Haunted men, killed by the Wolde.
Blood everywhere.
Two boats left.
“Looks like we get to live a while longer,” he quipped.
Her chain jingled. “What about light? And food?”
“We’ve one boat for crossing the water.” He smirked. “And the other to make torches. As for food, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ll die.”
She touched his arm. Her fingers felt warm as sunshine. “Not how I expected this to end,” she said.
“End?” He looked at her. “We’ve a three day march ahead of us. In a cave halfway to the world’s bottom. We’ve no map. We’ve nothing. Our end might be to starve alone in the dark.”
She smiled. “No. Not dying down here. Neither of us.”
She’s right.
In her, Grim made the wrong enemy.
Emergence
Hungry, exhausted, and exhilarated, Andelusia wandered out of the Undergrave and spread her arms to the sky.
My irons…gone.
The Black Moon…vanished.
The rains have ended.
As the Pale Knight staggered out behind her, she stood at peace on the top of Undergrave Hill. The world is different today, she sensed. Warm breezes washed between Sallow’s burnt and severed trees. All around her, human and Sarcophage bodies lay strewn, but with Father Sun shining, even death became serene. These were the first moments of Sallow’s rebirth. Summer was here.
She lost herself in the sky, and the last remnants of her melancholy melted away. Her body hurt and her skin was covered in bruises, but she minded none of it.
How long has it been? To breathe without the Nightness.
Archmyr, in his typically grim fashion, spared no sight for the sun or sky. He counted the bodies, Yrul and Sarcophage alike.
“Your work?” he remarked. “Quite a mess.”
She peered across the carnage. Her thoughts descended to Garrett, Marid, and Saul. They were nowhere to be seen. “If anything, I did not kill fast enough.”
Ever smirking, the Pale Knight knelt beside the largest of the fallen Sarcophages and lifted its skull into his hand. “This one was the Master’s father.” He tossed it into a pile of bones. “Resurrected right in front of me. Looks like a swordsman’s stroke finished him, not magic.”
She wished he had not said it. Garrett, she remembered her love as she had left him. Please say you survived this.
It was then she saw her satchel. It lay right where she had dropped it, just a half-step from the headless Sarcophage. She scooped it up and regarded it. Its straps were frayed, its flap rotting. One sniff, and she knew it was ruined.
“My old bag,” she ruminated. “I should have—”
“Quiet,” Archmyr hissed.
Her breath caught in her throat. On the hilltop’s far side, skulking between many mounds of slate, the Wolde emerged from the shadows. Their wolfskins were gone, their weapons sheathed, and their shoulders unarmored. Hundreds clambered into view and gazed in her direction. They looked weary, gaunt as any Sallow’s trees.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
Archmyr erected himself atop a suntouched boulder. Whether he feared the Wolde or not, she never could have said. “Either they’ll kill us or let us go,” he said. “Let’s find out.”
Father Sun climbed higher in the sky. Dawn sprayed fingers of light across the barren stones. The Wolde, shielding their eyes, wandered closer. They seemed unlike themselves. Their faces were wan, their postures unthreatening. Trembling, she tucked her ruined satchel under her shoulder and waited. Be brave, she told herself.
“Pale One!” one of wolf-men shouted. “What news from Lykaios? Have we done rightly?”
She and Archmyr exchanged the briefest glance.
The wolf-men know nothing, she understood.
“Wolde!” Archmyr greeted the gathering horde. “I’ve no word from our Master. If he’s quiet, it’s because he is no more. Our deeds in the deep didn’t go as planned. The Master is dead.”
A murmur swept through the Wolde. More and more of them arrived, burgeoning to the thousands. Archmyr’s claim settled like twilight upon them all.
“How can this be?” cried one.
“What could kill Lykaios?” wondered another.
Soon it seemed the entire Wolde army stood on the flanks of Undergrave Hill, surrounding her and Archmyr as surely as the black waters at the Undergrave’s bottom. The closest of them stood at just thirty paces, ragged and wild-eyes from lack of sleep.
The Nightness. She looked at her welted wrists, from which Archmyr had struck off her manacles days ago. We could fly away in a heartbeat. If only…
“How, Pale One?” The most massive of the Wolde stepped to the forefront. “How did this happen? How did the Master die?”
Archmyr reached into the sack resting beside his boot. He had carried the thing all the way up from the Undergrave island. Chin lifted high, black hair streaming in the summer breeze, he waved the sack through the air. Ashes, black and grey, fluttered out of the bag and into the wind.
“Behold the Master,” he crowed. “It was I who slew him, I who took his head. He asked more than I was willing to give. He asked more of you than most of you will ever know.”
Like water disturbed by a single stone’s plunge, the truth rippled out across every soldier on the hill. Hearts hardened by months of plunder, murder, and slavish toiling were struck cold. Some went blank-faced, others were stunned to terror, and still others smoked with anger.
Archmyr dropped the sack. A plume of ashes caught in the breeze and vanished.
“You did this?” the hugest soldier asked.
“Aye.” Archmyr nodded.
“Why?”
Archmyr shrugged. “His swords. He raised them against mine. I returned the favor.”
“And what about what happened two nights ago?” The soldier’s eyes darkened. “Black spheres in the sky, bone-biting rains cutting us. What of that, Pale One? We all want to know.”
Archmyr cracked his mouth to answer, but no words came out. She saw it the same as he. A column of thirty men, black-cloaked and hoods down, walked through the Wolde, a dark river gutting a valley of trees. Who? Andelusia wondered. Not Romaldarian. More of Grim’s sorcerers?
Shadowed beneath the golden dawn, the foremost among the thirty threw off his hood and cloak. Hideous. Her stomach turned. He seemed more monster than human, a drooling beast whose three-toothed grin split his pallid, corpulent face. He plodded on two fat, ungainly legs. His followers marched behind him, soulless as Sarcophages.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Unctulu,” Archmyr spat. “And his haunted men. The Master’s favorites.”
She watched as Unctulu and his followers walked within ten paces of Archmyr’s boulder before halting. Their faces were unreadable, all save that of loathsome Unctulu, who shot her a vulgar smile before clucking his maggoty tongue at Archmyr.
“Pale One, Pale One.” Unctulu licked his lips. “We’re still alive. It worries me. Shouldn’t we be sleeping, oh friend of friends? Shouldn’t our wee souls be streaming for the sky?”
Archmyr grimaced.
No love between these two, she knew.
“The Ur are gone.” Archmyr glared. “The Master’s dead.”
“So the Wolde whisper.” A rope of saliva streamed from Unctulu’s mouth. “We suppose you’ve come to tell us how. We wonder where the Eye is, when our promised peace may come. We wonder just how it is you’ve brought the witch-girl, and how her bones aren’t but jewels about your neck.”
“The warlock...” Archmyr smirked. “When I put an iron bolt into his head, seems the Master’s plan went awry.”
Unctulu’s face twisted. Black foam and spittle ran in rivers down his chin. “Wasn’t only the Master’s plan, Pale One. Was ours! You meddle with more than your singular soul. You ruin eternity for all of us.”
Archmyr shrugged. “It’s done. I’ll not apologize.”
/>
“Pale Worm! Pale Betrayer!” Unctulu jabbed his finger. “How will your smugness serve you in death, I wonder?”
Another of the thirty stepped forth. He was taller than Unctulu, as refined in his silver-black robes as Unctulu was repulsive in his filthy brown rags.
“Lykaios would’ve had a second chance,” The tall man’s voice thundered across Undergrave Hill. “If, as you say, the warlock was slain, Lykaios could’ve used the girl to speak the spell of breaking. Surely he knew this. Why then, Pale Knight? Why didn’t he force her to complete the invocation?”
“He tried,” grunted Archmyr. “But failed.”
The gazes of the thirty went darker and colder. Their hatred vacillated between Archmyr and her.
She gulped and wetted her lips.
“It would not have mattered,” she dared. “The Ur stole my magic.”
“Pardon?” The tall man lifted his chin.
“The Ur,” she said louder. “When the tower door opened, they recognized me. They reached into me and stripped the Nightness out. It was never mine to begin with. Without it, I could never have finished Father’s spell.”
A fearful murmur spread amongst the thirty. Unctulu sputtered and cursed. The tall man, teeth bared, gazed at her as though willing her to die.
“I saw them.” She spoke uninvited. “They stood on the world’s edge. I saw their eyes. I understood their minds. They would not have given you whatever it is they promised.”
“You mean to say the Ur are gone now?” the tall man asked.
“The tower door closed. None escaped.”
Unctulu shambled closer, the vials on his belt jingling. “Bah! What does a woman know?”
“More than most!” she dared again. “Their voices have always been in me. I know their pull, their desire. Had you freed them, their promises would have melted. We would all suffer…all of us.”
Unctulu and the tall man fell silent. The sea of Wolde, comprehending little, turned their attention onto the thirty. Several shouted questions, but none so loudly as the black-bearded warrior at the front.
“What’s she mean, maggot?” The bearded soldier glowered. “What’s she talking about…suffering?”
“Nothing! She lies!” Unctulu spat.
“Maybe the Master’s the liar,” the soldier contended. “Maybe he’s tricked us.”
“Slaves, he made us!” cried another Wolde.
“Aye!” shouted a hundred more.
“We knew it.” The huge soldier glowered at Unctulu. “We worked our hands raw, and for what? The glory of Roma? The treasure of the Thills? But all we have are rocks, caves, and falling moons. This wench…she’s telling the truth?”
More Wolde echoed his question. Shaking fists and hurled hatred showed that none bore Unctulu and his thirty any love.
“They will kill us,” she whispered to Archmyr, who remained atop his boulder.
“Not necessarily.” He smirked again.
The Wolde marched in, hemming Unctulu on three sides. She saw fear in the thirty, anger simmering in the Wolde.
How can I stop this?
It was Archmyr who tried.
“It’s time for you to leave, maggot,” he said to Unctulu. “If you die here, you’ll meet your beloved Ur sooner than you’d like. And if you think to murder me, I’ll take you with me. It’d be my pleasure.”
“Damn your empty skull, Pale One,” Unctulu hissed. “The witch girl…she’s charmed you. Your mind is mush. Give her over to me. Give her and let’s find out what’s beneath her pretty, pretty skin.”
Her heart rattled against her ribs. This is where he betrays me. This is where I die.
Be brave.
Archmyr dropped down from his boulder. His boots struck the ground, and the Wolde front lines halted. Smirking, he set his palms on his sword pommels and strode at Unctulu, whose grotesqueness diminished when the Pale Knight’s shadow fell across him.
“You’ll not have her.” She heard Archmyr say.
Unctulu gurgled. “Pale One. Foolish One. One word from me and the Wolde’ll crush the life from your bones. Give her to me. Give her now. A plaything is the least you owe me, since you’ve condemned us all.”
Archmyr looked to the nearest Wolde. No matter their thousands, they still look afraid of him.
“Men of Archaeus,” he said to them without his usual contempt, “the Master has deceived you. You weren’t brought here to conquer Thillria or unearth treasures in the deep. You were meant to dig and to die. Nothing more.”
The Wolde murmurs rose and fell like thunder across Undergrave Hill.
“How can we trust you?” growled their black-bearded spokesman. “T’was you killed Lykaios. T’was you led us here in the first place.”
Archmyr sucked in his breath.
Whatever he says next will free us…or doom us.
“I wouldn’t trust me either,” he conceded. “But nor would I trust Unctulu. He’s the one who brought me here. Look at him. Ask him why we’re really here. See if his lies can convince you.”
Hundreds of Wolde fixed their glowers to Unctulu. The fiend held fast, unshaken even as the rest of the thirty trembled.
“The truth,” the black-bearded warrior demanded. “We’ll hear it now.”
Drool dripped from Unctulu’s mouth in long yellow ropes. “The truth? It isn’t for any of you,” he gurgled. “It’s mine.”
With hands like hammers, the black-bearded soldier and two of his comrades strode for Unctulu. Everyone else stood frozen, even Archmyr, who watched with his hands above his sword-hilts.
“We won’t ask again,” the soldier threatened.
Unctulu smiled a hideous, mocking smile. The three Wolde rushed to seize him. Hard boots clapped against slate and shouts rent the morning air. Andelusia gasped when she saw Unctulu flash a long, serrated knife from beneath his ratty garb. He gutted the big Wolde and nicked the other two, and within moments all three collapsed onto the rocks. They writhed and foamed from their mouths for ten breaths apiece, expiring at Unctulu’s feet.
“Any more for Unctulu?” the sweating fiend bellowed. “Come and get me if you can! I’ve enough poison here to kill everyone!”
No others dared it. His tongue dangling, Unctulu menaced the Wolde with a red-eyed glower before shaking the bloody knife at Archmyr.
“Wrail should’ve let me end you,” he cursed. “‘Patience’, he urged. ‘Loyalty,’ the Master wanted. They were so enamored of you and your pretty war. But I knew. I knew all along. The grave made you soft, Thillrian cur. One sniff of your witch-girl whore, and your swordarm became a sponge. Traitor, you are. Same to us as the Furies. Pale face and thin blood.”
Archmyr advanced on Unctulu. She knew what was about to happen. If the Pale Knight dies, so do I. Swift as the bolt that had killed her father, she sprang in front of Archmyr and set both hands against his chest
“No. No more blood. Please!” she begged.
Archmyr’s advance slowed. Unctulu burst into hideous laughter. The Wolde, shoulder to shoulder as far as she could see, watched with wide eyes as she strained to hold the Pale Knight back.
“The Black Moon…takes only…the wicked.” She pushed against his black hauberk. “Remember? If you kill him…”
“One more life won’t matter.” He grimaced.
“Two lives. Maybe more. I want to survive. I need you. Please.”
Unctulu’s poisoned dagger swayed in his corpulent grasp. The rest of his thirty slunk away, but the fiend loitered, cackling, mocking, and reeking. She pushed and pushed, and felt the anger in Archmyr’s muscles melt beneath her palms.
Regaining his calm, the Pale Knight brushed her aside and gazed hard at Unctulu, who stained black a pool of white sunlight.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
“Oh?” Unctulu snorted.
“Yes. None will hinder us. Least of all you.”
The fiend licked the blood from his dagger with a long, slow stroke of his worming tongue. She waited for the
poison to kill him, but it did nothing. “Pale One, Pale One,” he gurgled. “You’ll not be missed. I’ll fetch the Pages while you scamper off. I’ll take up the Master’s Needle. Unctulu, sly and strong, will be the new Sleeper. When’s it done, the Ur will stretch your skin across forever, same for the girl.”
“I think not.” Archmyr flashed a final smirk. “The book and the other…in the lake. No telling how deep the water goes. Better for you to go home with the Wolde. The Thillrians won’t suffer you to stay here much longer.”
“You lie!” Unctulu cursed.
“See for yourself. Roll down to the bottom of the world. I hope you know how to swim.”
Unctulu shook with wordless anguish. His eyes bulged, his three teeth gouging bloody gashes in his lips. His wickedness drained onto the slate beneath his feet, all his hopes and hatred dashed to pieces.
“Gone?” Unctulu leaked jaundiced tears. “Drowned and dead, dead and drowned? You know what this means, Pale One? Do you? We’ll die. The Ur will devour us. It’ll be worst for you and me, the worst, worst, worst. But our time’ll come again. It will. I know, I know, I know it. Spade, shovel, and sword, the Ur will send another Sleeper. The Tower will open again. It’s...inevitable.”
Archmyr said nothing. Somehow, she sensed the truth in Unctulu’s claim. The fiend gnashed and gibbered, but uttered nothing more intelligible. His eyes went empty and his pallid face blank. Sulking, he trudged alone down the flank of Undergrave Hill. The Wolde gave him wide berth as they watched him go. All stomachs turned at his passing, and all souls were chilled.
In the stillness, the vials on his waist made the only sound in Sallow.
Clinking.
Filled with poison.
Maybe I should have let Archmyr kill him.
Redemption
By rights, we should be dead.
No thinking allowed, Ande.
Just keep walking.
She reckoned what had happened was impossible. The Wolde, grim as an ocean of tombstones, had parted before the Pale Knight’s advance. A trap, she had assumed. Just drawing us in. She had winced with every footfall, waiting for a shower of crossbow bolts or a dozen swords to come screaming. She had expected the Wolde to close ranks, to swallow us whole, but they never did.
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