by Scott Kaelen
“Mama.” Shade stepped across to the woman and kissed her upon the lips. With a smile, she glanced to Tan and said, “Look what I’ve brought us.”
Tan blanched as he recognised the woman. “You’re dead! Fifteen years dead! Your grave—”
“Is clearly empty,” the woman said with a laugh. “Oh my, but it is nice to be recognised after all this time. And how are you, Tanriel Ebran? You have grown into quite a man.”
“This isn’t happening,” he muttered as more women drifted in from the shadows on both floors. Turning to the double doors, he wrenched at the knobs, but the doors were stuck tight. Wheeling around, he backed against the wood and grasped for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. “Who are you women?” he demanded, turning on Shade. “You knocked me unconscious, didn’t you?”
She sighed. “You had to make it difficult, didn’t you?” Slowly, she stepped towards him, the other women at her heels. “We are the family Galialos. And this is your new home.”
“We do hope you enjoy it here,” Elimae called from the stairs, then her smile disappeared as the women closed in on him. “You will enjoy your stay, won’t you, dear?”
With his friends’ help, Dagra lowered himself to the sofa in a downstairs room of the Chiddari mansion. “Thanks, lass,” he rasped as Jalis pulled his boots off. “You should go. You’re needed out there.”
“We’re staying with you,” Oriken insisted.
Jalis reached to a set of shelves beside the sofa and took out a blanket. “I’ll stay,” she said, flicking the blanket open and draping it over Dagra’s legs. “Oriken can go help Krea and the others. Besides, I need to clean and stitch your wound – something that is becoming a trend of late.”
Dagra barked a laugh, then grimaced. “I have a feeling I’ll not need stitches.” To Oriken, he said, “Watch yourself out there.”
“They don’t need me. Everything’s under control. But, hey, if you want rid of me…” He held Dagra’s gaze for a long moment, then nodded and turned to leave.
Jalis followed him into the hallway. “Oriken, wait…”
As her words trailed away, the quietness gave strength to the babble of disconnected whispers within Dagra’s head. He tried to push them away, and they diminished but did not silence.
I don’t want this, he thought sullenly. I don’t want to die, but I can’t live this way. Except I’m not alive. I’m dead. Dead and back again. I just didn’t notice it happening. I was dead before the arrow took me. Sabrian’s armchair, that’s where it happened, but my fate was sealed the moment I inhaled that accursed fungus.
His mind took him back to the crypt, once again reliving the moment when he crouched before the web-filled burial hole, spotted the strange, dark-as-char growth with its pale, crimson-veined cysts, and curiosity killed him.
Damned rotten luck, he thought, releasing a deep sigh.
Jalis re-entered the room and perched upon the sofa beside him. “How are you feeling?”
Dagra grasped the Avato emblem on its cord around his neck and managed a smile. “Strong as an ox, lass, as Maros would say.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” she chided. “You always touch your pendant when you lie.”
“Aye, I do. You know me well. But sometimes a lie is better than voicing the truth.”
Oriken closed the mansion doors and crossed the porch. Pausing at the steps, he cast a dispirited gaze across the garden and the city beyond. “How did it come to this?” he mumbled to himself. Lachyla was filled with treasures beyond belief, but he was sure that so was Brancosi Bay if you searched hard enough in its secret corners. The problem wasn’t the undead – not the rotten variety, anyhows – it was the people who dwelled there, the people who called the Blighted City their home.
You can’t just go stealing shit from a place that’s inhabited, even if the inhabitants are blight-ridden to the last. If Lachyla had been empty, and if we’d been prepared… Yeah, and it’s a world full of ifs, ain’t it?
With a shake of his head, he reached to pinch the brim of his hat, only for his fingers to close on empty space. Images of King Mallak Ammenfar surfaced then: Mallak showing Oriken the monstrous jewel-mushroom-tree-fish-whatever creature that dwelled in the depths; Mallak luring him into a fight; Mallak sinking to his knees, shredded by countless cuts and stabs from his own royal blade; Mallak’s twitching body as he sat upon the throne, placed there by the loyal knight, painted from crown to boots in the darkest red of his own blood while flames consumed the last of his life – not that Oriken had seen that final image, and he was glad he’d missed it.
Then came memories of Dagra: Dagra’s growing consternation over the foolhardiness of their contract as they drew deeper into Scapa Fell; Dagra’s fears – along with Oriken’s own – being tested as they ventured into the Chiddari crypt; their narrow escape from the fog-filled graveyard and the monstrosities that lurked there; Dagra’s conversation with Oriken before he offered to take over the guard shift, and his subsequent disappearance. Oriken’s throat tightened with regret as he remembered the venomous words he’d spewed about his friend while he and Jalis searched for Dagra.
I was so angry. I blamed him for taking the jewel, as if that fucking stone ever mattered. A few hundred paltry silvers, enough to keep us right for a long while, but what good will that do Dagra now?
Briefly he wondered at whatever had happened to that beautiful yet disgusting bauble. Even if the girl, Demelza, had taken it, Dagra was always going to have upped and left camp whether the jewel remained or not. Oriken wanted to hate the girl for playing a part in the ensuing nightmare, but found that he couldn’t; she was just a simple peasant lass – tricky, no doubt, but he’d sensed no malice in her. If their two attackers were from Demelza’s village, then their actions were not necessarily hers to answer for. Those two got what was coming to them, but what did the girl deserve?
Shrugging, he jogged down the steps and made his way across the garden to the street. Far to the south, a cart angled into view onto the wide boulevard, pulled not by horses but by people. A second cart followed behind. Litchwagons, he guessed, casting his eyes distastefully along the lines of corpse bits that had been dragged to the gutters. Turning his back to the wagons, he strode in the direction of the graveyard, casting a hard look at each of the cityfolk he passed. The minutes flew unnoticed beneath his melancholy contemplations, and soon he reached the spot where it had all come to a head.
And there’s the head it all came to, he thought, stepping to the street’s edge and looking down at a half-chewed, severed head that sombrely returned his gaze.
Despite the legion of corpses he’d battled yesterday and today, he easily recognised the less than handsome fellow that had stopped him and Dagra in their tracks, catching them off guard and unprepared for the bowman.
“Hello, chum,” Oriken said. “Not so talkative now, hey?”
The yellow eyes regarded him pensively. The mouth opened, then closed.
Oriken lowered to his haunches before it. “What’s that, sunshine? Liar, is it?”
Perhaps it was his imagination, but the head almost seemed to want to nod in agreement as its dead eyes turned from pensive to pleading. Oriken rose quickly. “No way. Stop messing with me. You hear?”
The head said nothing, though for some reason Oriken was sure it wanted to say not Liar, but Please.
“Ah, fuck off!” His frustration boiled over and he kicked the head and watched it soar down the street towards the approaching wagons. It struck the ground, then rolled and bounced until it came to rest a short distance ahead of the lead litchwagon. The men pulling the wagon stopped and one gave Oriken a thumbs-up while the other retrieved the head and tossed it into the cart.
“Oriken!”
He whirled around to see Krea beckoning him to her from further up the street, her blades sheathed upon her back. As he crossed the distance, he eyed the men and women that dotted the street. Some walked beside the line of piled corpses, thrusting blades into thei
r heads to put the death-ravaged creatures further into lethargy. Other Lachylans were emerging from side alleys, dragging corpses and dropping them onto the pile. A small boy in monk’s robes wandered along the corpse-filled gutter, waving a hand over each writhing body.
As Oriken reached Krea, he nodded to indicate the child. “What’s up with that?”
Krea pressed her lips together. “Lewin is blessing them. It gives some of the people comfort. Tonight the streets and the graveyard will be emptied of all carnage, and the final vestiges of consciousness will be taken from the bodies by fire. Even now, a pyre is being constructed beyond the western walls out by the cliff-tops, where Lewin and his monastery bunch will perform last rites.”
“Huh. That’s gonna be one huge bonfire.”
“Hmph.”
“You don’t approve?”
“I don’t much care either way, as long as life returns to how it was before you showed up.”
“You really mean that?”
“Truthfully? No, I suppose not. A girl can get a little crypt-crazy after three centuries within these walls, despite the occasional brief jaunt into the heathland.”
“I thought you couldn’t leave?”
“More than a few days beyond the walls and we’d lack the strength to return. Believe me, it has happened, not just the suicidal, but also the overly adventurous. Come.” She turned on her heel. “Somebody is waking.”
“Hey.”
She wheeled back around. “What?”
“You know you have an arrow stuck in your chest, right?”
Krea sighed. “Thank you.” She grasped the shaft, wrenched it out and threw it over her shoulder. “See? Three hundred years. I’ve become too accustomed to pain.”
With a shake of her head, she snatched Oriken’s hand and pulled him along the street towards what he’d presumed to be two corpses propped against a wall, but as they neared he realised it was the bowman and bowwoman from earlier, their bodies dragged into a clear space away from the others.
The bitch who shot Dagra, he thought, bristling at the sight of her. And the fucker who stood us off in the first place.
As they reached them, Krea released his hand and jabbed her toe into the woman’s ankle. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Oriken glanced at Krea in confusion. And then he understood. “Huh. When dead in Lachyla…”
The woman stirred. Her eyes flickered open, and for a moment she lay dazed until she spotted Krea standing over her. Reaching to her side, she bit a curse upon discovering her bow and arrows were not there.
“Looking for these?” Krea stepped nimbly to the weapons that had been piled close by. Selecting a bow and sliding an arrow from one of the sheaves, she cast them onto the woman’s lap, who promptly notched the arrow and trained it on Krea. Pursing her lips, Krea cocked her head. “I’ve had not one but two rude awakenings today,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, “and, as you know, a lady can get snappy without her beautysleep. The second of those occasions was when the king died, at precisely the same time as somebody set the denizens loose into the city. And I’ve been shot once already, ruining my tunic which I’ll have to darn. If you want to make a second hole, I welcome you to go ahead, but I should warn you that it will result in you burning to your second death on top of a thousand rotten corpses.”
Slowly, the hate and misery clear on her face, the woman lowered the bow, her eyes narrowing as she held Krea’s gaze.
“Your thoughts are mine now,” Krea said. “Lachyla is the one place on Verragos where a person can truly be held accountable for thought crimes. While that’s sinking in, I’ll invite you to consider me a girl one more time – just once, and I swear I’ll have a flaming torch in my hand quicker than you could get to your feet.”
Flicking a glance at Oriken, the woman sneered and looked back to Krea. “You are in union with the outlanders.”
Krea’s smile was wicked as she glanced up at Oriken.
Beside the woman, her companion opened his eyes and groaned. “Wayland,” she said, placing a hand upon his chest.
“Ah, good,” Krea said to the man. “Welcome to your second and possibly short life.” Her scowl encompassed the pair of them. “Let me tell you something. You people entered what you think of as the Forbidden Place, when you should have left well alone. You came, you meddled, and you paid the price. Just as Oriken’s friend has paid a similar price. There is no moral high ground in Lachyla. Or, rather, if there is, then you do not own it. This is our city, and it was your forebears who chose to leave. Tell me, if you can, why did your ancestors not continue north further into Scapa Fell, or leave it altogether? Why remain but mere miles away from the place they fled? I’ll tell you why. It’s because they could not fully ignore the calling of home.”
Neither of the captives spoke.
“That’s right,” Krea purred. “Dwell on that and be on your best behaviour, with your mouths – and minds – clear of malice. Your fate is still undecided, but you might yet see the end of this day.”
Stepping away from the pair, Krea headed for the group of nearby Lachylans, and Oriken followed.
“Ah, Oriken.” Gorven angled his way through from the back of the group. “Allow me to extend our thanks – not only for your support, but also for forcing our hand to do that which we should have done centuries ago. I trust Dagra is on the mend?”
Oriken grunted. “Such as it is.”
Gorven glanced to the gladius on Oriken’s hip and raised his eyebrows. “It may not mean much right now, but I would guess that sword could be one of the greatest single treasures in the whole of Himaera.”
“You’re right. Mallak lured me to the castle under false pretences, forced me into a fight, toyed with me the whole time, and refused to submit till he couldn’t hold a weapon. How much do I care about any honour involved?” Oriken shrugged. “You can gauge that from me giving him my hat. This sword is no recompense for losing a friend.”
Gorven bowed his head. “If only you, Jalis and Dagra had knocked on our doors first—”
“If those doors were even open, maybe. But they weren’t. To all intents, you gave the impression that Lachyla was a dead city – which, it turns out, is only half the truth.”
“Hm. Perhaps that is something we should rectify in the future.” Glancing to the Litchgate, he gave a start. “Ah! It looks like we have company.” To the gathered Lachylans, he said, “One of you come with me,” and promptly ran towards the half-raised portcullis.
Oriken peered past him to see a lean figure stood beyond the iron bars, a pitchfork in its hand. Gorven and one of the men reached the gate and dipped beneath it to stand with the figure. After a moment, they assisted it beneath the bars and guided it along the street. As they neared, Oriken pursed his lips at the sight of the tall stranger. The man would have been gaunt if his face were intact, but it was not. His neck was a grisly gorget of gouged flesh over a torn shirt. His middle was a sunken gap; what remained of the man’s innards were now entrails that draped over his belt. What Oriken had at first taken to be cataracted eyes were a natural pale grey, and they were afraid, dumbfounded.
Poor bastard, he thought, suppressing a shudder as he realised that Jalis could have found such a fate if she’d fallen from the ladder.
Without any spoken words, one of the Lachylans brought a bandage from a nearby stash and held it poised to wrap around the man’s middle, while a second Lachylan pushed the entrails back inside. The stranger just stood there while they worked, clutching his pitchfork with white-knuckled fingers – white because the skin was flayed away to reveal the spindly bones.
Another of the cityfolk stepped in to replace Gorven in holding onto the stranger’s arm, and Gorven returned to Krea.
She cast him a flat look. “Any more surprises?”
“With luck, no.” To Oriken, he said, “This one was killed earlier today. His name is Lingrey. He understands, but is in great shock, as anyone would be. He might heal completely, but then again…”
“Wait.” Oriken held his hand up. “You mean he’s not one of you, er, one of your…”
Gorven inclined his head towards the bowwoman and her companion. “He was with these two.”
“I see.” Oriken narrowed his eyes at the stooping man with the pitchfork. “So, you came to kill us?”
“Aye,” Lingrey said. “Uh.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
The man’s pale eyes lowered to the ground.
“What in the suffering Pit did we do to deserve your hate?”
Lingrey took in a shaky, phlegmy breath. “Egg cone.”
Oriken shook his head and raised a questioning eyebrow at Krea.
“Deadstone,” she said.
“Ah. It’s all about the accursed jewel, is it?”
“Careful, Oriken.” Krea smiled sweetly at him. “You and I may be… better acquainted now, but that’s my family’s burial stone you’re talking about.”
“Hey, if it wasn’t for that stone, none of this would have happened. What’s so important about it anyway? You’ve got—”
“Stop,” Krea said flatly, flicking a glance at their captives. “The stone was quite happy in my ancestor’s slab, and doing nobody any harm until you so-called freeblades showed up. Remember that.”
He bristled, but couldn’t disagree. “Well, if we’re talking about blame, then I’d say our client, old Cela, was the catalyst for all this.”
Krea nodded. “I’ve gathered as much from Dagra. We will talk later about your client.”
“Uhuh.” He glanced to Gorven. “So then, what can I do to help?”
“I’ll tell you what you can do, my friend. You can return to our home and rest a while. You and your companions have done enough, and I mean that as a compliment.” Gorven squinted his eyes against the sun and raised a hand to shield them. “The sooner we are finished, the better; it’ll be evening in a few hours, and we all want to get out of this heat.”
Oriken peered at him. “You okay? You’re looking a little blistery there.” He glanced to Krea. “You too.”