “Whoa, there!” Oriken cried as he rocked out of reach, releasing his grip on Dagra.

  Relief flooded Dagra like a deluge. “I thought,” he gasped.

  Oriken nodded in understanding. He was a gore-streaked sight, carnage splattered indiscriminately all over him. A dark smear streaked his stubbled cheek, and a questionable lump perched upon the brim of his hat.

  “Where’s that gate, you great, lanky bastard? You said we were close to it ages ago.”

  “I said I could see it. I didn’t say it was near.”

  Dagra’s nerves were shot, but he desperately wanted out of the gods-forsaken place. “Well?” he snapped. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

  Oriken gave a single nod and stepped into the fog. “Stay close.”

  “Wait!” I forgot about the lass. How could I do that? “We lost Jalis! We have to find her!”

  “She’s okay.” Oriken grabbed Dagra’s arm and pulled him onwards.

  “How do you know? We can't just—”

  “Dag!” Oriken swung his sabre into an emerging corpse. “She’s already ahead. Come on!”

  Dagra followed him into the gloom, fearing the worst for Jalis. But he trusted Oriken, had done forever despite the occasional mishap and disagreement. Still, a tightness clutched his chest at the thought of losing Jalis, especially like this.

  The sky had darkened to a bruised purple with the deepening evening. Fewer of the blighted creatures approached now, though their wraith-like shadows were everywhere. Dagra’s courage bolstered anew by Oriken’s presence, and together they pushed onward.

  His ears pricked at a faint shout. It must have been Jalis, but it could have come from anywhere. Gods, he thought, let her be alive.

  The fog was thinning. He could dimly see the cracked ground at his feet, and prayed it was the Litchway and not one of the many side-paths that criss-crossed the graveyard. Up ahead, a dense mass of darkness writhed in the retreating mist.

  Dagra grabbed Oriken’s sleeve and brought him skidding to a halt. He pointed at the gathering and leaned close to Oriken. “They’re facing away,” he whispered. “They haven’t spotted us.” Their attention is on something else, he thought. But what?

  His hopes returned as he spotted the top of the perimeter wall through the fading fog, just beyond the corpses. And poking above the stone…

  Is that the portcullis? How in the fiery Pit… Ah, Jalis, you brave, beautiful lass. Dagra wanted to shout her name, to be sure she was there, to let her know he and Oriken were close, but he didn't want to gain the attention of the creatures that blocked their escape.

  “She managed it,” Oriken said. “Partly. Let’s hope it’s enough.”

  “You knew? How could you—”

  “Stash a codpie
ce in it, for fuck's sake, Dag.” Oriken slid his sabre into its scabbard and cast Dagra a determined glance. “Ready?”

  Shit. No. Understanding Oriken’s intention, he knew that the swords would be of little use in such close quarters. With a nod, Dagra sheathed his gladius.

  Oriken loosed a battle-cry and sprinted for the corpses.

  In for a silver, indeed, Dagra thought. He broke into a run behind his tall friend. Oriken squared his shoulders and ploughed headlong into the mass, shoving the creatures aside as he pressed through. His momentum slowed. Ragged fingers found purchase on his shirt and backpack. And then Dagra was upon the horde and barrelling into them, his short legs pushing him on as he struck out. Nails raked his face and shoulders. Fingers curled around his arms, but slipped away from the slick coating of sweat and gore that covered him.

  Through the ghastly mass he glimpsed the heathland and the overgrown Kingdom Road and the latticework of the portcullis; the open vista of Scapa Fell beckoned him to reach its sanctuary. The gate wasn't fully raised, but he reckoned he could crouch beneath it. He was almost there, almost out. Desperation had pushed him this far, but renewed determination stretched his reserves still further.

  He shoved through the last of the creatures and ducked beneath the partially-raised gate. Hands grabbed him and knocked him to his side, clutching at his legs, his waist, pinning him to the ground. He stared up at the rusted spikes hanging inches over his face, at the leering death-masks and desiccated limbs that filled his vision. Hands grasped him roughly by the straps of his pack and dragged him backwards, and suddenly he was out and staring up at a purple evening sky. A few wisps of fog followed him through the gate, but faded quickly. The blighted corpses made no attempt to crawl beneath the portcullis. Dagra’s heart was hammering with relief and fading terror as Oriken leaned over him and gave a tight smile as he pinched the brim of his hat.