The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  Dagra lay there. He stared up at his friend, scarcely believing he'd made it out alive. We should’ve paid more attention to the legend.

  Oriken reached down and helped him to his feet.

  “About time you two showed up. Talk about making a girl wait.”

  Jalis! Dagra spun around to see her standing not ten paces away. Her hair was stuck to the sides of her face in wet, grimy strands. Her chemise was so torn it clung to her only because the sodden fabric was plastered to her corselette and skin. She was a mess, but she was alive.

  “Thank the gods!” he said as he walked towards her. “I thought you were done for.” He was suddenly aware of the clamminess of his own clothing against his body, and the gods-awful stench that permeated from him. “I could hug you.” He looked down at himself with a shrug and glanced to Oriken. “Both of you. But I’ll not.”

  “Wise choice,” Jalis said. She gestured to the gate. “Looks like you were right about the dead, Dag. They’re not following.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the creatures shifting around beyond the iron bars, swaying listlessly and not even reaching through. Many faced into the graveyard and were beginning to shamble off into the gloom, wandering away from the threshold of the blight as if no longer interested.

  The dead can’t leave their Gardens. Something's holding them here, making them stay where they belong.

  Beyond the hanging spikes, only a few ravaged forms lingered. Dagra turned away in disgust as the adrenaline suddenly wore off and the reality of the situation slapped him in the face. He thrust the gladius into its scabbard and stuffed his hands into his pockets to mask the shakes that coursed through his body.

  “Waiting at the gate and keeping their attention was a big risk to yourself,” he told Jalis, unable to keep the tremor from his voice. “But it worked. Thank you.”

  She nodded. “I only wish we’d raised the gate earlier.”

  “Good thing you got the winch working,” Oriken said, squatting to rub his hands on a clump of yellowed grass.

  “Not an easy task, trying to turn a rusted chain and kick corpses back down the steps. I might be nimble but I'm not built for raising a portcullis on my own.”

  “You raised it enough, and we're grateful.” Oriken’s expression was earnest as he climbed to his feet and met her gaze.

  Jalis’s lip twitched. “Yes, well, we all made it in one piece, and the jewel’s safe and sound.” She reached a hand behind her and patted her backpack.

  “Good.” Dagra drew a breath and blew it out. “Right then. If no one has any objections, let’s get the rotten fuck away from this cankerous shit-hole.”

  Oriken gave a tight smile. “How does the saying go, Jalis? The stupid fisherman fishes in shark-infested waters?”

  “Something like that.” She reached for Dagra and Oriken’s shoulders and turned them around. Together they set off along the Kingdom Road.

  Dagra’s eyes tracked the dirt-covered flagstones that stretched ahead, disappearing around a low hill. We must be the stupidest people in Himaera, he thought. The only ones to ignore the legend. Against my better judgement I let myself be talked into it. He cursed under his breath. No, that’s not fair; it was the silver that convinced me to take this foolhardy contract.

  As they walked, the clouds began to dissipate and the last rays of sun washed the heathland in a dark red, casting the sparse clusters of trees that dotted the landscape into shadow. Although ancient and gnarled, those trees were covered in leaves as it should be in the Vur season, the warmest of the year. Dagra doubted he would ever feel so relieved at the sight of greenery as he did right now. The heath was far from verdant, but it was alive.

  “I don’t know whether those things wanted to kill us or only cast us out.” Jalis glanced over her shoulder as she walked. “But we are out, whether that was their intention or not. I want to err on the side of caution and put some good distance between us and that krig of a city before setting camp.”

  Dagra rubbed a shaking hand over his face, pushing back the fatigue that crept up on him now that their ordeal was over. “The stream we stopped at before you caught the balukha,” he said to Jalis. “The one that forded over the road? There was a wooded hill further east along its course. If we hurry and head there directly, we can reach it by sundown.”

  Jalis nodded as they broke away from the road. “The soap will be coming out as soon as we’ve made camp.” She rubbed a palm against the thigh of her leggings. “These I can soak. But this top”—she plucked at the shredded chemise—“is getting thrown. It’s beyond salvageable.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Oriken flashed her a weak grin. “I knew the trip had to be worth something.”

  Jalis huffed. “Dream on. Some of us know how to pack for a trip and bring spare clothing.”

  “I packed spares,” Oriken said defensively. “You know what I don’t get? How does the corruption stop right at the wall? Nature and blight look like they’ve been at an impasse since it started, but which is keeping which at bay?”

  Jalis shrugged. “Impossible to guess. But nature does tend to abhor an aberration.”

  Oriken grunted. “I reckon the feeling was mutual back there. They sure as shit didn’t like our presence.”

  Jalis nodded, then lifted her gaze to his hat and wrinkled her nose. “You might want to check that.”

  “What?” Oriken grasped the crown of his hat and took it off. “Oh, for the love of—” The shrivelled clump of gore still clung to the top of the brim. “What is that?”

  Jalis pursed her lips. “I think it might be a piece of brain.”

  Oriken unsheathed his sabre and flicked the lump away. It landed softly atop a small shrub.

  Jalis unfastened Oriken’s side-pouch and pulled out a waterskin, took a swig and passed the skin to Dagra. He swilled his mouth out, then took a long drink. The water did nothing to quell the taste of corruption, not when he remembered the putrid stuff that had sprayed him as he cut through the blighted dead, not to mention the contents of the head that splattered him as Oriken lopped it off.

  And I probably swallowed some. His stomach heaved at the thought.

  He longed for a tankard of Redanchor, but he guessed that no amount of alcohol would shift the acrid taste or erase the memory of the corpse pressing down on him as he lay trapped beneath it. He could still see its lipless jaws snapping so close to his face, its blackened teeth jutting from its leathery gums. The shrivelled curl of muscle that lay within its mouth like a dried slug…

  The beginnings of a headache pulsed behind his eyes as bile rose in his throat. He gulped it down and turned his face away from his companions. As he did so, he caught sight of the long perimeter wall, more ominous now than when they’d arrived under the blue sky of late morning. He paused, and his gaze drifted to the partially-opened entrance. Beyond the portcullis, the fog lingered; a pervading pall enshrouding the dead within their gardens.

  A lone figure remained at the gate, its visage pressed between the rusted bars. The corpse's head was broken on one side from where Dagra’s boot had crushed it. Its dead gaze locked onto him, and in that moment something passed between them.

  Spoke to me. Dagra suppressed a shudder. The damned thing spoke to me.

  As the corpse shuffled into its gods-neglected home, Dagra jogged to catch up with his friends. He touched the raised, stinging welts on his chest, shoulders and neck. The cuts would need cleaning and padding with nepenthe as a substitute poultice, but there would be time for that after making camp.

  A good wash is what we need. A steaming bath. But that’ll have to wait until we’re home. One thing was certain. The hardest part of the contract was over, and it had been the greatest test the gods had ever given him. What mattered was that Cela Chiddari’s burial jewel was secured, and Dagra and his friends were alive.

  No, he thought, what really matters is that the dead of Lachyla are staying in Lachyla. Right where they belong.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN
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br />   SOJOURN AT DULÈTH

  The wagon rattled across the flagstones of the Kingdom Road, all but drowning out the sound of the mules’ hooves and the crack of Wymar’s whip. Maros slouched upon a pathetically scant pile of hay against the forward boards of the wagon, looking out at the cloud-dulled landscape as it shook past and shrank into the distance. His leg, mercifully, had gone numb, which was marginally preferable to pain pulsing from his knee to his thigh.

  Shitting gods, he thought. I could strangle that fucking mill owner. A paltry bundle of hay, and for fifty silver dari. When we get back to the Folly, I swear—

  Wymar shouted something, the words lost beneath the racket of the shuddering wagon.

  “What’s he say?” Maros called.

  “He says to keep yourself still!” Henwyn said through the slit beside Maros’s head. “You’re rocking the wagon!”

  Maros grumbled to himself as he tried to keep calm. They’d been on the road for more than half a day, Wymar driving the mules through the night by the light of Haleth, stopping only briefly to give the beasts a little hay and a rest. Give them a rest? It’s me who needs a rest! Never knew keeping still could be so exerting.

  “Farmland up ahead!” Henwyn announced. “A few dwellings. Likely the last ones before we head into the Deadlands. Looks like a downpour’s on its way, too, boss!”

  “Fine!” Maros shifted his weight. “Get us over there!”

  The wagon rolled on for another minute before lurching to a stop. Maros grunted in relief and pushed himself along the floor of the wagon, inching towards the lowered rear hatch. He heard Henwyn jump down from his seat beside Wymar, his footsteps fading as he crossed to the nearest farmhouse. As Maros’s legs bent over the back of the wagon, his gammy knee made a pop and fire lanced through his leg.

  “Gah!” Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself to a sitting position. As the toes of his boots touched the ground, he glanced across at the modest stone dwelling they had stopped beside. A young boy was standing upon the grass, his eyes wide as he gaped at Maros’s fierce expression.

  Here we damn well go again, he thought. Glaring at the boy, he hitched a thumb towards Henwyn. “Would you like my man there to paint a rutting portrait for you?”

  The boy blurred into motion, screaming as he ran for the house. “Monster! A giant monster! It’s gonna eat me!”

  Maros spat a curse. He grabbed his crutches and heaved himself from the wagon. As the fire in his leg flared anew, he raised his face to the sky and loosed a roar. When the pain subsided, he glanced across to see the boy had reached the farmhouse door. A young woman stepped out and squatted to wrap her arms about him defensively, the fear as plain on her face as on her son’s. A man raced from the dwelling and skidded to a halt as he took in the scene. He backed away to stand before his family and raise the kitchen knife in his hand.

  “Boss!” Henwyn called. “Let me deal with it.”

  “Please!” the man shouted in a shaky voice as he clutched the knife. “We have nothing! We’re just simple folk.”

  “What?” Maros hobbled forwards a step. “Do we look like bandits to you, lad?”

  “N-no…” The man turned to his wife. “Go inside. Now!” She ushered the boy inside and rushed in behind him. Her husband pulled the door shut and planted himself before it, trying to look brave as he brought the knife to bear.

  “Suffering gods,” Maros sighed. “Simple is right.”

  The man glanced nervously to Henwyn. The veteran was slowly closing the distance, his hands held open for the man to see he held no weapon.

  “We’re freeblades,” Henwyn told the man and nodded towards Maros. “This is the Official of Caerheath. We’re only seeking shelter from the rain a while. That’s all.”

  The man’s weapon lowered an inch. “I don’t know nothing about freeblades. Please, whatever your business is”—he drew in a deep breath—“we want none of it.”

  Maros took another step forward. “Look, man. Surely you’ve got a barn we can stay in for a few hours? A little hay to feed the mules?” He gestured to the wagon, where the mill owner watched the scene from the comfort of his seat. “I’d make it worth your while. Ten coppers for your trouble.”

  The man hesitated as if considering the offer, then looked to Henwyn. “No,” he said vehemently. “Please, you’ve already scared my boy. We don’t want no trouble.”

  Henwyn gave a placating smile. “We’d be no trouble,” he said. “You’d hardly know we were here.”

  “No. Just go.”

  “Oh, for the love of the rutting gods,” Maros growled. “Fine.” He brandished a crutch towards the man. “But I tell you this, you good-for-nothing peasant: If you’re ever in need of some freeblade assistance – bandits, critters, whatever – don’t come calling on me or mine! You hear?”

  The man gawped, then gave a curt nod.

  “Right then.” Henwyn’s smile dropped within his close-shorn beard. “I believe our business here is done. Thanks for your time.”

  As the man grabbed the door-handle, Maros called out, “Just a moment! Since you won’t help a fellow, maybe you can tell us where we might find shelter around these parts. Any of the other houses over yonder likely to let a giant monster wait out a storm in their hay barn?”

  The man paused, clearly glad to be getting rid of them and keeping his family alive. “The ringfort of Dulèth’s down the road a ways. It’s gone to ruin, but it’s a shelter.”

  “How far?” Maros asked.

  “Few hours.”

  “A few hours? It’ll be night by the time we get there!”

  Henwyn crossed to the peasant and passed him a copper piece, which he looked at warily before snatching it from Henwyn’s hand. “Thank you for the information.”

  The man paused only an instant before scurrying through the door and slamming it tight behind him.

  Maros leaned on his crutches and frowned at the crumbling circular wall of the ringfort, framed by the late evening sky. “Dulèth. Huh. I didn’t know this place was still standing.”

  “Such as it is,” Henwyn remarked.

  “If you think I’m sleeping in that,” Wymar spat as he busied himself with unbuckling the mules from the wagon, “then you can think again.”

  Maros shrugged. “You’ve been paid good money. You can sleep where you like.”

  “Good Wymar,” Henwyn said, “I did explain that there would be several overnight stops.”

  “Overnight, perhaps.” Wymar tugged frustratedly at a strap. “But you said nothing about roughing it in a bloody tumbledown ruin. The place is probably crawling with rats.”

  Maros barked a laugh. “And your mill isn’t?”

  Wymar whirled around. “Now listen here, tavernmaster—”

  Henwyn raised his hands placatingly. “I’m sure we can find some amenable middle-ground here. How about we go inside and see what we’re dealing with?”

  “Hmph.” Wymar frowned. “Easy for you to say. You’re accustomed to sleeping in shit pits.”

  “I’m accustomed to sleeping under the stars,” Henwyn said. “And, if it doesn’t rain tonight, I might just do so. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Not fucking likely.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” Henwyn strolled through the wide gap in the ringfort’s wall where the doors had once stood. “Boss,” he called from within, “I’d be careful if I were you. You’ve a strong competitor here for an inn. Furnishings are second only to the Peddler.”

  “Competition is healthy!” Maros called, casting a thunderous glare at the mill owner’s back. Setting the crutches firmly under his arms, he swung himself into the shaded interior of the ringfort. Furnishings indeed, he thought. The floor was all rubble, dirt, rodent droppings, and puddles of rainwater from the recent shower. Should’ve brought a few extra blankets. And maybe a broom.

  From the entrance, Wymar said, “I’m sleeping in the wagon.”

  “Suit yourself. I can see a nice spot that’
s not too damp or covered in mouse shit. How about letting me bring that hay in for a bed?”

  “That’s food for the mules.”

  “Okay. How about not letting me and just watching me do it anyway.”

  “You can have half,” Wymar said begrudgingly. “But only as a borrow for the night.”

  Maros narrowed his eyes at the man. “Mighty generous of you. Wait till you see what I charge you for a cup of ale next time you’re in my tavern.”

  “Right,” Henwyn said. “Anything you need me to do before I head out to catch us a meal?”

  “Some firewood wouldn’t go amiss, Hen. And a few goats to skin for blankets. And a couple hundred birds for feathers to stuff ‘em with.”

  “I’ll gather some sticks,” Henwyn said flatly, and stepped out of the ringfort.

  “Don’t be gone too long,” Maros called after him. “Wymar promised us a juggling act.”

  Henwyn cast an amused glance at the red-faced mill owner. “Ah, shame,” he sighed. “But duty comes first!” He grabbed his bow from beside the wagon and strode away.

  I’d rather be gathering sticks than sitting around here with a pair of old mules and a crotchety skinflint for company, Maros thought. He swatted his crutch at a broken stone in the rubble, disturbing a scattering of rodent droppings as it skidded across the fort. Aye, it’s gonna be a long trip, and a long night for starters.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  UNDER A PALE MOON

  Oriken squatted before the campfire and poked a stick into the flames, stirring new life into them. The firewood crackled and spat ephemeral motes into the night. Frogs and heath-hoppers hid amongst the grasses, keeping their distance from the clearing as they chirred their languid night songs. The Vur season was on the wane, but the night was comfortable even with the treacherous southern coast a mere handful of miles away.

  Coast? He scoffed at the thought. Some coast it is, this headland on the hairy arse of Himaera, with the Gardens of the Dead and the Blighted City at its warty pinnacle. A far stretch from the Saltcoast.