In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

  She negated that statement with a cut of her hand. “Not formal service. You may continue with your life and duties, but you are bound to answer requests.”

  “From who? Am I to be at the beck and call of any priestess who needs something heavy moved? There’s quite a few of you. That could keep me rather busy!” He flung his arms up, panting raggedly.

  Her face stayed blank, but somehow he knew she was angry. He frowned. A flicker in her eyes, a tightness in the jaw?

  “No,” she said, her voice clipped. “You are bound only to me. Linked, you might say.”

  His mouth hung open. He’d be dead if not for her, but… Linked. He didn’t see her anger in her face—no, it flickered inside his head like a tiny flame, part of a bundle of sensations separate to his own.

  Anger wasn’t the only thing there, either. Behind the protective wall of fury he found...

  He met her gaze again, his mouth still slack.

  “There are reasons Battle Priestesses do not go around resurrecting all the fallen. The price isn’t all yours to pay, or mine,” she said, her voice stilted. “It is ours to pay. Part of that is a loss of our independence. The goddess might as well regard us as one entity in her service now. We will always know where the other is. We will fight together, think together, feel together, suffer together....” Her façade cracked a fraction as her voice faltered, and the skin around her eyes tightened. “Neither of us will ever be alone again, nor have any privacy in our own heads again. Think of it like a marriage arranged by a god—without any of the benefits.”

  She whirled and strode stiff-backed through the woods. He quick-stepped to catch up to her but said nothing, turning the sensations over and over in his mind. Could she sense him, too? She must. Despair flooded him, for the horror of the situation, for the love shot through with hopelessness he felt in her, and for the same that she must surely feel in him. There was no hiding his love for her, nor hers for his. But though there was no barrier to shut out their feelings, there was still Ahura keeping them apart.

  “Never?” he asked, his voice soft.

  He didn’t need to spell it out. She was in his head as surely as he was in hers, each privy to the other’s most private thoughts and feelings—to the mutual longing that could not be satisfied.

  Her back stiffened. “Never,” she said, her voice so brittle it might crack at any moment. “I made my vows in blood. If I break them, the price will be paid in blood.”

  The arrow quivered in the soft marshy earth a bare foot from Lyram, deflected by Ahura’s hand. He stood uncomfortably close to Ellaeva to benefit from her protection. “Throw down a rope, you bastards!”

  His own archers on the walls goggled at them, bows loose in their hands, and then someone came to a decision and raced away. After an interminable moment, Galdron’s face appeared over the battlements.

  “Commander?” The shout carried a note of bewilderment.

  Lyram made a gesture of concurrence. “Haul us up, will you, and don’t be all day about it!”

  Some moments later a long length of rope, weighted down at one end by a small hatchet, thudded into the ground a few yards from their feet.

  Picking it up, Lyram arched one eyebrow at Ellaeva. “We’re going to get wet.”

  She snatched the length of hemp from him and stalked to the edge of the moat, coiling up the rope as she went. “I expect we will.”

  Together, they swam across the moat, and the men on the battlements began to haul them up the pink limestone walls.

  When they finally stood on the ramparts, pools of water formed around their feet.

  Galdron’s moustache fairly bristled with astonishment. “Whatever were you doing out there?”

  “Never you mind,” Lyram said. Raw emotion still bubbled below the surface, at the truth about Drault, Traeburhn and Ellaeva.

  The captain scowled and drew himself up. “As you say, sir, but it would have been mighty useful to know your location earlier.”

  “I saw the attack,” he said.

  Soldiers loitered nearby, eavesdropping on the discussion. Galdron dismissed them with a sharp salute, and they reluctantly drifted further down the battlements.

  “The enemy has almost filled in part of the moat under cover of their cats,” Galdron said, his voice tight with anger, “but apart from that, we’ve had other problems. Spectres are boiling out of the catacombs. We’ve sealed off the well room.”

  “That won’t work,” Ellaeva said. “Spectres can pass through the walls.”

  Galdron gave her a tight smile. “Of this we are aware, Holiness. Sealing the well room was to keep the living out, and for now that’s been enough. However, the castellan and his family are trapped in their rooms, where they were when Sir Janun’s boy fell desperately ill late last night.”

  “There are other ways out of the family suite,” Lyram said.

  “Yes, but the castellan won’t risk moving his son, and we’ve no one to send in to help him now anyway.”

  “I’ll deal with the spectres.” Ellaeva checked her sword in its scabbard, then stepped towards the nearest guard tower and the stairs down.

  Before she’d gone even five paces, Lyram hurried after her, caught her arm and pulled her to a stop. “Wait. You shouldn’t go alone.”

  Was that Galdron’s gaze boring into his back? He glanced over his shoulder, but no one caught his gaze.

  She regarded him with carefully blank eyes at odds with the emotions surging around the back of his head. “And who, precisely, should come with me and risk their lives against something they cannot fight?”

  He opened his mouth and lifted his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. I just don’t think you should go alone.”

  “It’s what I do.” She turned to leave, but he stopped her again, and this time he not only saw anger flicker in her eyes but also felt it smoulder in the back of his head with all the contained power of a storm brewing over the horizon.

  “If you must do something, go find the castellan and his son,” she said, exasperated more by his feelings in her head than anything else, he guessed. She hesitated, then drew her blade. “Draw your sword.”

  “My sword?”

  She gestured curtly. “Yes, your sword!”

  He did so. What is she doing?

  Immediately, she touched her blade to his and murmured something under her breath. A faint red radiance came from her silver sword and spread to his.

  He raised his eyebrows as the light faded away again. “What under the gods was that?”

  “I gave your sword some power against spectres, in case you encounter them on the second floor. It’s temporary... and no, I cannot do it for anyone else. This is something I can do only because of the nature of your sword.”

  “My sword? What about it?” He looked down at the weapon, with the dragon carved into the basket hilt.

  “No time,” she said, saluting him with her blade. “See you on the other side, Lord Aharris.”

  Her tone was formal and perfunctory, but the strength she needed to walk away from him reverberated down the link between them. This was why a Battle Priestess must be free of personal ties: so she could do her duty. Was he her weakness, her liability? Or was she his?

  Steeling himself, he spun back to Galdron. “I’m going for the castellan. Keep everyone away from the well room.”

  Before the captain could protest, Lyram dashed after Ellaeva.

  The nearest stairs were in the rear, western tower, but they didn’t go all the way into the courtyard. As Lyram stepped off the stairs into the shadows of the empty tower room, he caught a glimpse of Ellaeva disappearing inside the withdrawing room, headed for the grand stair that would deposit her not far from the well room.

  No direct route led to the family suite from this side of the castle, but there was no help for it. Instead of following Ellaeva, he raced into the library and between the book-laden shelves that stretched towards the ceiling. The scent of leather and paper filled his nostrils.

>   He raced up a half-dozen steps two at a time into the open space above the barbican, its floor dotted with the gaping maws of murder holes. The men stationed there glanced at him as he hurried past. The turret stair on the other side brought him to the private residence of the castellan.

  A woman’s shrill scream echoed faintly through the thick door, and Lyram threw himself at it, yanking on the handle to no avail. The door was barred.

  “Open up.” He pounded on the heavy oak with the hilt of his sword. The knocking echoed in the confined space of the stairwell.

  Muffled shouts came to him, words distorted beyond recognition by the thick door. He thumped on the wood a few more times, then whirled, cursing under his breath, and took the stairs two at a time, back up past his suite to the battlements.

  He burst from the stairwell onto the wall, his sword still in hand. A few nearby soldiers turned in surprise, their own hands flying to their weapons. He waved them away as he raced half the length of the wall, his hair streaming away from his face.

  Ahead, a smaller stairway gave direct access to the castellan’s suite, to give the castle’s commander a quick route to the walls in case of emergency. None might use it except Sir Janun and his family, but right now Lyram didn’t give two dragon shits if the penalty for its use was death. He only hoped the door at the bottom wasn’t sealed.

  He hurried down so fast his feet almost tripped one over the other. A much smaller door blocked the way where the stairs ended. Lyram seized the handle and threw the door open so hard the crash of it striking the wall echoed too loud in the confined space.

  A mixed blast of heat and cold struck him. A huge fire blazed on the hearth of the solar, despite the fact spring was well underway, yet at the same time the room swirled with deathly cold. Lady Dulanica stood over the lounge that held the prone form of her son, a candelabra in her hands, her lips pressed together so hard they formed a white line in her face. All the candles burned and shed wax over the rugs.

  On the other side of the solar, the castellan waved his sword tentatively at the drifting smoke shape of a spectre.

  “Don’t touch it!” Lyram shouted.

  “Fire, Janun, I told you to use fire,” the lady said.

  Sir Janun cast a glance over his shoulder at her and discarded his sword. The blade clanged dissonantly against the stones as he snatched a blazing rack of candles from the wall. He swept the impromptu firebrand through the man-shaped shadow advancing on him.

  The spectre retreated back into the hallway with a shrill wail on the edge of hearing. Lyram winced, and Dulanica stepped back, releasing one hand from the candelabra to reach for her ears. The castellan dropped his candlestick and staggered as if struck. The flames of the candles flared dangerously close to the edge of the carpets, and the spectre bunched in on itself.

  Lyram lunged forward to grab Janun’s wrist, yanking the disoriented man back away from the spinning spectre. While kicking at the candles to extinguish them, he gave the castellan a firm push towards the still open door. “Run!”

  Janun only looked at him in bewilderment and cocked his head, cupping one hand to his ear. Oh gods. He couldn’t hear.

  Lyram looked across at Dulanica, who was still poised to defend her unconscious son. “Take Sir Janun and run!”

  “My son,” she protested. “I won’t leave Kastyn.”

  “I’ll get him out, but I can’t do it with you in the way. Take your husband and get up on the walls.” He cast a quick glance at the spectre. It had unfolded again while tumbling chaotically in place. Had the fire damaged the thing at all? It didn’t seem to like the fire, but he doubted it would delay the spectre long.

  When the lady didn’t move, Lyram crossed to her and took the candelabra from her. With the hand still holding his sword, he pushed her towards Janun. “Go.”

  She cast a fearful look at her son and then hustled the castellan from the room and up the stairs.

  Lyram dismissed them from his mind to focus on the spectre. Returned to its normal shape, it had once again advanced into the solar.

  Lyram swung the candelabra at the spectral man. The hot wax hissed and spat as it whirled free of the candles. The spectre retreated far enough to avoid contact, then came on again. Lyram forced the dead spirit back, swinging the candelabra in low, wide sweeps and pushing it farther away from the helpless Kastyn.

  The undead thing suddenly contorted on itself in a way no thing of flesh and bone could do and slipped between the wildly swinging candelabra and the wall. Its hand stretched towards Lyram’s wrist.

  “Dragon’s balls!” He almost dropped the candelabra in his haste to avoid its deadly touch. Reflexively, he brought his sword around in an overhand swing. The spectre made no move to avoid the steel, and the blade carved into the unresisting shadow stuff, flaring a deep ruby red. Immediately, the spectre dissipated like smoke with another of those keening wails. Lyram clutched at his own head.

  And it was gone. The chill in the room eased, though not much. Lyram lowered his arms and, still clutching both sword and candelabra, looked around the room for any more spectres. Despite the persistent unearthly cold, none were apparent. Hesitantly, he advanced into the bedroom at the other end of the suite, his feet crunching through a thin crust of ice in the rugs.

  He found no spectres, but in the bedroom down the hall the melting ice already streamed down the walls and dripped from tapestries. Circling the room, he shivered as he passed the barred door leading to the well-room stairwell. A distinct chill came from the portal, and he backed away quickly.

  Replacing the candelabra on the wall as he passed, he returned to the solar to find the fire shrinking on the hearth. New ice rimed the edge of the fireplace, despite the crackling flames below. He shook his head and crossed to Kastyn. If the cold grew this deep, there must be a spectre nearby. The best course of action would be to remove the boy from this part of the castle until Ellaeva had cleared the spectres.

  When he touched Kastyn, he gasped and snatched his hand back. The boy’s skin was ice to the touch. Could a person be so cold and yet live? Lyram pressed his fingers against his throat. Despite the deathly chill radiating from the boy, Kastyn’s heart still beat, but the pulse fluttered faint and weak. Lyram hesitated. What had happened to him?

  Kastyn’s eyes opened and rolled around in their sockets for a long moment before fixing on Lyram. The boy’s face had grown painfully gaunt in the short time since he’d last seen him, and his skin was grey.

  “You—” Kastyn said. “I’m... sorry.”

  His stomach dropped, and he seized the boy by the shoulders. “Sorry? For what?”

  Kastyn’s head lolled on his neck, and Lyram’s fingers already ached numbly from the depth of the chill exuding from the boy. Kastyn’s eyelids fluttered, though they did not open. “Forget me,” he said in a breathless, faraway voice. “A spectre... touched me... two days ago. Sorry.”

  Lyram dropped him and spun away, running both hands through his hair. The boy was as good as dead, then—and upon dying, he’d become a spectre himself.

  Drawing a deep breath, he turned back to the couch and knelt beside the prostrate boy. “Where? How did it happen?”

  “In the catacombs.” He rallied enough strength to focus on Lyram. “I found the missing bodies. Found... the thief, raising more spectres. One of them touched me, but she said... She said...” His eyes rolled up into his skull again.

  Lyram shook the boy. “Who said? What did she say?”

  “The spectre would kill me, but not there. Didn’t want me to die there. I almost died getting out. Lost. Thirsty. So cold.... Sorry. Hated you, for displacing my father. Hated you, for bringing the siege, and not ending it.”

  His head lolled on his neck, and his voice dropped to the barest murmur.

  Lyram leaned close, his ear almost to Kastyn’s lips, straining to catch the words.

  “So cold. Just want to be warm.... She said... said I’d be ice... forever.” He dropped off into unintelligible mutte
rs.

  Lyram rocked back on his heels.

  “Who?” he asked, leaning close again. He tightened his grasp on his sword, tensed for the moment he’d need it. “Who is she?”

  Kastyn said nothing, and Lyram shook him again and repeated the question. Kastyn exhaled a wavering breath and fumbled for Lyram’s hand.

  “Please... save me.” His body went rigid, his face contorting into a rictus.

  Lyram squeezed his eyes closed. There was only one thing he could do to save the boy, only one kind of help he could offer—but he needed answers.

  He leaned closer to Kastyn. “Who?”

  The boy’s back arched, lifting him off the divan. His mouth opened wide, but no sound came forth. The edges of his body seemed to waver, like a mirage—or like fraying smoke. The temperature plummeted.

  “Ahura’s tits.” Too late. No answers would be found here. Lyram lifted his sword and positioned the point against the youth’s chest. A dark shadow began to lift free.

  Kastyn met Lyram’s gaze, his eyes already awash with a red tinge, and he nodded, just once.

  With tears streaming down his cheeks, Lyram pushed the blade home in a flash of crimson light.

  In the courtyard, Ellaeva stopped outside the well room. Barrels and crates and all kinds of debris had been piled in front of the door. The barricade wouldn’t stop spectres from leaving, but it was going to slow her down.

  She collared a pair of soldiers, a man and a woman, crossing the courtyard and instructed them to help her clear the door. They set to without question, dragging the crates and barrels into the centre of the courtyard, which still bore the marks of the recent battle: shattered stones from the catapult, blood on the cobbles, and corpses stacked against one wall. There’d not yet been time to move them. The cries of the wounded wafted intermittently on the air, rising from the barracks which now served as an impromptu infirmary.

  When the door stood cleared, Ellaeva ordered the soldiers on their way.