The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  “The stone, you see,” the farmhand continued, “it weren’t strong enough to stop her from dyin’, but it were strong enough to bring her back as soon as her heart stopped beatin’. Trouble was, she weren’t some poor, mindless critter like the bairn. She still had her ken about her – well, some of it. Didn’t last, though. Weeks wore on an’ she started utterin’ a whole heap o’ crazy talk. And festerin’. Stinkin’ the place down.”

  “Foul work,” Onwin said. “No business messin’ with the goddess’s plans.”

  Lingrey leaned in to Eriqwyn. “It were only then when they opted to take the rock back to where it belonged. The lady died then. A blessin’ she were put from her misery afore she turned vicious like the bairn. Can’t have the likes o’ them risin’ up again, so good for you is what I say. Ayup.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  AMMENFAR

  Oriken sweated beneath his fleece-lined jacket. His sodden trousers chafed against his thighs. The rain drummed upon his hat’s wide brim. He was in no mood for politeness, and certainly in no mood to be subservient to anyone, least of all a king.

  This whole fiasco has gone to cowshit, he thought. And now I’m soaked to the skin on the summons of some turgid cock of a king. The nerve of it!

  With the deluge blanketing the city in a darkened shroud, there wasn’t a single positive thing he could see at that moment. “Shouldn’t have camped last night,” he mumbled into the wind and rain. “Should’ve kept on walking.” A gust of wind lashed into his face, and he pulled the hat tighter onto his head.

  Gorven was setting a quick pace for the castle. Occasionally Oriken would glance to the side to see a lone figure, or two or three, stood behind panes of glass or open shutters in the shade of their houses, looking out at the so-called ‘outlanders’ as he and Jalis passed swiftly by with Gorven Althalus. Silent, staring, blighted figures, every last one of them. All the while, the hulk of Lachyla Castle loomed on its low hill at the rear of the storm-darkened cityscape, its domes and towers and spires melting into the louring squall.

  Thank the stars we done away with the rest of those things long ago. Who wants an unsightly horror like that as a neighbour? I’d say curse this whole city if someone hadn’t beaten me to it. His earlier suggestion of looting the place seemed now a naive and wholly unsavoury notion.

  To Gorven’s other side, Jalis’s shorter legs were working double-time to keep up. She held tight to the hood of her cloak as the wind whipped it around, exposing her drenched leggings to more punishment from the storm. “What is this all about?” she asked, spitting the rain from her lips. “What does Mallak want with Oriken? And why only him? Are we heading willingly towards trouble?”

  “Whatever the reason,” Oriken shouted across to her, “he’d better have a solution that’ll help Dagra.” To Gorven, he said, “I don’t care for being called on the whim of this Mallak fellow. He may be king here, but he’s no king of mine. Himaera got rid of his sort with the Uprising, and it’s doing fine without them.”

  Gorven’s hair was plastered to his scalp like a skullcap, but he seemed almost to be enjoying the downpour. “Not that I’ve experienced a post-Uprising Himaera,” he said, “but I don’t entirely disagree with you. As to why you’ve been summoned, though, I’m afraid I cannot say.”

  “Cannot?” Oriken asked. “Or will not?”

  “Cannot. King Mallak shares his thoughts only when he chooses, just as I have closed my mind while we speak now.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Oriken said. “He doesn’t exactly win votes as the most benevolent leader. Paranoid and isolationist, history says. Shut the gates to keep the influence of the other kingdoms away from his own.”

  “You have to understand that Mallak wasn’t a bad king,” Gorven said. “Mostly, anyway. Show me a king who isn't’ a tyrant, and I’ll show you a man who isn’t a king. Ostensibly, it’s true that the gates of Lachyla were closed due to the king’s paranoia, but the reality is that the portcullis was lowered – and remained so – to keep the growing blight contained within.”

  “He imprisoned his own people?” Jalis asked.

  Gorven’s expression was tight as he answered. “The blight was new to us. We didn’t understand it, and it frightened us all, including the king. What started as a slow outbreak of symptoms grew into a city-wide epidemic. Some of the visiting merchants and ambassadors from the northern kingdoms witnessed the earlier stages and quickly left, no doubt spreading word of the contagion. Even while still in Lachyla, they had begun referring to it as the Blighted City. It was a rumour which we didn’t encouraged, but, behind closed doors, many of us believed it to be the curse of Valsana. It was months before the king finally called for the gates to be closed – not just the heath-side gate, but also the ocean-side gate.” Lightning streaked behind the castle, silhouetting the colossus and striking down behind it into the ocean beyond. “So,” he continued, “yes, at that time we were prisoners in our own city, but we would have been so whether the gates were closed or not, for our fates were already sealed.”

  “I take it the dead hadn’t started kicking out the slabs of their tombs at that point?” Jalis said.

  A strong gust whipped into Gorven’s face, slashing rain into his eyes; he blinked it away, then nodded. “For the most part, that’s true. The first to turn were the newly, as-yet unburied dead.” A haunted look clouded his black-lined eyes, there and gone in a moment. “By that time, those who hadn’t escaped the city endured a waking nightmare. Our loved ones died but did not truly die, for the curse, or the blight was not as strong then as it is now. Accidents happened, suicides and murders were attempted, many unsuccessfully, as I told you.” He nodded to Jalis. “We had little choice but to accept our undeath – or unlife – somewhere between the two, for what could conceivably stretch into eternity.”

  Jalis scoffed. “I can scarcely conceive of what eternity truthfully means, let alone living for as long as you have. What purpose could there be to enduring an unending existence in a confined space? It would drive me crazy. And yet there’s little choice but to accept what I’ve seen. The restless dead, Sabrian’s story, you taking a bolt in the chest from Oriken…”

  Oriken cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry about that, I guess.”

  Gorven shook his head. “Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. We Lachylans found it more difficult than you can know to accept what the future held for us. That’s why we want to help Dagra as much as we can. Is life without purpose a life at all? The flowers and grasses are alive, yet we would not say they have discovered a reason for living; they merely exist. We can only leave these walls for hours at a time, or, for the strongest of us, days at the most. We spend our time ruminating over the mores and morals of society; our fears; our philosophies, and how they might be forced to change between the perceptions of mortality and immortality; the ultimate futility of mysticism and deific worship, by ones such as us, to ones such as Morta’Valsana, Banael, Haleth and all the other gods. Many of us here have concluded that our dear curse-casting goddess belongs only with the Taleweavers, their myths and legends to be spun for historical interest and entertainment, that Valsana and her cohorts should be cast into the realm of fantasy along with the likes of dragons and orcs and jotunn.”

  “But jotunn do exist,” Jalis said. “We have a friend who’s a halfblood.”

  Gorven raised his eyebrows, then blinked as rain flurried into his face. “Is that so? Hm. That will prove an interesting topic for future discussions. Still, the point remains.”

  “I have to admit,” Jalis said, “that in a world where corpses can rise from their graves, and humans are somehow transformed into undying beings, I’m beginning to wonder what else might be out there on Verragos.”

  “Make no bones about it, dear girl, there is nothing magic about the restless dead; the mindless occupants of the graveyard are a sad by-product of Lachyla, much closer than we in the city to the true death they once enjoyed. Nor is there anything mystic about people w
ho have seemingly transcended mortality.”

  Feeling the need to add something to the frankly tedious discussion, Oriken said, “Oh? How so?”

  “The truth, I fear, is something quite mundane, and yet, perhaps, also much more chilling. But we are almost there. I must open my mind to his liege and announce our presence.”

  Great, Oriken thought. May as well have kept my bloody mouth shut.

  As he frowned up at the sprawling behemoth of Lachyla Castle that now dominated the view, the image of a hangman’s noose flashed into his mind, followed by a chopping block. The thought occurred to him then, that there was a good chance he was being led by the shepherd to the slaughterhouse.

  They turned onto a wide walkway that cut straight through the centre of the hill. The flagstones shimmered with carved, rain-filled whorls. At the end of the walkway was a set of steps, beyond which Oriken could see the upper halves of two armoured guards standing rigid in their glistening armour before the castle’s entrance. Stone arcades enclosed the way to the steps – two walls of arches housing statues that brooded within their niches, gazing impassively across at each other.

  A real show of splendour, he thought with a sneer. Looks like half a job to me.

  The aged timber of the entranceway was studded with large, black nails, with an intricate, wrought iron crest adorning the centre of each door. The guardsmen completed the ego of the place: clean-shaven, wearing polished greaves and ringmail, with half-cloaks clasped to their shoulders by silver buckles. The guard on the right wore a braided burgundy cord from armpit to shoulder, which Oriken supposed marked him as the superior. As he drew closer, the guards lowered their pikes to bar the way.

  More show. And I’d wager it’s put on just for us. Does the king get an abundance of visitors these days? I think not.

  Oriken came to a stop before the doors. “Right,” he announced. “Your king – that’s the fellow who lives here, unless we’re at the wrong house – he’s expecting us, so you can drop the act.” As an afterthought, he added, “Because I’m not impressed.”

  Both guards completely ignored him.

  Gorven nodded to the one with the fancy rope. “Greetings, Ellidar, old friend. It has been too long.”

  “Indeed, it has,” Ellidar replied impassively. “His Majesty is expecting you—”

  Oriken thrust his hands in the air. “Aissia’s tits! Didn’t I just say that? What am I, invisible?”

  Jalis leaned behind Gorven and shook her head. “Leave it alone,” she whispered.

  “Please follow me,” Ellidar said to Gorven. Fixing his pike into a bracket beside the double doors, he walked across to a smaller door set into an adjacent wall, pushed it open and stepped through.

  The second guard tilted his pike back to a vertical position, but remained at attention. Oriken leaned towards him. “You should get yourself a little niche,” he advised, poking a thumb over his shoulder at the statues beyond the steps. “You’d fit right in with that lot. Ow!” He scowled at Jalis and rubbed his arm where she’d pinched it.

  She cast him a flat look, then followed Gorven into the castle.

  “I’m just saying it like it is,” Oriken called after her. He shrugged at the guard. “Women, huh?” The guard didn’t even blink. Not getting a rise out of this one.

  Oriken stepped through the side door and peered ahead. The one Gorven had called Ellidar who had set a deliberate, stiff-backed pace along the corridor. “All right,” Oriken said. “I get it. You haven’t had a chance to do this in, what, two centuries? Three? You’re clearly getting a buzz of nostalgia, so go ahead, have at it.”

  Jalis spun on him. “Oriken, you fucking dolt. You’re not making things any better, you know?”

  He snorted. “Could they get much worse?”

  The corridor walls were festooned with drapes, curtains and tasselled ropes. He glared at each from beneath his hat as he passed them by, until Ellidar paused to open a side door and led them into the main entrance hall. A bronze candelabra dangled from the high ceiling with a hundred or more candles, all unlit. Weapons, shields and a plethora of decorations adorned the walls, set above low pedestals, upon which helms nested like metallic eggs. A faded canvas hung over a wide arch at the rear of the hall, depicting what Oriken supposed was a map of the Lachylan Kingdom.

  The place was filled with callbacks to the Days of Kings. For each sign of grandeur, there was another sign of disuse with a hint of neglect. Still, he had to admit that Lachyla Castle was considerably less ugly within as without.

  Beneath the arch, ornately-carved doors barred the way. A red carpet stretched from them all the way back to a second set, which he guessed was the main entrance they hadn’t been invited through.

  Several full suits of armour were positioned within corners. It took Oriken a second glance to realise that the two beside the ornate doors contained guardsmen, each standing perfectly still and clasping a longsword in leather, silver-backed gauntlets.

  Ellidar nodded to the guards. In unison, they pulled the doors open and Ellidar took a step over the threshold. “Your Highness,” he called, his voice echoing within. “I bring you Oriken of Eyndal.”

  “Alder’s Folly, actually,” Oriken muttered.

  “Send him in!”

  That’s my cue. “Right. Listen up.” He strode past Ellidar into the room. “Yes, we took your jewel. No, we don’t know where it is. Something’s wrong with our friend, and you— Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.” A large bronze throne, embellished with gems of all colours, dominated the far centre of the room. Set into its high back, the metal shaped as if holding it like a claw, was a deadstone. The hard-faced man who had spoken was slouched upon the throne. He flicked his hand in a bored gesture.

  The doors clicked shut behind Oriken. He spun about to see Ellidar positioned before them, leaving Jalis on the other side with Gorven and the two guards.

  Oriken half-turned and eyed the throne and its occupant sidelong. He’d never seen a king before, other than on sketches, murals and portraits, because they were all dead, like this one should be. Mallak oozed regality and decadence in equal measure, for as much as his wide-shouldered posture, strong nose and penetrating, brown-eyed gaze spoke of strength and sureness of character, his gilded crimson shirt, waxed leather leggings and fur-topped boots hinted at an era lost in time. A black swordbelt was strapped to his hips, edged with maroon embroidery and sporting an ornate silver buckle. The handle of the attached gladius was nestled between man and throne. The lack of a crown on the king’s head was more than reconciled by the gladius’s golden, gem-studded scabbard, its mirror-finish glinting with the light from the myriad torches upon the walls.

  Dagra would love that sword, Oriken thought, transferring his gaze to the deadstone above Mallak’s head. The king rose, blocking his view of the jewel, and stepped from the dais. Oriken waited with jaw clenched as Mallak made his way along the red carpet.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the king said. “You’re thinking that everything about this place”—he swept a grand gesture around the throne room—“is little more than a shambolic pretence of might and splendour.” His eyes hardened as he came to a stop before Oriken. “Including me.”

  He pursed his lips, then shrugged. “You got me there.” No point in denying it.

  Mallak nodded. “As I thought. And, if you’re wondering, I didn’t read your mind; you are, after all, not one of us. But I can read your face, and your contempt for this”—he cocked his head—“this lifestyle is written all over it.”

  Oriken crossed his arms. “Can you blame me? We do quite well without the despots that once plagued our land. Sure, there are bandits, and other problems, but we freeblades do a fine enough job of keeping things in order. The ways of kings are a thing of the past. You”—he stabbed a finger at the king—“are a relic, an arachnorism.”

  The king stifled a laugh. “An anachronism.”

  “Hey, however you like to say it is fine with me.”


  Mallak cast his eyes about the throne room, at the walls bedecked with weapons, burning torches, shields emblazoned with coats of arms, fading drapes of regal colours, and the tables and niches that were stacked with pierced breastplates, broken swords and helms, and the skulls of men and monsters.

  “Would it surprise you if I said I understood your sentiment?” the king said with a sidelong glance at Oriken. “Well, I do. If you had spoken to me so a mere hundred years ago, I might have had Ellidar remove your head, strip it to the bone and place it on one of the shelves. Most likely I would have done the deed myself. But today… Let us just say that you catch me in a somewhat different mood. To that end, let’s dispense with the insults and the façade which a king must otherwise wear. I called you here for two reasons, and you have my gratitude for responding.”

  “It didn’t seem like I had much choice.”

  “No. And perhaps you didn’t. So, then, will we talk? Not as equals, of course, but as one man to another?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good. In that case, there is something I would very much like to show you.”

  The king smiled, and Oriken didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  ONE BIG MOTHER

  King Mallak led Oriken down a gradually descending, winding corridor, the gentle chink-chink of Ellidar’s ringmail drifting to them as he marched ahead. Flags, plaques and portraits decorated the walls, as well as a variety of masks and shields, with flaming torches in gilded sconces lighting the way.

  “A man’s life is his crime,” Mallak said conversationally as they walked. “It is also his judgement, and his penance. This is true for none more so than a king. I made my mistakes and I paid dearly for them. This bubble of existence called Lachyla is set apart from the rest of Verragos, and yet remains eternally outside of the Spirit Realm.” He turned a hard eye on Oriken. “This is a ledge of the Pit itself, risen to the surface of the world; a purgatorial polyp that even the birds and the worms shy away from. The dark centuries of suffering have brought me to one nugget of wisdom: that I have served my penance in full, for there is no man left within this shell. A king? Perhaps. But a man? No.”