by Scott Kaelen
He awoke to his door clicking open. Instinctively he rolled from the bed to crouch behind the mattress, silently sliding Mallak’s sword from its sheath and peering across the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just discern the edge of the door in the deep shadows. It swung slowly inwards, and a short figure materialised around its edge.
“Oriken?”
He released his breath and rose to his feet. “Gods, Dagra. You could have knocked.”
“Jalis is across the hall. I didn’t want to wake her.” Dagra stepped into the room and held his hand out, wrapped around the neck of a bottle. “Gorven gave me this. I figured now’s as good a time as any for a drink. Care to join me?”
“What is it?”
Dagra shrugged. “Damned if I know. Damned if I don’t, for that matter.” He pushed the door closed and perched upon the bed. “Smells as rank as an apothecary’s concoction, and tastes like a liquid inferno. With a hint of bogberry.”
“I’m surprised they brew anything at all down here.”
“They don’t. Or at least not much. Gorven says this bottle’s 140 years old.”
Oriken huffed. “Should be a good one then.”
Weak amber light from beyond the window caught Dagra’s haunting eyes. “Let’s find out, my friend.”
A tightness returned to Oriken’s chest. This is it. The moment I’ve spent the whole day dreading. He glanced out the window. “What under the stars is that?” Out beyond the southern wall of the city, the flames of a large fire licked upwards into the night. “Oh, right, they’re burning the corpses.”
“Lewin is out there with the rest of his caste,” Dagra said, “praying to the goddess to release the souls of the departed, and praying to the Mother to do the same. Half of the cityfolk are gathered above the cliffs to say a final farewell to their long-suffering relatives.”
Oriken shivered despite the warmth of the room. “I don’t suppose Gorven gave you any cups?”
Dagra pulled the cork, took a swig and passed the bottle. “Drink,” he said. “You’re going to need it as much as I am.”
Adri paced anxiously beneath the Founding Oak. For hours she’d stayed at the edge of the village or within the guard station, looking out to the west and watching for her sister returning as the sun sank deeper into the horizon. Now night had fallen, the last purple tinges silhouetting the tree-studded mound of Dreaming Dragon Brae and the surrounding heathland. A thin mist had crept in from the nearby coast, tainting the darkness with a hazy sheen, and Adri knew that a similar mist would be forming in the Gardens of the Dead, bringing the ghouls out with it.
Stopping beneath the oak, she looked up its twisted trunk to the blackened skull that nestled out of reach in the lowest bough; its two ghastly companions were higher up, hidden behind the Founding Oak’s leaves. I wish they were all out of sight, she thought. I wish they had never been placed there at all. The story of Daneira’s dead boy flashed into her mind, the child feasting on its father as Daneira lay unaware beside them. A chill crawled over her skin and she hugged herself.
“Lady.”
She turned to see Caneli approaching, a grim look on the physician’s face, a satchel of medical supplies over her shoulder.
“They should have returned long ago,” Adri said. “Something is wrong.”
“There is much ground to cover in that accursed place,” Caneli replied. “Not only above, but also below.”
Adri sucked air through her teeth and shook her head. “Damn. I should have sent hunters before now. I will do so.”
“We don’t even know where Shade’s entrance is located.”
“Nevertheless—”
The physician grabbed Adri’s shoulder and pointed into the heath. “There!”
Adri cast her eyes about the landscape until she saw the three figures heading slowly for the village. She squinted, but couldn’t identify them at this distance.
Behind Adri, the guard station door opened and a hunter stepped out, fixing an arrow to his bow.
“Stop!” Adri ordered the man. To the figures she shouted, “Who is there?”
There was a pause, then a weak call drifted across the distance between them. “Adri?”
“Eri!” She breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of her sister’s voice. She broke into a run to meet her, the physician at her side. As Adri neared the three figures, she could now recognise Wayland and the hunter, Onwin. She came to a stop before them and remembered decorum, once again resisting the instinct to embrace Eriqwyn. “It’s a relief to see you,” she said. “A great relief.”
Eriqwyn said nothing.
“Where are the others?” Caneli asked. When no one replied, she grabbed Onwin by the shoulders. “Where are they?”
The hunter snatched himself away. “Get your hands off me, woman. I don’t damned well know where they are.”
“There’s only us,” Wayland said. “Lingrey was… He fought bravely, but succumbed to the ghouls.”
Caneli gasped. “And the rest?”
Wayland shook his head. “Tan is lost. Shade…” He glanced to Eriqwyn, who gave a resigned nod. “She is also lost.”
“What of Demelza?” Adri asked. “Eri, where is she?”
Again it was Wayland who answered. “Lady, she is dead. I witnessed it, but there was nothing I could do.”
Adri’s heart clenched and she closed her eyes. Four lives lost. “What of the deadstone?”
“And the outlanders,” Caneli added.
As Eriqwyn drew a shuddering breath, footfalls sounded near the guard station. Adri glanced over shoulder to see Linisa running towards them.
“The stone is returned to its rightful place,” Eriqwyn said. “Two of the outlanders live. The third…”
“What is it, my sister?”
“The third is as dead as Wayland and I. We are… wounded.”
Adri frowned, her gaze landing on the bandage that was wrapped around Wayland’s neck. In the faint light of the rising moon, she could see the dark smear beneath his left ear. “I don’t understand.”
As Linisa jogged to a halt beside them. “Eri,” she breathed. “You had us all so worried.”
Eriqwyn fixed her with a plaintive look and a sad smile. “Lini, Adri, Caneli, there is no partial victory here.” She unbuttoned her tunic and drew it open to reveal bandages criss-crossed over her chest and middle, a bloody patch at their centre. She shared a brief glance with Wayland, then touched Adri’s shoulder.
Adri placed her own hand over her sister’s. “What are you telling me, Eri?” Seeing Eriqwyn’s eyes glisten with moisture, Adri’s also welled with tears.
“Wayland and I,” Eriqwyn said, giving Adri’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, “have come home to die.”
And the tears fell.
“Nice hat!” Mallak flashed a black-gummed grin as he struck a pose in the middle of the throne room. He thrust his arm out dramatically, pinched the wide brim and twisted it to the side. “A fitting crown for the king of the freeblades, don’t you think?”
Oriken frowned down at the spirited display from his seat upon the gem-studded throne. His fists gripped the onyx globes on the armrests and he leaned forward. “Hey,” he said to the king, “shouldn’t you be sat up here instead of me?”
Mallak laughed heartily. “No! That is your seat now! You earned it.” He snatched the hat from his head and brandished it before him, taking a deep bow. “My liege.”
The doors of the throne room swung inwards and Ellidar entered, his burly frame bulging through a jester’s outfit. He danced along the crimson carpet, his muscles bunching and his bells jingling. Bouncing to a stop beside Mallak, he splayed his arms wide and cocked his head to the side. Gazing up at Oriken, he said, “Would you have this fool of a knight dance for you, my king? I serve only to amuse Your Highness. Does Ellidar the knight-jester amuse his liege?”
Oriken frowned. “Not really. I’ve seen better performances from gutter rats.”
Ellidar’s face turned
aghast, the bells jingling around his head as he collapsed to his knees and thrust his arms in the air. “Oh! Woe! I have failed my liege. It is only fitting that I chop my own head off!”
“Don’t be a fool,” Oriken said.
“But that’s exactly what I am!” A gladius appeared at Ellidar’s waist and he pulled it from its scabbard, thrust his body to the floor in supplication, and whacked the blade down onto his neck. The head jingled along the red carpet and came to a stop at the foot of the throne’s dais. Ellidar’s mouth opened. “The lady Chiddari!” he announced in a loud voice, then gave Oriken a theatrical wink.
Into the throne room strutted Krea, full of confidence, wearing the sheerest pleated dress that revealed everything beneath. As she drew alongside Ellidar’s prone, headless body, she came to a languid, sensual stop. Her hand rested upon her thigh and the other stroked her side, her thumb brushing the underside of her small breast. “My master summoned me?” she asked, her voice dripping with salacious intent.
“Uh, no?”
“Does this frock please my liege?”
“Well—”
“Or would you prefer me all in black?” The dress disappeared and she wore tight leggings with a tunic that clung to her delicate but toned figure, the neck so low it reached her navel.
“Er…”
Her sky-blue eyes glinted as she flashed him a suggestive grin. “I know how you want me.” Her smooth skin wrinkled and sagged, and her raven hair lightened to grey, then white, flowing from her head like freshly-spun spider web. “Mmm,” the crone warbled, grabbing a shrivelled breast in her bony hand. “My liege does likes them old, doesn’t he?”
Oriken puffed his cheeks and exhaled slowly.
“Or, perhaps…” Krea’s skin darkened, her lips curled into a sneer then were gone altogether, revealing blackened teeth hanging from shrivelled gums. The cobweb hair matted to her scalp, which split and peeled from her skull. “Does my liege find me sexy?” the Krea-Cunaxa corpse squawked. Then her lower jaw fell off and thumped upon the carpet.
Mallak the freeblade king side-stepped over the knight-jester’s body and planted his hat upon Krea-Cunaxa’s jawless skull. “Suits you, madam!” He beamed up at Oriken and winked. “Well! I believe my purpose here is done!” He strutted across the width of the throne room towards a bizarre metal contraption. “I really should climb into the death machine!”
Oriken wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You kept that one quiet.”
“It’s not easy being a king, you know?” Mallak said as he climbed into the contraption. “It isn't all merry maidens and archery tourneys! Sometimes a little torture is necessary!”
“That’s not a torture device,” Oriken pointed out. “It’s a meat grinder.”
“Indeed it is!”
The jawless Krea-Cunaxa staggered over and took hold of a winch handle. As she turned it, the freeblade king gave Oriken a theatrical wink, which he held as he was minced into a red pile that oozed from the base of the machine.
Ellidar’s head tut-tutted at the macabre display. “Them undead girls,” he said. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t die with ‘em neither.” His eyes rolled up to meet Oriken’s stupefied gaze. “I believe my liege’s taste in ladies is somewhat more exotic… and alive.”
“Oriken!” Jalis strode into the room, utterly naked but for her dagger-belt around her hips, the prized Dusklight hanging from it, and Silverspire strapped to a lacy, white garter around her thigh. She kicked the jawbone and watched it tumble along the carpet to strike the back of Ellidar’s severed head.
“Ouch!” the knight-jester exclaimed.
Jalis planted her hands on her hips and glowered up at Oriken. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What am I doing?” He cast his arm out to encompass the debacle. “What are you doing? What’s everyone doing?”
Krea-Cunaxa hissed a throaty cackle. From within the death machine, Mallak gave a squelchy howl. At the foot of the dais, Ellidar squinted sidelong at the rotten jaw.
Jalis threw her arms up in exasperation. “Wake up, Oriken! For the love of the dead!”
“Huh?”
“I said get out of bed!”
He cracked his eyelids open and floundered within the bedsheets. A thousand hammers tapped at the inside of his skull. “Screaming stars,” he croaked. “What in the—”
“Finally!” Jalis boomed into his ear. “Don’t scare me like that!”
He pushed the sheets away, sat up, and swung his feet to the floor. Suffering Pit, he thought, gingerly touching his head. What a concoction. And I’m still dressed. Smacking his lips, he reached for a pitcher of water from the cabinet beside him and took several deep gulps. “Ugh. My mouth tastes like a burning sewer.”
“From the smell of the room, I don’t doubt it. Did you have fun last night?”
He shook his head, then groaned as the room spun. Pushing himself to his feet, he looked at Jalis, and a snippet of the previous evening came flooding back to him.
“I’ve made my decision,” Dagra had told him as he took the bottle from Oriken. “I know you think my beliefs are stupid, but they’re my beliefs.” His face had shown fear but determination, reluctance but resoluteness, and a preparation to face his fate. Oriken recalled what Dagra had said next, and he knew the words would be burned into his memory forever.
Jalis’s expression softened and she stepped closer. “Not fun, then.”
He took another mouthful of water and sat back down on the bed. “Me and Dag—”
“Dagra? You were drinking with Dagra?”
“Who else would it be?”
She gave a small sigh. “Never mind. I think I understand.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He’s downstairs, with Gorven.” As she sat beside him, her thigh brushed against his. “What did he tell you last night?”
“Hasn’t he talked to you?”
She shook her head. “He’s not saying much of anything. Orik… we have to leave.”
“I know.” With a sigh, he placed an arm around her, and she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder. “I know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
GIFT OF GOODBYE
Jalis waited by Oriken’s door, leaning against the jamb. As he scraped and flossed his teeth with a soft branch of miremint, he glanced over to catch her staring at him, but her expression was distant. He knew how she felt. The two of them had to leave Lachyla. The place wasn’t safe for a continued stay, and they had no reason to remain. But, for Dagra, the opposite was apparently now true. Oriken didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to test it out, for that matter, but there was nothing to be done.
With his gear repacked, he and Jalis made their way through the mansion to the east wing of the ground floor, where they found Gorven sat quietly in the room beside the entrance hall, his eyes on Dagra as their bearded friend stood facing out of the window. As they entered, Gorven looked over and shook his head.
“How are you feeling?” Oriken called to Dagra.
He snorted softly and turned to face them. “My head is fine. It’s my heart that isn’t.”
“I thought your wound was healing?” Jalis said, crossing towards him.
“Oh, it is.” He unfastened the top buttons of his shirt and pulled it open. Within the patchy hair nestled a line of pink, tender skin.
Jalis stopped in her tracks, her expression impassive as she regarded the healed wound.
Oriken shook his head ruefully. At this point, it came as no surprise for either Jalis or himself. “I suppose the Mother healed your hangover as well,” he muttered.
“It’s one of the boons of being blighted,” Gorven said. “Swords and horses, and all that. Oh, I don’t doubt the tonic you drank was as harmful to Dagra as it was to you. Gut-rot through and through, but under the circumstances…”
Jalis narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, circumstances?”
Gorven glanced to Dagra and raised his eyebrow
s.
“I’m coming with you,” Dagra told them. “You knew I would. Everybody knew. It is what it is, and I’ve made my decision.”
Oriken shared a look with Jalis. “His mind’s made up. You know as well as I do what that means. Since when could we ever talk him out of doing something?”
Dagra snorted. “You talked me into coming down here to chase dragons. No, don’t look at me like that, I’m not blaming either of you. I got myself into this mess by putting my nose where it didn’t belong.”
Jalis closed her eyes, clenched her teeth, swallowed. Oriken watched her, and waited. When she looked again at Dagra, her eyes were misted over. “Fine,” she said. “Then what are we standing around here waiting for?”
They walked through to the entranceway. Oriken’s jacket and boots had been scrubbed by Krea, and the rip at the shoulder from Mallak’s sword-thrust was expertly darned. He pulled his boots on and shrugged into his jacket, wincing at the tightness in his wound. As he stashed one of Gorven’s blankets into his pack, he watched Dagra buckle his swordbelt around his hips and stare down at the old gladius, his hand on the pommel.
“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Gorven asked him.
“Yesterday you questioned me about where I stand with the gods,” Dagra said. “If I remained here, that would be me turning my back on the Dyad. Aye, the Bound and the Unbound, too. I can’t do that. I won’t do it. I would just as soon—” He looked to Oriken, then to Jalis, and nodded. “Let’s go.”
Gorven gave a plaintive sigh. “I understand. And I respect your choice. But I had to ask one last time.” He pulled the mansion doors wide open, and the light of morning flooded into the hall. “We’re not keen on the sun,” he told Dagra. “You’ll find that, too, a little. I would suggest keeping your hood up in prolonged periods of direct sunlight.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Dagra said drily. “For what it’s worth.”
They filed out onto the porch to see Sabrian striding up the pathway. He held his hands out in greeting as they walked out to meet him, then reached inside his longcoat and withdrew a small book. “I heard you were all leaving,” he said, passing it to Jalis.