Blood rolled down the Earl’s leg and over his leather boots. He reached a bloody, trembling hand to her, imploring her help, but help would not come. He had been one foot in the grave long ago, she realized. When he had decided to stay in the palace rather than fight beside his men on the wall.
“Death is all that awaits those who betray the Tower!” she screamed, the fiery blade thrust into the sky. The Dragon flared in her chest, burning bright as furnaces through her eyes. She wanted to see blood now, needed to kill to make everything wrong in the world right. Was that her need, or the Dragon’s?
Two more spears thudded into the Earl’s back, spurting out with blood. The perfectly clean spear tips came out gleaming like red stained glass. Baraz screamed and twisted on the ground as more barbs came. She would not turn away. She would face the consequences of her decisions. The spears came like arrows, stabbing and ramming into his bleeding body. They plunged in and out, men all crowding around to wet their spear points. The soldiers were in a blood rage now, all their hatred, failures, faults, and endless disappointments pouring out through the stabbing of their spears. A merciful spear sank into the Earl’s neck, cutting his screams short. She almost wished he had suffered longer.
Nyset’s world vibrated at the edges, shimmering spears and shining armor blurred with splats of scarlet. There was a dull roar in her ears as if through a pillow. The sun reflected from a pair of wizened and grinning eyes, an arm coming up and hammering a spear into a bloodied mess below. The thudding of iron on bone and squelching through flesh replaced the screams in her head. Something shook her shoulder, throwing her off balance, almost sending her tottering onto the ground.
“Mistress? Mistress?” Claw’s voice repeated, his hands gripping her shoulders, steadying her. His face was in her line of vision, staring into her lost eyes. The world snapped back into focus, sound taking on its regular forms. “Are you well?” Claw asked.
“Yes? What?” She pushed away from Claw and took a few hesitant steps back. Spears were still raining down on the Earl’s mutilated body. “Stop! He’s dead already, stop!” She conjured weak blasts of air to push soldiers away and putting herself over the Earl’s body. “It’s done, he’s dead,” she barked. A bead of sweat trickled down her jaw. “It’s done. What-what have I done?” she whispered.
A soldier started to say something, then his mouth duly closed. Blood speckled his stubbly chin. Other men responded in kind, seeming to get a hold of their senses. Eyes became downcast with shame, boots becoming infinitely more interesting than anything else. “It’s alright, it’s over now,” she said with a long exhale
She looked down at what remained of the Earl’s body, a pool of red surrounding sodden and matted clothing, thick with his blood. It took everything she had to prevent the contents of her stomach from pushing up through her throat. “It’s over,” she whispered and nodded.
She was the butcher. This was her doing. She might as well have been wielding a spear herself. She had let the Dragon take too much of her. She let the thrill of its rage fill her, its force willing her to destroy life.
“It had to be done, didn’t it? Tell me he left me no choice.” Nyset said, knowing Claw would be near.
“He… left you no choice, Mistress,” Claw said from behind, but his words were empty as a new grave.
Nyset snorted back the tears that threatened to well in her eyes. She stole another glance at the Earl’s corpse. “Damn you, why did you make me do this?” She sniffed and a tear slid down her tanned cheek. He was a bastard. Why did she care? Maybe because she knew he was a good man at heart. Maybe because he was only doing what he thought was right. Maybe because she’d made a terrible mistake.
“Arch Wizard,” a soldier grunted, then dropped to one knee, bloody spear held high at his side. One of his hairy knuckles was topped with an oval of blood.
“Arch Wizard,” another pounded a fist on his chest, then followed the first, kneeling before her.
“But, why?” Nyset swallowed.
Men went down like dominoes, muttering words of fealty and taking knees. It felt like watching the stoutest of trees drop. Hundreds of men were kneeling now, wind sighing over their wooden forms. She was at a loss for words for what felt like minutes. She must be their strength, she thought. Everyone needed a beacon to follow, a light in the black. But who would be hers?
“Rise!” she brought her arm up, palm flat. “Fight with me. Fight for your land. Fight for unity. Stand against the Death Spawn!”
Cheers erupted like a thunderclap. Nyset sent approving nods over the cheering mass, some looking like butchers. Some managed to keep their hands clean. Hers were clean in the physical sense, but her heart felt as if it had been bludgeoned.
“Nicely done, Mistress,” Claw said beside her, arms folded.
“Not like this. Not how I wanted this to turn out,” Nyset muttered to him.
“Even with the best of intentions, there is always suffering,” Claw said. He squeezed her neck and she leaned over, pressing herself against his side. “I’m glad you found me, Claw. You’re a good friend.”
Chapter 12
Elixir Beans
“War implies killing and war doesn’t only hurt the enemy.” -The Diaries of Nyset Camfield
Dear Nyset,
I’m sorry it took me so long to write you. The journey west has been trying and I haven’t had the strength to write the words that needed writing. You’ll soon understand why. You deserve to know and here I am rambling. The truth is, I’ve been procrastinating because the wounds have not yet all healed up. Not wounds of the body, I mean. Where do I begin? I guess with the beginning.
My travels have been fraught with tragedy. I don’t know how else to explain this in a letter. Juzo Pulling is dead. He fought valiantly against the enemy in a terrible battle in Shipton. He fell giving his life for the realm. Charles, if you remember him, Grimbald’s Pa died in the fray. There is more to this, more I must tell you in person. Take a breath, for the rest of this only gets worse from here.
Your assassin, Isa’s news was proven to be correct. I don’t know how else to tell you this… so I’ll just go on with it: our home is in ruins and embers. We made our way to your house. Your parents have fallen to the Death Spawn. Grimbald and I gave them a proper burial. I’m sorry. I wish we could have been there sooner, done more. We’re well, on the whole. The Blood Eaters have been taken care of.
I’m rambling again and running out of paper. Nerves, really. We march for the Great Retreat, reports have come in that the Death Spawn have reached their gates. We’re only a half day's march away, camped by the Blanched Falls. Wish us luck.
I miss you. I wish I could hold you and inhale your scent. I want to swallow your pain. Remember us if we fail. You won’t be able to write me back. I’ll come to you soon.
I love you,
Walter
P.S. We explored the Yellow Caverns and found a tunnel there we suspect leads back to the Tower. We’ve since closed it. Send scouts, search for the other side.
Walter leaned back and let a great breath stream out through his nostrils, staring down at the letter. It had words crossed out and scribbled over in wet globs of ink. He had spent more than his share of time at the writing table, trying to form them right and they still looked wrong. He felt somewhat relieved to have finally put those words on paper, though. He gently lowered the quill beside it, listening to the scratchings of quills working on letters to his left and right. He swallowed and pressed his palm into the table.
“Gimme’ some room, man,” a mercenary to his right muttered and sent a soft elbow into his side.
“Sorry.” Walter tucked his elbows by his hips. The parchment was in poor form, wrinkled and torn in half. He wasn’t in much of a position to ask for something better and resources were scarce. He carefully rolled it up, unsurprisingly difficult to do with one hand. Once rolled and pinned it under his stump, he grabbed the stub of burning candle from the middle of the squat table and let the
yellow wax dribble on an edge. He lifted the small stamper and pressed it into the hot wax, leaving the impression of a pair of axes crossed over a skull, Scab’s seal. Hopefully, she’d open it. Where are you, Nyset? He wondered.
Walter rose up from the table, meeting the baggy eyes of the next mercenary eagerly clutching his scrap of blank parchment.
“All set, Walter?” The heavy-lidded man asked, his voice harsh from years of smoking tobacco.
Walter nodded at him, not knowing his name. “All yours,” He didn’t want to know it either. He didn’t have the look of a man who’d survive the next battle. Pudgy gut, weak arms, soft eyes, hardly getting enough air from walking. One could never tell, though, and the moment for fumbling greetings had already passed.
Walter walked up to the courier, tapping the rolled up letter against his stump. Baskets of letters destined for various places around the realm were strewn about the floor. The courier towered over the small table, neck awkwardly craned over as his head almost touched the top of the ragged tent. He wore a leather jerkin over a heavy shirt, shoulder and knees covered with reinforced armor.
“Where to?” the courier asked.
“Helm’s Reach, for the Arch Wizard.” Walter tried to smile, but it felt like it came out with little friendliness.
Likely it had, by the way the courier narrowed his scarred brow at him. “Arch Wizard’s dead. Fell during the Silver Tower’s siege… sorry, lad. Anyone else it’ll go to?”
Walter shook his head. “There’s a new Silver Tower. Just outside Helm’s Reach, the courier there, almost everyone will know of her.”
“Alright. Haven’t been there a while myself. Give it here.” The man held his hand out for the letter. “Have friends in high places, do you?”
Walter started to put the letter into the man’s hand but froze mid-way. She has a right to know. You said you’d send word as soon as you could, he told himself.
“C’mon, give it here,” the courier demanded. “What are you about?”
“Right.” Walter thrust it into his hand, glad to be free of the weight of those words.
“You’re a strange man, aren’t you?” One side of the courier’s lips raised and he marked the letter with a strange shorthand notation.
Walter shrugged. “Aren’t we all?” The courier slipped the rolled up scroll into a basket of others, marked with a small sign that read ‘Helm’s Reach.’ “Thanks,” Walter said. The courier beckoned for the man behind him to come, but Walter stood there staring at his letter beside tens of others.
“C’mon, outta the way. You’d had your fill already,” the waiting man said.
Walter nodded, turned, and pushed through the tent flap, his face met by a curtain of cool mist. It had left everything dampened, clothing difficult to put on, smallclothes wet and fruits icy. Armor would have to be wiped down and swords oiled to prevent them from rusting. It made fires hard to start the traditional way with fire strikers, so Walter had helped everyone out by starting them with Dragon fire.
The mist came up from the Blanched Falls, a roaring echo from the canyon, not more than a quarter of a mile away from where they set up camp. It was nice to have a source of fresh water to bathe and drink, not so good for everything else. More than half of Scab’s men had declined baths by Walter’s estimation, opting to go on stewing in their own bodily juices for another month. To the north, the forest shrouded the land in a mix of cypress, pines, and new shoots emerging from the ground. He hoped this forest was good and dead and lacked dragons made of roots.
Walter returned to their campsite, finding Grimbald tying down straps, securing sundries on his Blood Donkey. “Got your letter written for Nyset, then?”
“Mhm. You… write anyone?”
Grimbald grunted and shrugged. “No one to write too.”
Walter bent down and grabbed a pot beside the dying embers of last night’s campfire. He used the wooden spoon left in it to scrape off the charred remnants of this morning’s sausages. They had been slightly overcooked, but still better than eating salted jerky and nuts. Walter sniffed. “Could write to Nyset, sure she’d like to hear from you. No other family?”
“Nah, no others. Had an aunt moved, set up a shanty over on Eagle’s Edge after my uncle died. She’s long dead now, I’d reckon, but not sure. Nyset, maybe. See her when we get back I guess.” He started brushing the knots out of the Blood Donkey’s tail. A mercenary tripped on something and started stumbling towards the donkey, arms full of junk. The donkey let out a sputtering bray. The man caught his balance before stumbling into it, muttering curses and stalking off. “Calm, calm,” Grimbald said into the donkey’s twiddling ears.
“So, who’s ready for some killing?” Scab asked, walking up with hands planted on his hips, fetid mouth beaming at them. Walter thought he could smell the acrid stench of his breath from a few paces away.
“Scab, you realize—” Walter drew up close to him, despite his better judgment and lowered his voice. “You realize that this might not go well, that lots of us, your men, may die? This… this isn’t a fucking game.”
“Woah, woah, down boy! What happened to your sense of humor?” Scab sniffed.
“Left it in the Shadow Realm.” Walter stepped away from him and picked up a bucket of water, slowly pouring it over the fire’s last coals.
“Well, I thought of that. But is there anything more enjoyable than killing? Especially those Death Spawn bastards. Not to worry, Walter. The promise of a great fortune after this trip drives us all onwards.”
“You’ve got a point there. It’s satisfying watching those fuckers burn,” Walter said, a touch of a smile reaching him now. “Have to admit, starting to feel like I’ve found a latent talent in killing them.” He was built for murder and not much else, he thought. Why else would be given the ability to heal and destroy at the same time? At least he’d found his purpose. How many lazed through life without ever finding theirs?
“Killing for marks, a strange way to live,” Grimbald said, adjusting the strap on his saddle. The sun reflected from his recently shaved head, beaded with droplets from the constant mist.
“Oh? And what did you do that was so noble?” Scab scratched at an angry rash forming between his fingers.
“Here we go,” Walter snickered.
Grimbald shrugged uncomfortably. “Worked a tavern with my Pa, but you already knew that. Didn’t you?”
“I had an inkling…” Scab peeled off a strip of dried skin from between his fingers and flicked it on the ground. He looked up and grinned. “So, you think facilitating the ruining of bodies and brains through drink is a worthier pursuit, do you?”
“Not everyone came into the tavern to drink themselves to sleep, though I’m not sure you’d understand the notion.” Grimbald winked and scratched his mangy beard in need of trimming.
“Perhaps not.” Scab gripped the lapels of his ancient coat, threadbare and burned in spots. “But your occupation profited from the occasional bout of debauchery, did it not?”
“Maybe, Pa was good about not giving people more than they could handle, but some could’ve slipped through his eyes,” Grimbald said. “He did know how to run a tavern, best of the west I’d say.”
“Ah-ha!” Scab hopped, one finger victoriously raised in the air.
Walter groaned. He didn’t want to be listening to their bickering right now. He had to get his mind right, prepare his heart for battle.
“So you admit that serving drink could effectively… indirectly lead to murder?” Scab asked, thrusting the side of his face out, the eye rimmed with pus.
“No,” Grimbald sighed with annoyance. “Well, I don’t know. Don’t really want to talk about that right now. Can you understand that?”
“Is everyone ready for a fight, Scab?” Walter asked before Scab could answer. “Are you ready?”
“Always ready for a fight, my noble employer! That and marks, whores, and drink of course. What more could a man ask for, really?” Scab unsheathed half of his p
itiful sword, rusted all over like a strange disease.
“Can’t imagine,” Walter muttered.
“And look at you! Woke up all high and mighty this morning did you?” Scab smirked.
“Go fuck yourself, Scab.”
“A swell idea…” Scab peered down at his palm. “Hand’s still a little sore from the plant, eh, things. Not working quite right yet.”
Grimbald chuckled. “Could give you some oil for the blade, Scab.” Grimbald nodded at his weapon.
“No, no. Like it like this. Gives it character, increases lethality.” Scab drew his blade, admiring its iron sores.
“How do you figure?” Walter asked. Scab mainly spoke of nonsense interspersed with gems of knowledge. He thought this might be one of those moments where a gem floats to the top of his verbal shit pile.
“I’m no alchemist, herbalist, whateverist — but it seems that when men are cut by my rusted weapons, over time, they seem more likely to become infected from the wounds. I’m not sure, though. It’s purely anecdotal and that’s enough evidence for me.” He slapped the blade back into his sheath.
“Interesting. Nyset and Baylan…” Walter grimaced and felt his face grow warm. “Nyset would want to hear of that.” Long dead, stupid. The memory of Baylan’s limbs tumbling down a slope of laughing skulls flashed across his mind. Images of the Shadow Realm flitted across his vision in a torrent. Great mouths gnashed in the black, claws hacked through bodies and hundreds of dead lay in a lake of blood. Nyset’s perfect lips grinned at him from under the sharp-edged mask of the Shadow princess, reveling in Asebor’s violent thrusts, fucking her with all measure of sanity abandoned.
Scab reached into his mouth and flicked something yellow onto the ground. Scab was everything we pretended we weren’t, Walter distantly thought. Everyone went through their days forgetting even the most beautiful among us spent some time sitting over a hole in the ground with brown paste coming out of our asses.
A New Light (The Age of Dawn Book 5) Page 25