by Scott Kaelen
Goddess, what have I done?
The sloping roof-side hurtled towards her and she slammed into it, the breath punched from her lungs. Her fingertips curled over the lip of the rooftop above, and with a snarl of exertion she dragged herself up and over onto the flat stone. Gulping air as her breath returned, she crawled across the roof and leaned back against its domed centre.
The deadstone in her pack pressed into her spine, and, with what was almost becoming a mantra, she answered her own question. The course is set. I will see it through. I am the First Warder, and the safety of the village is paramount. I have done what is right.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
FACING THE RAVEN
In Krea’s dream she swam naked and free above the ocean bed, drifting idly through swaying fronds as schools of fish darted away from her. Diving and rolling, she sank to her back and lay motionless upon the sandy floor, basking in the languid life of the shallows as a group of tiny sunfish flitted down to nibble harmlessly at her skin.
In the waking world she ventured often into the shallows, but the fish always kept their distance, and the plants beyond Lachyla’s cliffs were not tall and vibrant but pale and lifeless, just like her. And so she dreamed of things as they would never be, things that could not happen even if she really was just a girl and not a three hundred year old woman trapped in an undead girl’s body.
A shadow fell over her, scattering the radiant sunfish. She gazed up into the waters at a nebulous shape with spumes as of ink flowing from its mass. But as it drew closer she saw it was no squid or octopus but a man, and the ink was blood. Lots of blood. His face loomed closer to hers, and although she could not recognise his features, shredded as they were and obscured by the crimson cloud, she knew, with certainty, who he was.
“Highness!” Krea’s eyelids fluttered open to the darkness of her bedchamber as the lingering dream-image transferred to a signal within the hive-mind. She threw the bedsheets aside and jumped from the four-poster, ran across to the window and threw the curtains open. As the grey light of day spilled into the room, King Mallak’s scream coasted the undercurrent of the city’s linked consciousness. It was an offering from sovereign to subjects, the pain of his passing as a final farewell. One by one, the cityfolk stirred as they felt their liege’s life ebb from his body. Krea had never been close to the king, but she knew the few who had, and, through them, she shared the sorrow as their liege turned to face the swan’s path.
She unlatched the windows and pulled them inward, gripped onto the sill and leaned out into the rain and wind to look towards the distant castle. As she did so, she called upon her training of three centuries, focusing, pushing the emotions of the king and the citizens to the corners of her mind. Because something was amiss. Something other than the king’s impending departure. She could feel it swirling at the periphery of the hive-mind as a similar sense to that which led her and Gorven to Dagra as he slept out on the heath. But this was different somehow. Casting her gaze across the rooftops to the city’s main thoroughfare, her high vantage-point afforded her a view of the Litchtower – just a pinprick at this distance, but as her eyes fell upon it she sensed more than saw the focus of her concern. It was a frenzy of wrath awakened, the greatest failure of the blight, the deepest shame of the conjoined mind as of a child discarded into a cellar. And the child was loose, and looking for its Mother.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
Closing the windows, Krea whisked her negligee off and hurried into more congruous apparel, all the while glancing to the wall and the slender, crossed swords that hung there.
The knight commander opened the throne room doors. “You may enter now,” he said in a strangled voice.
Jalis barged through the doors, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of Oriken alive and kneeling beside an eviscerated, blood-soaked body. Is that the king? “By the gods,” she whispered. The words echoed faintly through the chamber.
“Not even close.” Oriken cast a tired, sidelong glance.
Ellidar strode along the red carpet and Jalis followed, prepared for the knight to show the first hint of attacking Oriken, but instead he lowered to a knee beside Mallak. “My liege,” he said, taking the king’s tattered hand into his own.
Jalis crouched beside Oriken and wrapped an arm around him to help him to his feet. He winced, and she gently touched his cheek to turn his face to hers. One of his eyes was all but swollen shut within a circle of livid purple that merged with the darkening bruise Krea had given him. “Orik,” she whispered, tilting her head to the side. “I thought you… They wouldn’t let me…” A tear fell from the edge of her eye.
Oriken held onto her. “I know.”
She looked down at the king. His features were all but stripped away by a score of deep cuts. Only the eyes were intact; as she looked at the speckled green irises, he blinked and met her scrutiny.
He’s still alive. The realisation sickened her, the pain he must be in, and then she recalled Gorven’s stories about how their loved ones had committed suicide. Of course he’s alive. Lachylans die hard, remember? He’s only lost half the blood from his body and is wearing his guts around his ankles. Holding tight onto Oriken, she aimed a question at both him and the king. “What did you do?”
Oriken shook his head and flapped a hand weakly at Mallak. “He gave me no choice.”
“It is true. His Highness has imparted as much to me.” Ellidar turned a stony look upon Oriken. “He says I should not blame you.”
“Then don’t,” Jalis said forcefully. “And be glad that Oriken bested him, because if this had gone differently you would already be lying next to your king in a similar fashion.”
“Please, Jalis.” Gorven came to stand at her side. “It is over. The time for threats is passed. Sire, why do this? He is just an outsider. You could have commanded any one of us to a duel.”
“He desires oblivion,” Ellidar said. “He would not leave any of his subjects with the knowledge that they had ended his life.”
“But his life is not ended!” Gorven exclaimed. “Your Highness, you know from experience what must be done to achieve that.”
Mallak’s torn lips fluttered, and a gurgling sigh escaped them.
“He would speak to you,” Ellidar told Oriken. “Listen and show your gratitude.”
His voice no more than a raspy whisper, Mallak said, “The royal sword… It is yours. You have… earned it.”
Oriken looked mutely at the blood-streaked gladius at his feet.
“His Highness affords you the highest honour and privilege,” the knight said. “Gratitude, outlander. Now.”
With a sigh, Oriken stepped out of Jalis’s hold and looked from Ellidar to Gorven to the king. “Damn right I earned it,” he said with a nod. Casting a gaze across the throne room, he wandered across to retrieve his fallen hat, regarding the battered old thing with a wry chuckle as he returned to hunker down beside Mallak. “As far as items go, this one means the most to me. I’ve held onto it for more than a decade, and I reckon it’s time to let it go.” He placed the hat upon Mallak’s chest, then rose to his feet. “It’s yours. You earned it.” The king’s eye fixed on him, blinked, and Mallak gave a gurgling grunt of acceptance. It was done.
Blood burbled at Mallak’s lips, and Ellidar placed a hand upon the king’s shoulder. “He is too weak for more words, but he conveys his gratitude strongly.” He unbuckled the jewelled scabbard from Mallak’s waist and took up the royal gladius. Accepting Gorven’s proffered kerchief, he wiped the sword and scabbard clean before sliding the blade reverently into its sheath. Rising, he looked into Oriken’s eyes for a long moment before holding the gladius out for him to accept, which Oriken did without a word.
“Your Highness.” Gorven’s voice was pained. “Please, do not ask this of us.”
“It is my charge,” Ellidar said. “And I accept it as my final duty to my liege.”
Jalis frowned. “Final duty?”
“His pain has been long sufferin
g,” Gorven explained. “He seeks peace. There is a sense of communal preservation that has nurtured and strengthened our society. When one of us chooses to leave this life – which, these days, is rare – they take the matter into their own hands, either by entering the ocean or the heath, or by climbing into the forge. The king would never choose these ways. You, Oriken, have bested him in combat, but, this time, the final blow must be dealt with fire. There is no other—” Gorven’s expression turned aghast. “Oh, no.”
“What now?” Jalis asked, unable to mask the irritation in her voice.
Ellidar looked up sharply and rose from the king’s side. “Go,” he told Gorven. “Prepare the citizens. I will join you presently.”
“Open the outer door!” Gorven shouted to the guards stationed between the throne room and the entrance hall. Glancing to the king, he inclined his head in deference. “Farewell, my liege,” he said, and then fled from the throne room, shouting commands to the guards and the cityfolk who amassed beyond the castle’s entrance.
“What’s going on?” Jalis demanded as Ellidar strode across the chamber.
Taking a lit torch from its sconce, he ripped a velvet curtain from the wall and paced back towards the king. “The denizens,” he said. “They have infiltrated Lachyla. All of them. You should go now.”
Casting the knight a grim look, Jalis took Oriken by the arm. “We have to get to Dagra.”
“What impeccable timing,” he sighed, clipping the royal sword to his belt.
Together, they ran from the castle.
A crack of thunder pealed across the sky, thrumming through the roof as Eriqwyn crept across it. She reached the edge, and lightning forked to strike down into the city’s eastern reaches. The wind suddenly abated, its roar fading beneath the rasping ululations of the ghouls as they flowed between the buildings below. As the rain thinned to a drizzle, she scanned the rooftops for signs of Wayland. Several rows along, she glimpsed a crouching, cloaked figure as it skulked between the elevations of a row of buildings. A second, smaller figure followed it, and then a third, moving less nimble than the others. Her keen eyes caught the shape of Tan’s self-made sword, affirming that her friend and fellow Warder had made it to safety from the horde of ghouls. But it was far from over. Wayland and his team were unreachable with the narrow streets separating each row of the city’s outermost buildings.
Hundreds of ghouls ambled along the main boulevard across the roof to Eriqwyn’s left, filing between the thin alleyways between the buildings, and still more crowded beyond the Litchgate. Dread washed over her, and she closed her eyes. It was not supposed to happen this way. In raising the portcullis, she had hoped only for a distraction to pull the ghouls’ focus away from her and her group, but instead, despite their spreading into the city like some hideous, unfurling flower, it seemed that they were not content with merely entering the place. She had lost their attention, but she was fast running out of rooftops to cross and soon would have no choice but to relinquish their safety and vantage points; the choice was either stay up here and wait in the hope of spotting the outlanders, or take to the streets, among the ghouls. Finding the outlanders in the metropolis of Lachyla would be like seeking a needle in a hay pile.
It would be much easier with the streets empty, she thought. If I hadn’t raised the gate… But who’s to say that the ones I seek are here at all? What if they’re still in the graveyard?
Biting back a curse, she jumped across the narrow gap to the next roof. Creeping along beside the low parapets on the far side away from the main street, she peered down into a fenced-off courtyard. Ghouls filed along the back street beyond and out of the cramped alleyways to either side, but considerably fewer than those that teemed down the main thoroughfare. None of them looked her way. Taking to the streets and avoiding the creatures was her only option. Slinging her bow over her arm, she swept her cloak aside and climbed over the parapets. Sending a silent prayer to any god that wished to listen, she dug her fingers into the crannies between the stones and began to scale down to the courtyard below.
“In here,” Wayland said, running across the roof to a mould-riddled shack that nestled in its corner.
“Why we goin’ in there?” Demelza asked.
“There are no hatches on the roof and no ladders leading to the ground.” The pathways below were almost devoid of the undead creatures, and he knew what Eriqwyn would be doing. “No one builds a roof-shack without access to it, which means the way into the building has to be inside here.” Putting a shoulder to the warped door, he nudged it inwards. A wet, musty smell wafted from the shadowed interior, and among the rotten crates he spotted the iron rungs of a ladder leading down through a gap in the stones.
“Why we need to go down?”
Ah, lass, he thought as he crossed to the ladder. Enough with the questions.
“Because we do,” Tan said.
“I know, but…”
Demelza’s voice trailed off as Wayland descended into the blackness. The bulky, rectangular shapes of stacked crates filled the floor; beyond them, grey daylight peeked through gaps between shutters along the walls. As his eyes adjusted to the scant light, he meandered between the crates to the warehouse’s door. He waited for Demelza and the blacksmith to join him, thankful for the reprieve from the ghouls and the fading storm. His clothing was soaked, as were the arrows in the quiver at his waist, and in the pause he suppressed a shiver as his wet skin pricked with goosebumps. Scraping the mud from his boots onto the corner of a crate, he eyed Tan as he approached with Demelza at his side. “The stakes are much higher now,” he told them. “I’m sorry that you had to be a part of this. But it is what it is. In here we are safe, but the outlanders are out there somewhere and the mission must continue. You have both held up amazingly so far, and for that alone you deserve a commendation.” Tan held grimly onto his sword and gave a curt nod, while Demelza’s expression was altogether miserable as she gripped her bow. “We will avoid the creatures wherever possible, while making our way through the city in search of the outlanders. Be on alert for any movement, for any one of the bodies out there may not be a ghoul. Are you prepared?”
“Aye,” Tan said.
Demelza’s lips pressed into a line, looking as if she might cry, but still she nodded and Wayland’s heart warmed at her bravery.
He grabbed the door handle and eased the door open a crack, eyeing the interlacing pathways beyond. Aside from two or three ghouls that wandered along unhurriedly, the coast was clear. Picking a route, he pulled the door open fully. “Stay close,” he said over his shoulder, and ran from the building.
Dagra slept, and yet was aware that he did so. His consciousness hung suspended, a mote trapped in the cage of his skull. Within his darkened mind-prison, the grey edges of the dream circled the periphery of his vision like fleeting, unformed spectres that swam and danced and soared away; their meaningless whispers ensconced a distant but unending scream, symbolised as flames licking into the morass of his thoughts.
I’m trapped! Trapped inside myself!
His rising distress swatted at the fires, brushed at the confines of his bone cell only to find it not hard but yielding. I have to get out! He was rising, pushing through, and suddenly he was out and floating inside Sabrian’s living room, but only for a moment – up he went through the ceiling into the room above, and passed through the roof into bright light that faded to a rain-shimmered, pastel-painted Lachyla, and exhilaration coursed through him.
I’m free! he thought. But there were none to applaud his efforts, for the ghosts of the cityfolk focused their attention elsewhere.
“Welcome to your new life, my friend.”
Dagra whirled around, but saw no one. It was Sabrian’s voice, but Dagra knew that Sabrian was still sitting in his armchair. He had communicated merely with a thought. Though disembodied, Dagra felt himself smiling. He looked out across the city and began to drift above the rooftops, untouched by rain, wind or any other physical senses.
“Dagra, come back,” Sabrian sent. A note of anxiousness was in his voice. “You do not want to—”
“But I do,” Dagra replied. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not now! Can’t you hear them?”
As he soared over the streets and buildings, he became aware of a discordant note among the whispers, a guttural moaning he recognised all too well. And, still beneath it all, that single cry of agony. The dead, he thought. I can hear the graveyard from here.
“No,” Sabrian sent. “The denizens, yes, but not the graveyard. They have entered the city. You must return to the house.”
“Nothing can harm me here,” Dagra replied, shutting Sabrian out and gliding towards the centre of the city He caught glimpses of figures below, some walking, some lurching between the dwellings and along the walkways. Forms made not of flesh and bone but of shadow and fog. Denizens of the graveyard and the people of Lachyla.
But there are no true humans in this place, he thought. Not even me any more. Only Oriken and Jalis… As he remembered his friends, without warning he veered and soared in another direction, the mansions and monuments a blur as he sped between them until he reached a pair of running figures, and slowed to hover above them. As indistinct as all others, their wispy greyness trailed behind them as they ran, but Dagra knew these were his friends. They entered the plaza of King Mallak’s statue, and he realised they were on their way to him.
I have to get back to my body. As soon as the thought formed, he slammed back into the prison of his skull. With a gasp, he cracked his weary eyes open.
Sabrian pounced from his seat and bolted from the living room. Disoriented, Dagra groaned and held a hand to his forehead. He heard Sabrian swing the front door open and shout something into the street, but Dagra’s thoughts were still a whir. Did that really happen? Or was it just a dream? Footsteps tamped along the garden path, and he struggled to his feet, gripping the chair’s arm as dizziness took him.