The Doom of Fallowhearth
Page 30
She felt a presence next to her and stopped. A fourth deadlight had joined the three, pulsing right above her head. Slowly, she smiled.
“Will you find your way?” she asked.
The pathfinder is with us, Kathryn’s voice whispered softly. He will lead us true. And the other two have plenty of stories for the journey. They’re already arguing.
“I don’t envy you,” Dezra said, laughing. Then came the tears, finally free from bitterness.
Do not weep for me, my love. Be thankful. You, more than anyone, must know we will meet again.
“When?” Dezra managed.
That is not for either of us to know. But you will find me again, as you did before. You will never be truly alone, Dezra.
She couldn’t find the words to answer – hunched over, she gave vent to her grief. As she did so she felt Kathryn’s presence behind her, embracing her, a soothing aura that whispered to her of their times together. The others were there too, silent but reassuring, the stillness that surrounded them like the calm wake that followed a terrible storm.
She didn’t know exactly when Kathryn, Ulma, Durik and Logan left, but at some point, when she reached out, they were gone. Eventually the tears subsided.
“Who were you talking to?”
The voice startled her. She rounded, a hand raised to summon back her balefire. A man stood facing her, a child next to him. It was the northerner, Ronan. She had forgotten about him. Both he and the girl were wounded and splattered with ichor, foul fluids still oozing from their blades. The girl was carrying the man’s familiar. It was unconscious, but Dezra could still sense its life-force burning bright.
“Still intending to slay me, northman?” Dezra demanded. Right then she didn’t care if he still meant her malice. Compared to what had just happened, he meant nothing. The battlescarred clansman remained impassive as he spoke.
“The others?”
“Dead,” Dezra replied, unable to keep the sting from her voice. A part of it still felt like some dark, strange nightmare. “Along with Lady Kathryn.”
“Are they still here?”
“No. They’ve gone.”
Ronan glanced at the girl before speaking once more to Dezra.
“You said Carys Morr has the witch-sight?”
“She does,” Dezra said, looking at the girl too. Carys returned her gaze solemnly.
“You know, don’t you?” Dezra asked her. She nodded, once.
“A great deal will change,” Ronan said, his tone thoughtful. “A seer hasn’t inherited the leadership of one of the clans for many generations.”
“You will be a great leader, Carys Morr,” Dezra said, speaking to her directly. The girl smiled. “I have seen your type before.”
“We go back to the surface,” Ronan said. “Can you seal this place behind us with your magics?”
“So you’re not going to kill the cursed witch?” Dezra asked him, spreading her arms wide, mockingly. Ronan returned her gaze with a stony expression.
“If I did, I would have to slay the daughter of Maelec Morr as well. I would rather die than do that.”
“See, you’re already convincing warriors to die for you,” Dezra said to Carys, winking at her. “You’ll go far.”
“Do you wish to retrieve the bodies of your friends?” Ronan asked. “I will help carry them.”
“No,” said Dezra, casting one more glance over the devastation around her. “No burial I could give them would be as fitting as this. Terrinoth will know of their deeds and, one day, if any come looking for them, they will find them surrounded by the thousand monstrosities they vanquished.”
Ronan nodded and, to Dezra’s surprise, smiled sadly.
“What more could any hero wish for?” he asked.
Epilogue
The storm had passed. Fallowhearth lay still in its wake, battered and dripping in the early morning light. The air was cold. The streets were silent. From atop the castle, the lonely banner of the roc still flew.
A congregation had amassed in and around the graveyard of the Shrine of Nordros, a gathering of the faithful. There were hundreds of them, and they stood in absolute silence, rank upon rank of gray shapes in the dawn. They were dead, all but two. The balefire smoldered low in their eyes, like the embers of a hearth that had blazed with great power the night before.
Dezra stood by the lich-gate to the yard, next to a mound of freshly turned earth. Beside her was Volbert, dressed in his full ceremonial robes and cap, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. A shovel lay against the black iron railings nearby. The man’s hands were still caked with mud.
The sorceress had recovered the dead branch she had removed from the tree outside the watchtower. She had found it lying in the shrine and had planted it at the head of the newly dug grave. She reached out one hand, slowly, the slightest glow suffusing her fingertips. The length of bent wood shuddered slightly, and creaked.
“Have you ever seen a dead tree grow, tomb-keeper?” she asked Volbert. The man shook his head, still not daring to look up.
“This one will,” she went on. “When it is mature, carve her name into it. That will be her marker.”
“Yes, my lady,” Volbert said quietly.
Dezra looked down at the grave for a while longer, her mind at peace. Nordros had given her so much. A part of her was thankful that, in the taking, he hadn’t severed her love entirely. She believed the words Kathryn had spoken to her – they would meet again. Her god would make sure of that.
She turned her gaze to the congregation. The dead stared back at her blankly in the new light. She smiled sadly at them, then gestured with her right hand. As one the undead responded to her will, turning and shuffling through the packed graveyard. They walked to the hundreds of unearthed graves and opened tombs and, with painful slowness, clambered back down into them. One by one, they lay in the earth, and one by one the flames in their eyes snuffed out. A final low moan drifted through Fallowhearth’s deserted streets. Then, at last, there was peace.
“My apologies,” Dezra said to Volbert. “It will take you a while to cover them all up again.” Volbert said nothing.
She took her leave, glancing one more time at the fresh grave before stepping out beyond the gate. Logan’s horse was tied there, one pannier bearing the Cadaveribus, the others filled with food taken from the castle’s storerooms. Dezra had discovered both the steed and Ulma’s pony hitched outside what looked like the remains of the town butcher’s shop. She had freed the latter and taken the former. The horse didn’t seem to mind.
Turning her back on Fallowhearth’s graveyard and the castle beyond, she climbed into the saddle and rode out of the town. Two figures were waiting for her on its southern edge, both mounted. Ronan nodded a greeting as she rode up.
“Not gone yet?” she asked, also acknowledging Carys, sitting on one of the horses taken from the castle stables. The familiar was awake once more, clutching onto her shoulder as it glared warily at Dezra.
“I wanted to say that you should come with us,” Ronan replied. “To the Redfern.”
“Why?” Dezra asked.
“To teach Carys. To teach us all. There is a great deal the clans do not understand about your ways. A great deal they should learn.”
Dezra smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Ronan, but you are mistaken. I am no teacher. I discovered that recently at great cost. It is not a mistake I wish to repeat anytime soon. You will walk your own path, Carys Morr, and you will excel. Let there be no doubt of that.”
The words were more than mere encouragement – Dezra could see the same iron in the girl that she had seen in Kathryn. Carys already had an intuitive grasp of the arcana. A part of Dezra was drawn to helping her realize her potential, but her place wasn’t amongst the northern tribes. Their paths diverged for now, of that she was sure.
“What will you do, t
hen?” Carys asked her. “Where will you go?”
“South,” Dezra said. “To Highmont. I am going to tell Baroness Adelynn what happened here. All of it. And after that I’m going to ask for her forgiveness.”
“But they’ll kill you,” Carys said. “Isn’t dark magic forbidden there?”
“If that is what must happen, then so be it. I owe it to Kathryn to tell her story. Her mother deserves to know the truth of what happened to her. How she saved me. How she saved all of us.”
“As you wish,” Ronan said. “But know that if you ever come north again, you will have a home with at least one of the clans.”
“Don’t stop using your abilities, Dezra,” Carys said. “Show that they can be turned to good.”
“Maelec Morr’s daughter speaks the truth,” Ronan added. “I fear a time is soon coming when these lands will need every hero they have, regardless of the path they walk.”
“When it does, you’ll find me ready,” Dezra said. “May Nordros lead you true.”
“Seagh fortan,” Ronan said. “And may Kurnos guide your path.”
Dezra bowed her head and turned her horse south.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you is due to the Acontye Books team, especially my endlessly patient editor, Lottie. Likewise to Jeff Chen, the talented artist responsible for that brilliant cover, and the Fantasy Flight Games gang behind the Descent: Journeys in the Dark RPG book that provided so much of the inspiration for this novel.
About the Author
ROBBIE MACNIVEN is a Highlands-native History graduate from the University of Edinburgh. He is the author of several novels and many short stories for the New York Times-bestselling Warhammer 40,000 Age of Sigmar universe, and the narrative for HiRez Studio’s Smite Blitz RPG. Outside of writing his hobbies include historical re-enacting and making eight-hour round trips every second weekend to watch Rangers FC.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Descent: Journeys in the Dark
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map of Forthyn
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By the Same Author
Explore the realm of Descent
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