by Scott Kaelen
“Yes,” Gorven said as they passed the statue and headed for the entrance of a wide street, “how could our beloved liege, poised in all his splendour, possibly go unnoticed?”
Jalis wasn’t sure if she’d detected a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “King Mallak,” she said. “It seems he’s a focal point of your city’s legend.”
Gorven glanced from her to Dagra. “I’d like to hear what the modern world is saying about our city,” he prompted.
“You’re in my mind, so why don’t you pull the legend out of it and have a look for yourself?” Dagra turned his red-rimmed eyes to Gorven. “I can feel you in there, prodding away at the edges. Do you think I want to chat about your fucking king after you’ve dropped a proverbial rock on my head?”
“Ah. Of course. My apologies.”
Jalis stepped close to Dagra and placed her arm around his shoulders, grateful when he didn’t shrug her away.
“I don’t much care for your apologies,” Dagra said. “I want to keep my thoughts to myself.” He reached to his shoulder and gave Jalis’s hand an appreciative touch. “And I want to go home. Fuck your jewel, fuck your city and fuck your king.”
An alarmed look crossed Gorven’s face. “Please don’t say that.” As if searching for a reason to drop the conversation, he scanned the street ahead and pointed to a modest-sized house with an equally compact but decorative yard. “Here we are. And here comes Sabrian.”
The door opened, and a man who appeared to be in his late twenties stepped out. He sported a neatly-trimmed goatee and moustache, with chestnut-coloured hair that hung in thick waves about his face.
Sabrian beamed them a wide grin and gestured cordially for them to approach. “Welcome!” he called. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet someone from my neck of the woods after so long!” He aimed his words at Dagra but also gave Jalis a warm smile. “Please, come in. You really must tell me how life beyond the Deadlands has changed since Lachyla became my home.”
They gathered in Sabrian’s small but homely living room, each settling into one of the four armchairs that formed a half-circle around a wooden table, its top fashioned from the trunk of an oak, with expertly-carved etchings of a young woman and a small boy beneath the varnish.
Jalis kept her eyes on Sabrian, who sat in the farthest chair from her, speaking in hushed tones with Gorven beside him. She was as unsure of what to make of him as she was of the whole macabre yet mystifying situation. Thoughts whirled through her mind as she tried to find sense in the events that had unfolded from yesterday until now. Gorven and Krea’s claim about Dagra seemed fabricated, but to what purpose? She decided that patient observation was the answer, for now, and would allow Sabrian the chance to speak. Scrutinising the man, she supposed he was handsome; even those black-tainted slivers of flesh between eyes and lashes were not unattractive, and one could perhaps overlook the disconcertingly dark gums. Was the discolouring of raw flesh somehow a characteristic of their alleged long life, or of the blight they carried?
The risk of contagion was a growing concern, but, without knowing the source, there was little she could do except to keep direct contact to a minimum. But if the blight was in the air, there was a chance they were all already doomed.
No, she thought. Gorven wouldn’t be putting all the focus on Dagra if Oriken and I were also infected. Unless something more is going on here than they’re letting on.
Thinking of Oriken, she hoped he was okay back at the mansion, alone with Krea. The way the girl had knocked him to the ground was quite the surprise, but it had gained Krea no respect from Jalis. It might have been an amusing sight in any normal circumstance, which this was not.
Centuries of life have honed Krea’s skills, she mused, as perhaps they have for all who live here. If what they say is true, then age has transcended meaning in this place, just as death has transcended meaning for the corpses in the graveyard.
She suppressed a shudder as Sabrian finished speaking with Gorven and turned his attention to Dagra.
“I understand you’re having some difficulty in adjusting.”
Dagra shifted his weight in the armchair and regarded Sabrian with narrowed eyes. “I don’t see what there is to adjust to,” he said acidly, nudging a thumb at Gorven in the armchair beside him. “I’ve already told him all there is to say.”
“Then, if I may,” Sabrian said, “let me tell you a little about myself.” He arched his brows, an empathic expression on his face.
Dagra waved a hand dismissively. “If it makes you feel better. But don’t take all day about it, because we’ll be leaving this accursed city soon.”
Sabrian nodded and leaned forward. “Just as you came in search of Lachyla, so I also came in search of the fabled city, one hundred and twenty years ago.”
Jalis pressed her lips together. She felt a tightness in her core as she guessed where this was going.
“I was not alone,” Sabrian said. “My three companions and I crossed Death’s Head Land—”
“You mean the Deadlands?” Jalis asked.
Sabrian’s brow furrowed and he looked at Dagra, then nodded. “The Deadlands. Indeed. After many weeks, we finally glimpsed the great battlements of Lachyla in the distance. Well, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what that was like.”
“Hmph,” Dagra said.
“We never made it to the wall,” Sabrian said sombrely. “But, before I continue, I’ll let Gorven tell you about a certain place not far from here.”
Gorven crossed one leg over the other, resting his elbows on the chair’s arms as he steepled his fingers. “During the Days of Kings, there were a number of mines in the south of Scapa Fell, all belonging to the kingdom of Lachyla. Prior to the Uprising, many of the mines became depleted and the kingdom had no more use for them, nor for the settlements beyond the city walls. With the land barely arable and not producing anything of much worth, the villages were abandoned, one by one. The reach of Lachyla retreated until most of Scapa Fell was discarded as worthless except for a couple of strongholds which were the homes of governing lords.
Only the manor near the southernmost mine, which still ran plentiful, remained occupied. Lord Albarandes governed the place and lived there with his family, while the miners lived in a scattering of surrounding shacks. Before the blight took hold, it was to Albarandes Manor that many of the escaping Lachylans converged. A village grew around the manor – a village that would come to be known as Minnow’s Beck.”
Dagra grunted.
Demelza’s village, Jalis thought.
“With that in mind,” Sabrian said, “I’ll tell you how it is that Lachyla became my home. It was turning dusk when my companions and I saw the distant wall, so we set camp for the night. Perhaps we had been lucky, encountering nothing of much danger during the whole journey. Stupidly, we set no guard. We were attacked while we slept. As captives, we were led to a village; I didn’t know its name then, but I do now. At midnight, as Haleth shone full overhead, the leaders and Warders of Minnow’s Beck lined us up beneath an oak tree, our hands tied behind our backs. They meant to execute us.”
“For what?” Jalis asked.
Sabrian cast her a grave look. “For intruding upon their peaceful existence.”
She shook her head. “Ignorant of their own irony.”
“Such attitudes are the epitome of irony,” Sabrian said. “We offered them no harm, and yet they saw what they wanted to see, what their strange ways had them believe us to be: intruders.”
“A society’s true nature is let loose when an unknown element is introduced,” Gorven said.
Sabrian shared an agreeing glance with him. “In this case, the unknown element was four outlanders. One of my companions pleaded for his life, babbling in desperation. Another wept quietly. The third stared out into the heath and whispered for his mother, but of course she never came. Me, I was too terrified for words or tears. The order was called for the first of us to step forward and drop to his knees. I watched him
comply. He was commanded to lower his head upon a wooden block.” Sabrian let out a low, long sigh. “He did so, with nothing but a quiet sob. When the axe fell, I ran. I didn’t care where to, I just barged through the hunters and ran into the night, my arms trussed behind me. They gave chase.
“I got an arrow in the shoulder, but I kept going till I was running blind, not just from the dark night, but from fear and delirium. I stumbled often, but never fell; if I had, I would not be here to tell you. I was losing blood. By then, I was nothing more than an animal controlled by mindless terror, fleeing from an inevitable death. A second arrow punched into my side; rather than drop me, it filled me with new panic. And then I saw the wall.”
“The graveyard?” Jalis asked.
Sabrian gave a brief nod. “The eastern wall, looming against the night sky. That’s when I fell, down and over into the gods knew where. I landed hard on one of the jutting arrows, driving the head deeper into my flesh as the shaft snapped, and I lost consciousness. I awoke to silence and blackness, and agony. I crawled, and kept on crawling. I don’t know how I managed to do so. Finally, I reached a dead end, a wall of smooth, flat stone. Somewhere in the distance I heard the faintest of noises. I thought it was the villagers, that they’d found me.
“Time stretched on. In the blackness, I crawled into the corner of the wall. The muted commotion above never drew closer. I was going to die, not by their hands, but from my wounds bleeding out. I knew my fate, so I slept, sure I would not awake again. But then I roused to the sound of stone grinding upon stone. The wall shifted beneath my shoulder and I pitched sideways, dimly aware that a voice was telling me I would survive. I was lifted by strong arms, and for the second time I lost consciousness.”
Sabrian settled back in his chair. “And that’s how I came to Lachyla. Not sauntering into the graveyard as I hoped, but in a nightmare of mortal fear, blind panic, pain and finally solitude, resigned to a death in an unknown cave at the far end of nowhere. But I didn’t die. As an unrelated aside, my rescue wasn’t the end of my torment. But you don’t need to know the rest. Suffice to say, it was not Gorven who took me from the cave. Anyway, this all happened many years ago, yet I sit before you now as a man in his twenty-seventh year. Somewhat remarkable, don’t you think?”
Jalis puffed her cheeks. Despite Sabrian’s light-hearted end to his otherwise sombre tale, she detected something more in his tone, something unresolved, perhaps. “I’ve been a freeblade for over a dozen years, since I was a fresh-faced girl of nineteen. I’ve had a few terrifying ordeals in that time, both before and since my friends joined the guild.” She glanced at Dagra. “Not the least of which was having to escape from that graveyard. So, to a degree, I can empathise.”
“Aye,” Dagra said. “As can I. But I don’t see what relevance it has to me.”
“The relevance,” Sabrian said with a tight smile, “is that I, an outsider, was given another chance. One might argue that I was born again. Either way, I accepted my lot and it took some of the locals quite a while to accept me in return – not all are as amenable as good Gorven here – but I managed to find my place in Lachyla. And so can you, Dagra. I know that all your instincts are shouting for you to fight it, but you must accept the certitude of your fate.”
Dagra shook his head. His face was set in stubborn resolve. “You’re all claiming I have this blight, but how can you know that? Your mouths, your eyes… Do mine look like that?” He turned to Jalis and she shook her head. “See?” he said, rising from his chair. “Your story is sad and terrible, but I’m not blight-ridden like the two of you.” He glowered at both Sabrian and Gorven. “I’m not.”
Gorven sighed and pushed himself from his seat. “Not yet, you’re not. Or, I should say, you’re not showing the later-stage physical symptoms. But I don’t doubt you’re showing the early ones. Would you open your shirt?”
“What?”
“Humour me, if you will. One more minute of your time, then you can do whatever you please.”
Dagra shrugged. He pulled the toggle on the drawstring of his shirt, then loosened the criss-crossed cord, half-revealing the poultice that Jalis had applied to the deepest of his gouges. “Counting the seconds here,” he told Gorven.
Without warning, Gorven stepped in close and ripped the poultice away.
“Gah!” Dagra reeled back, his legs bumping into the armchair. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Take a look in the mirror,” Sabrian said, gesturing to a dress mirror on the wall behind Jalis.
Dagra approached it. Standing before the mirror, he eased his shirt open and looked at his reflection. “Oh, my gods.” He turned to face Jalis.
She stared mutely at his chest. The deep scratch was now nothing more than a faint red line. Most of the scab had already fallen off.
“It’s healed,” Dagra said, then crumpled to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
BEFORE THE STORM
Adri stood within the front entrance of Albarandes Manor. She looked out over her sister’s shoulder across their garden to the village green and the small assemblage that were gathered there.
“It’s a fine group you’re taking with you,” she said. As she rested a hand upon Eriqwyn’s shoulder, she felt the tautness in her sister’s muscles. “But what on the goddess’s green heath made you include Shade, of all people? What did she say to you?”
“The woman practically begged to be included,” Eriqwyn said sullenly, then shrugged. “So be it. The one idiot can keep the other company.”
“Oh, Eri,” Adri chided. “You won’t hear me defend Shade, but you must show Demelza a little leniency. Old Ina did what she could for the girl, goddess rest her sweet soul.”
Eriqwyn grunted softly.
“Demelza may be lacking in certain aptitudes,” Adri continued, “but she does possess strengths. She’s fended for herself while living alone in Ina’s shack for almost six years. It can’t have been easy.”
Eriqwyn turned to face her. “She’s not the only one who had a tough time growing up.”
“Our father was still alive when we were her age. And Mother—”
Eriqwyn scoffed. “Mother? She’s scarcely more than a ghost these days.”
“Even so, we’ve always had each other,” Adri said softly. “But let’s not digress. All I ask is for you to know that Demelza would benefit more from your guidance than your contempt.”
Eriqwyn sighed. “I will try, after we return. There is no place for softness where we are heading, nor with what we must accomplish.”
Adri let the matter drop. “Tell me about Shade.”
“She claims to be privy to more knowledge concerning Lachyla than anyone else in the village. She further claims that such knowledge would aid us in our search for the outlanders.”
“What could she know that the rest of us don’t?”
“Apparently, the whereabouts of another entrance to the graveyard.”
Adri frowned. “The gate is the only way in.”
“According to Shade, there’s an underground system that would cut our travel time exponentially. She says it leads beneath the central section of the eastern wall.”
Adri opened her mouth to speak.
“I know,” Eriqwyn said. “I’m as suspicious as you, sister.” She cast her gaze to the ornate sundial in the centre of the garden, its shadow pointing almost to the eleventh hour. “If true, I could be there shortly after noon. The alternative would get us to the same point more than two hours later. I’ve wasted far too much time already in discussing the matter with the council, and I’m achieving nothing by standing here with you.”
Eriqwyn’s tone was not disrespectful, and Adri understood her eagerness to be gone. “If it turns out that Shade is lying—”
“It would be beyond foolish,” Eriqwyn said. “And with no obvious benefit. If she’s misleading us in an attempt to delay or obstruct the mission, then she will be visited with some dire judgement in accordance with the laws.”
Adri nodded. “Well then, I won’t hinder you any longer. Speed of the goddess to you.” She gently squeezed her sister’s shoulder, wanting to embrace her but knowing it would not be prudent to show softness in front of the group and the few onlookers who, despite the approaching storm, had ventured from their homes to watch them leave.
For a moment, Eriqwyn’s eyes softened as she smiled, then she gathered her pack and bow from beside the door and set off to join the others.
As Adri watched her walk away, their mother’s muffled, emotionless call came from within the house. “What’s the commotion out there?”
“Nothing, Mother,” she sighed. “Nothing at all. Go back to sleep.” With a last look at her sister, she added under her breath, “Be careful, Eri. I need you. We all need you.”
Wayland rested against the manor’s garden wall, his fingertip idly tracing the inscriptions in the iron of the wood-axe at his belt. He cast a cool gaze across Eriqwyn’s group, trusting that he gave the appearance of casual confidence despite his reservations, not only about the mission, but also about the group itself. There was no denying that most of the chosen could look after themselves, but how they would operate as a unit raised a few concerns in his mind.
Demelza stood silently beside him, fidgeting with the satchel at her shoulder. A sheaf of arrows hung at her hip, and she clutched her bow tightly. Wayland understood Adri’s insistence that the girl accompany them. Like Adri, he knew that Demelza was not as useless as Eriqwyn and others presumed her to be; a little under-nourished perhaps, and still a touch childlike although practically a young woman, but there was more to her than most were aware of. Admittedly she had her troubles, but Demelza was a good person, and that counted for a lot. He did not want her tainted with murder. Theirs was a necessary task, but not one that should fall onto the shoulders of one so young and innocent.