The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  She struggled along the nargut-sized burrow until she emerged into the hub, where the stooped forms of her group were cast into striking silhouettes by the torchlight. She climbed to her feet and looked around. This was where the creature would have stored its kills, but no remains were in evidence now. Stooping beneath the low ceiling, she accepted her bow and arrows from Tan, and a torch from Wayland.

  “How much further?” Tan asked of Shade, his eyes betraying him as they glanced from her face to her muddied, rain-wet body.

  The seamstress’s features teased into a smile. “Oh, not far now, darling. But we have the tightest gap to enter yet.”

  The blacksmith stifled a cough and looked around the group, eager to shift the attention away from himself.

  “Lead on,” Eriqwyn told Shade.

  They continued into the den, keeping the torches low to avoid dousing them on the low ceiling. After a minute, Shade’s voice rang clear within the enclosed space. “The way opens up a little further ahead.”

  Before long, the wider tunnel began to descend and the damp soil gave way to packed clay. After a minute of heading deeper underground, the way levelled off and the group emerged into a much larger area.

  “Har!” Lingrey exclaimed, standing upright and stretched his back. “Damn, but that weren’t good fer me old bones. Aye-yup! Ah, that’s better.”

  “Sh,” Wayland hissed at him. “Not so loud.”

  “Sorry, feller.”

  Eriqwyn held her torch high, and the flames illuminated a bumpy, domed roof that flickered with sharp shadows cast by small stalactites. She cast her gaze about the cavern, noting the myriad stalagmites that dotted the floor.

  “Watch your footing here,” Shade said. “Or you’ll risk impaling yourselves.”

  Let the woman have her moment, Eriqwyn thought, signalling to Shade to choose a route between the spiky columns.

  “Burrowing through into this cave, the old girl who lived here struck gold,” Onwin remarked.

  Shade gave a low chuckle as she stepped easily between the obstacles. “Luckier for me than for the nargut.”

  “Why so?” the hunter asked.

  She shrugged. “If it wasn’t for that creature choosing to build its den where it did, I might not be here at all.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Tan asked, but the woman merely glanced over her shoulder with a sly smile. After a moment, she said, “Incidentally, Onwin – if you’re interested, over there is what’s left of her.” She pointed into the corner of the cavern to a shallow pool where the partially-submerged remains of a large, adult nargut lay, its skull resting over the edge. A droplet fell from above into the pool, setting the water rippling with the glow of torchlight.

  Onwin grunted. “She crawled as far into her home as she could to die.”

  “It were like that long before I ever came in here. Hasn’t moved a muscle in all these years.” As Shade angled past the last of the stony mounds, she added, “Which is less than can be said for others around here.”

  Eriqwyn wasn’t far behind her, and within moments had stepped out of the obstacles onto flat stone when a shout filled the cavern, followed by a crash and a clatter. She spun about to see Lingrey on hands and knees, his torch fizzing out in a puddle.

  “Ayy! Darned went and slipped on something.” With a grimace, he held his hand out for her to see the bloody gash across the palm. “Smarts,” he announced. “But I’ll live.” Reclaiming his fork from the ground, he grabbed hold of the broken stalagmite beside him and climbed to his feet, pausing to peer down at the crushed body of a rat, a mess of innards spilled from its rear end. “Well, what do you know? Damned critter tripped me up. Sorry, feller.”

  Eriqwyn sighed. Behind her, Shade laughed softly. “I did warn you to take care.”

  “Lingrey,” Eriqwyn said, “I need you at your best. I chose you from three hundred villagers for good reason. Show me that I was right to do so.” Her glare shifted from the farmhand to the others who were still negotiating the stalagmites. “That goes for all of you. Now let’s move this cursed mission onwards. Shade.”

  “Ready and waiting, dear.” Shade stood with her back against the cavern’s far wall, her hands resting atop her thighs. Beside her, a narrow fissure ran from floor to ceiling.

  Eriqwyn eyed the gap. “That’s the way forward?”

  The seamstress gave a single nod. “It doesn’t last for long.” Glancing at the group, she said, “Some of you may want to rearrange your clothing and belongings before trying to squeeze through. It does get a little tighter for a moment a ways inside.” She turned to the fissure and began edging her way through.

  Eriqwyn lay her torch on the stone and removed her cloak. As Lingrey reached the end of the obstacles, she passed it to him without a word, then shrugged out of her backpack and unbuckled her belt with the arrows and hunting knife attached. “Wayland—”

  “Aye, I’ll come last after passing the gear through,” he said, one step behind Demelza as they traversed the spiky ground.

  Taking up her torch, she held it before her through the crack and edged herself in. The sides of the fissure scratched at her tunic as she inched along. The gap gradually narrowed, causing her to wince as the rock pushed and scraped against her breasts.

  From the darkness ahead came Shade’s voice. “Pass it to me,” she said, looming into the torchlight and reaching for its source. Her hand clasped around the stave and Eriqwyn released it. Edging back out of the fissure, the seamstress stood in the open space with the flickering light spilling over her dirt-smeared chest.

  Eriqwyn pulled her eyes from the salacious woman, but felt Shade’s on her as she continued to struggle through the gap. Reluctantly grasping Shade’s proffered hand, she squeezed through the last of the fissure into a rough-hewn tunnel, clearly dug by human tools.

  One by one, the others emerged, and the equipment was passed through until only Tan and Wayland were left.

  The blacksmith shuffled through the crevice with confidence until he reached the narrowest section. Try as he might, he couldn’t squeeze his muscular frame through. “It’s no use,” he gasped. “I’m stuck.”

  Eriqwyn gritted her teeth. “Goddess above. Wayland, can you pull him back out?”

  “You may have better luck crawling on your belly in the dirt,” Shade called to Tan. “It’s wider down there, but not by much.”

  Once Wayland had helped him out, Tan got down and dragged himself along the ground by his elbows with no room over his head to spare, grunting and cursing the whole way. Lingrey reached a long arm into the gap and heaved the blacksmith through the final stretch. Clambering to his feet, Tan glanced to Eriqwyn with a silent apology.

  Despite her growing anxiety, she gave him a curt nod and began to reattach her equipment while waiting for Wayland, her gaze roving over each of her group as she did so. Tensions were beginning to mount. It was not going quite as well as she had hoped, and they were not even inside the graveyard yet.

  “We’re almost directly beneath the perimeter wall,” Shade said, as if reading Eriqwyn’s mind. “Not far now.”

  “You told us that before,” Onwin snapped.

  “And I told you true. Don’t put the delays on my shoulders, hunter.”

  Onwin growled under his breath, but said no more.

  Truth is, Eriqwyn thought grudgingly, aside from Wayland, she’s been the best asset so far. Nor can I fault Demelza; the girl hasn’t uttered a single word. Taking a clean cloth, she gave her bow a quick wipe down, followed by Wayland’s. When he emerged from the fissure, they shared a brief look as she passed him his weapons.

  “What lies ahead?” he asked of Shade.

  “Very soon, the surface. And the storm. And death.” With a shrug, Shade turned on her heel, and Eriqwyn’s thunderous glare bore into her back as the seamstress melted into the shadows.

  I’m trying to keep everyone at their best, not put the fear of the goddess into them. “Onwards,” Eriqwyn growled. She marched after t
he irascible woman, and the rest of the group fell in behind her.

  They walked in silence, and she could feel the emotions of each of them, along with her own, the sensation permeating the musty air. Within minutes they reached the end of the tunnel, marked not by hewn rock and crossbeams but by a smooth slab of granite, a bronze lever jutting from a pillar beside it.

  “We are entering through one of the crypts?” Eriqwyn asked.

  “Yes,” Shade said, reaching for the lever.

  At Eriqwyn’s side, Wayland said, “I don’t suppose it’s the one we need?”

  Shade gave a melodious laugh as she pulled the handle. “That would be far too easy, don’t you think?” The oblong stone pivoted at its centre, and she stepped through.

  “Which of the families does it belong to then?” Eriqwyn narrowed her eyes at the woman. “I’m beginning to suspect that you didn’t just stumble upon this den.”

  “How astute of you, dear.” A smile worked its way from Shade’s lips to her brown eyes as they reflected the flickering flames. She spread her arms as if welcoming them to the darkened hallway, and said, “These are the tombs of House Galialos.”

  “Never heard of ‘em,” Onwin rumbled, with a similar mutter of assent passing from the other members of the group.

  “I have,” Eriqwyn said, fixing Shade with a level look. “From the archives. They were not among the families that escaped the city.”

  “Oh, but they were. They fled through the very tunnel you now stand in, built during Mallak’s father’s reign, years before the curse. The man was even more of a tyrant than his son, by all accounts. But, you know”—she placed her hand on her hip and cocked her head—“not every member of the upper class enjoys flaunting their privileges.”

  Eriqwyn balked. “You? Descended from nobility?”

  The seamstress gave a sweet, sickly smile and fluttered her eyelashes. “Not descended from nobility, Eri. I am nobility. Just like you. We are, as it happens, equals.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  A SHADOW THAT BEARS HIS FORM

  Ellidar held the curtain open for the king, letting it fall after Mallak stepped through. With a frown of irritation, Oriken pushed the velvet drape aside and followed them into the throne room.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, you said there were two reasons I was summoned here. The first was to show me the true ruler of this kingdom – that abomination down below – so what’s the second?”

  “Ah, yes.” The king sighed. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Well?”

  A tight smile creased Mallak’s features. To Ellidar, he said, “You may leave us now.”

  Ellidar regarded the king, his face set. As the knight turned to leave, the king stopped him by clasping a hand to his pauldroned shoulder. Mallak stepped around to face Ellidar, and grasped the knights arms in a grip that spoke not of a liege and his protector but of friends, albeit ones who masked their emotions for the sake of duty and propriety. Ellidar held the king’s gaze, and Mallak gave the briefest of nods. Oriken sensed that an understanding of sorts had passed between the two, but of what, he could not say. Nor could he say why his heart was beginning to race, but something more than the oddity that pervaded the place was prickling his freeblade senses.

  The king released the guard, and Ellidar strode across the throne room to the double doors. As he opened one and stepped through, Oriken caught a brief glimpse of Jalis sat with Gorven, and then the door clicked shut.

  Mallak paced across to the far wall of the grand chamber. Pulling the cork of a crystal decanter, he brought it to his lips and took a deep drink. “Ah,” he sighed, turning to Oriken and holding the decanter out in offering. “Wine?”

  “Thanks, but the stuff tastes like piss to me.”

  The king chuckled. “Of course. I can’t say I’ve had that particular privilege, but each to their own.”

  Oriken’s irritation was mounting. “Look, my friend is in some sort of predicament thanks to that monster under your castle, and, frankly, I’m having a hard time believing that he can’t just walk out of here. If you don’t have any pearls of wisdom to offer in that regard, then our business here is concluded. So why did you really summon me?”

  The king set the decanter down, reached to his waist and unsheathed the jewelled gladius. “To kill you,” he said.

  And there it is. “Why am I not surprised?”

  The king stepped around the chamber in a circular route towards Oriken, the sword hanging casually at his side. “Your friend seems to consider you a fine swordsman. Is his assessment accurate?”

  Oriken shrugged. “I’m all right. What about you? The stories say you’re not so bad with the blade yourself. I’ve heard Taleweavers talk of how you bested three princes years before you came to the throne. You even cut down your own champion in a fair duel, to prove your might, I suppose. Waste of a good man, if you ask me, but there you go.” Mimicking the king, he added, “Are the assessments of the Taleweavers accurate?”

  Mallak sneered and brandished the gladius, its blade gleaming amber in the torchlight. “Why don’t you draw your sabre and find out?”

  Oriken pressed his lips together. Just another lunatic. No different from a thug or a bandit. Really? No different? This one’s had three centuries to hone his skills, and if he’s anything like Gorven with that bolt in his chest… He whipped his sabre from its sheath. “You want it?” he asked the king. “Then come and get it.”

  Mallak circled closer, holding his sword in an easy pose, his footing light and precise. His black-lined eyes held Oriken’s as they stepped around each other, each sizing their opponent.

  “Why send your lap-dog away?” Oriken taunted, hoping to jibe the king to anger. “Didn’t want him to see me whip my sword across your arse? Is that it?”

  Mallak grinned. “You read me too well, outlander. Now, will you stand and bleat all day or are you going to attack?”

  Oriken edged closer, as did Mallak, circling one another like a slow-moving whirlpool. Both stretched their blades forward, touching steel upon steel, and a quiet chime echoed through the throne room. Mallak sprang into action, his sword slashing and swiping and stabbing, his muscular frame lending weight to the attacks. It was all Oriken could do to keep the deadly gladius at bay. Sensing that he was being pushed closer to the wall, he skirted around the king and back into open space. Mallak launched a backhand slash aimed straight for his heart. As Oriken swerved back, the gladius’s tip sliced cleanly through the leather of his jacket. Backing away, he drew deep breaths and eyed the king, the confident posture, the grace of his movement. With grim determination, he brought his sabre to bear as the undead sovereign of Lachyla charged in.

  The clash of steel rang behind the entrance hall’s doors. Jalis turned an alarmed look on Gorven sat beside her and sprang to her feet, Dusklight and Silverspire instantly in her hands.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  Gorven rose. “I have no idea.” He turned to the three guards standing before the double doors. “Ellidar?”

  The guard in the centre said nothing, merely stood with his hands clasped before him, the knuckles white.

  Jalis paced towards him, and the guards on either side raised their swords. “Open these doors,” she told Ellidar. His eyes turned to her, but he said nothing. “Open them!”

  “What is this?” Gorven asked as he approached Jalis.

  As Ellidar’s hard gaze turned to him, Jalis reversed her blades in her palms and grabbed Gorven’s coat, driving him backwards and slamming him into the wall. Keeping her eyes on the guards, she whisked Silverspire up and touched its slender point beneath Gorven’s chin. “I know it won’t kill you,” she spat, “but I’m sure if I slide this blade into your brain it will indeed fucking rankle! Your king is killing Oriken in there. Tell them to let me in!” Her glare flicked from Gorven to the guards. “Or was this a trap to separate my friends and I? Is Dagra already dead? Do the four of you intend to dispatch me together?”
>
  Gorven took her wrist in a gentle grip. “Jalis, I swear I do not know what transpires within the throne room. You must believe me.”

  “I must do nothing of the sort. We’ve been following your lead since we entered your cellar, and it stops here.” Releasing him, she stepped backwards onto the red carpet and pointed Dusklight at Ellidar. “I’ll give you a final chance. Let me through. Or is your king too afraid to face more than one mortal at a time?”

  A shadow passed over Ellidar’s unyielding expression as he folded his muscular arms over his muscular chest. “None may enter.” His liquidy voice cracked, betraying an inner emotion.

  Jalis sized him up, along with the two sentries. All armed. Two with longswords, the last unarmed but looking as hard as a smith’s anvil, and with any number of weapons within easy reach. Against mortal men it would be a tough battle with no sure outcome, but against immortals, she stood no chance. She flicked a glance to Gorven. “Are you with me, or against me?”

  Gorven sighed. “I can be neither. Please, do not be impetuous.” He stepped past her to approach Ellidar and looked him square in the eyes. “We haven’t communicated much, by mind nor mouth, for quite some years, as is the passage of time in this place. But we are still friends of sorts, yes?”

  The guard commander grunted. “We are.”

  “Then tell me, as a friend, and as a member of one prominent family to another, what game is our good liege playing here?”

  Ellidar’s jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked past Gorven’s shoulder and his black-lined eyes moistened as he fought whatever emotions were inside him. When he looked back to Gorven, the knight’s expression was once again set.

  “Oh, no,” Gorven whispered. “No…”

  “What?” Jalis said. “What?”

  Neither man responded. By the door, the two sentries remained impassive.