by Lev AC Rosen
Severkin instinctively knows they’ve found Helena when the corpses stay dead in the coffins lining a large metal door.
“Remember,” Severkin says, his hand on the door, “she can’t see in the dark. If we can, we should exterminate light sources.”
“Aye,” Elkana says. “If she raises more corpses—small ones, mind—I’ll handle those with fire. You two focus on her. If she pulls another dead giant out of her arse, I may need a hand.”
“Good,” Severkin says. “Let’s go.”
Inside is a larger chamber than they’ve been in for a while, but not nearly as large as where they fought the giant. It looks like a workroom, with horizontal slabs set up against the walls, bodies lying open on them in varying states of dissection. Helena leans against one of them, sewing up a large cut on her arm. She looks at them, her one eye glowing a faint red. Thin lines of black have dried around her mouth. She quickly pulls the thread away, and with a gesture, the corpses in the room come to life. They grab nearby weapons or surgical tools and come at Severkin and his companions.
These corpses seem faster than the others, and smarter, too. Severkin wonders if it’s due to the work they’ve had done on them. He dodges under a bone saw and rolls across the room, focusing on Helena. Behind him he hears a heavy thump and whoosh as Elkana creates a wall of flame that consumes the undead. There’s no screaming when the corpses die their second death. It’s unnerving.
Reunne is already on Helena, who is fighting with a staff of deep purple energy that smells like blood and gas. Severkin hangs back, trying to stay hidden in the chaos of the flames and fighting. Behind him, he hears more explosions of fire. Reunne tries to stab Helena, but Helena’s staff twists into a rope and encircles Reunne’s spear and arm, locking her in place. Severkin sees his opening and charges Helena from behind, thrusting upward and through her chest. He feels both his blades emerge on the other side and pulls them back. They drip black liquid. But Helena doesn’t fall. She laughs instead, her staff unwinding from Reunne’s arm like a tentacle.
“This is foolish,” Helena says, spraying black spittle with her breath.
“The head!” Reunne shouts, but Helena turns and clubs Reunne with the staff, throwing her across the room, then spins on Severkin.
“Elkana!” Severkin shouts. “Done with those corpses yet?”
“Not really!” Elkana shouts back from beyond a wall of fire.
Helena’s staff whips out for Severkin’s feet and he jumps to dodge it. She advances on him, and following Reunne’s advice, he tries to decapitate Helena with a slash of his sword, but she ducks out of the way, still laughing. Suddenly the wall of fire to their side explodes outward and a huge pillar of fire comes through it sideways, knocking into Helena. She stumbles to the side, and Severkin leaps.
Helena’s body has been alive too long, the black blood making it too soft, the marrow rotting, and his blade carves through her as though she were overly ripe fruit. Her head falls with a dull splat on the floor. There’s a sound like all the air going out of the room, and the fire evaporates. Severkin stares down at the body, waiting for it to come back to life.
Reunne walks across the room to them. “She really dead this time?” she asks.
Elkana approaches and looks down at Helena. “She’s fairly dead,” Elkana says. “This isn’t my field, but I think she’s beyond the place where she can do any harm.” She pauses, staring down at the body. “Still, I think we should burn her with fire, just in case.” She makes fists, which light up in flame.
“Wait,” Reunne says, and kneels down. Severkin kneels as well, searching the corpse for anything of value. He takes some gold, a few rings. Reunne takes a simple silvery tube from the corpse’s hand. “Now,” Reunne says, backing away, “I have the Staff.”
“That’s it?” Severkin asks. “It’s small.”
Reunne shrugs. “It is what it is,” she says, and starts to tuck the Staff into her belt.
“Perhaps,” Severkin says, and holds out his hand, “you wouldn’t mind if we took this one back to Rorth, rather than Elega? Rorth felt as though it was…unfair that the dwarves had the Hammer. This may make things more even.”
Reunne looks down at the Staff. “Rorth and Elega are fighting because they think once the giants are gone, they’ll turn it on each other, aren’t they?”
“Aye,” says Elkana, crossing her arms. Her hands still glow.
Reunne shakes her head, her eyes still on the floor. “I hate all this fighting so much. I thought peace…eh. Foolish.” She looks up at Severkin. “Why would you give it to Rorth?”
Severkin opens his mouth but pauses. “I think to stop the giants…if we give it to Rorth, we make them bring everything together. They each have a part.”
“There are three parts,” Reunne says.
“So, two to one, one to the other,” Severkin says. “As long as one doesn’t have them all, they’ll have to work together, right? And then they won’t be able to turn on each other. They’ll each take back their own pieces…and if they’re smart, hide them again.”
“Oh, aye,” Elkana says, and shakes her head. “And then a hundred years from now, another group of adventurers will have ta go through all this again.”
No one says anything, which Elkana takes as her cue to spew fire from her hands at Helena’s body, turning it to ash and a sickly-sweet-smelling smoke that makes Severkin’s eyes water.
“Take it, then,” Reunne says, handing Severkin the Staff once the smoke has cleared. “And let’s find a way out of here.”
They find a convenient door that leads them back to the entrance of the cavern, though it had been hidden there. They trudge back through the debris of the giant’s cave and up to the abandoned mansion. When they get outside, it’s just turning to dawn.
“Thank you,” Severkin says as they head down the mountain, “for saving me from the giant. You could have taken Helena out right then. It was…kind of you to save me instead.”
“That’s what we do for one another,” Reunne says, kicking snow as they descend a steep slope.
“We?” Severkin asks, wondering if she means warriors, comrades, gray elves, or something more.
“Wolf,” Reunne says, pointing out a scraggly-looking lone wolf. It stares at them briefly, then runs off. Reunne walks quickly, making as if to chase it, but gives up once she’s slightly ahead of Severkin and Elkana.
“Do you feel all right?” Severkin asks Reunne as they walk. She looks over at him, one eyebrow raised.
“I may be older than you, but I’m not out of breath from a little walking.”
“No,” Severkin says quickly. “I just mean, the skeletons, the necromancy—we should be sure you haven’t gotten any diseases.”
“I cured all those,” Elkana says. Severkin looks over at her and tries to make his look significant. She nods, seeming to understand.
“Maybe there are diseases only us gray elves can get,” Severkin says. “Know of any of those? Or what they might be called?” he asks Reunne. “I forget, does witstiff affect only us?”
“No,” Reunne says. “It can affect anyone. But it’s really only a bane for spell casters. Wouldn’t be a big problem for me.”
“Still,” Severkin says, “maybe there’s a cure for it that you know?”
Reunne shakes her head. “Just what I buy in the apothecary,” she says. “Wolf.”
They kill another pack of wolves, but when Severkin tries to bring up illnesses again, Reunne just shakes her head.
“I’m not a healer,” she says. “These are questions for a cleric.”
They walk a little farther along in silence until Elkana starts singing troll ballads. Severkin isn’t sure how they’re supposed to sound, but they remind him of the sound of his own heart after sprinting, and it makes him anxious. It seems to have the same effect on Reunne as she waves them goodbye just before they arrive at the foot of Wellhall.
“This is a quicker way to the undercity,” she says, pointing at a
small trap door in the ground. “And I’ll need to tell Elega we got the Staff. She probably won’t be happy I gave it to you.”
“Thank you again,” Severkin says. “For everything. Maybe we’ll see you for the next one?”
“Oh, the Spear,” Reunne says, nodding. “I hope so.” And she pulls open the trap door and disappears down it.
Unfortunately, Elkana doesn’t stop singing until they reach the guard hall. Severkin flashes his badge at the guards, who let him pass but give curious looks to Elkana. Inside, Rorth is on the throne, and Ind and Siffon are arguing in front of him. Rorth looks up when they enter and smiles, then stands up and walks toward them. Ind and Siffon immediately quiet down.
“Do you have it?” Rorth asks.
“I do,” Severkin says, taking the Staff out of his pouch and handing it to Rorth with a slight bow.
“Excellent,” Rorth says, staring at the Staff. “Just as the diagrams show.” He walks back toward his throne, and Severkin and Elkana follow. “We’ll send you for the Spear as well. Who is this troll?” he asks, suddenly noticing Elkana.
“A friend,” Severkin says quickly. “She was invaluable in retrieving the Staff.”
“A troll,” Rorth says, nodding. “That’s good. Neither an elf nor a dwarf. Elega can’t object, but this troll’s your friend, you say?”
“I can speak for myself,” Elkana says.
“Of course,” Rorth says. “My apologies, lady. Thank you for your help. We shall make you a guard at once, and you shall accompany Severkin in retrieving the Spear.”
“I shall, shall I?” Elkana asks, putting a hand on her hip.
Rorth raises an eyebrow. “I hope so,” he says.
The doors open again, and Izzy runs in, panting and pink, her squirrel ponytail bobbing behind her.
“Ah, what does Elega have to say, Izzy?” Ind asks.
“Madam Elega says she is most pleased with the retrieval of the Staff and hopes your lordship will keep it well guarded.” Ind harrumphs while Siffon and Rorth smile. “She also says that she does not yet have the location of the Spear, but she believes she has found someone who does. She requests that you send the gray elf Severkin to her, so she may instruct him further. If she is willing, the troll Elkana is also welcome.” Izzy bows, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Ooooh, I’m welcome,” Elkana says in mock excitement. “Think I should get a fancy dress ’n’ all that?”
“You shouldn’t mock it,” Siffon says. “It’s rare for non-dwarves to be invited into the undercity’s guardhouse. You might be the first troll who goes there…willingly, anyway.”
“Excellent,” Rorth says. “Tell Elega that my agents will be there when they’re good and ready, and shall take their time doing so. I may suggest that if she grows bored waiting, she attempt to locate her feet, which I’m sure she hasn’t seen in decades.” Izzy salutes and runs out the door.
“Is she really gonna tell her all that?” Elkana asks.
“She’ll rephrase it,” Rorth says. “Now get a badge from Siffon here, and then get going. I want the Spear in my hands quickly.”
“But ye just said—” Elkana starts, but Severkin grabs her arm and steers her toward the side door to the guards registry, where Siffon is waiting. They head down the hall Siffon took Severkin down the first time.
“So you’re his…friend?” Siffon asks, sounding a little disappointed.
“Aye,” Elkana says. “Who are ye?”
“She’s Siffon,” Severkin says. “The spymaster.”
“I wouldn’t call myself that,” Siffon says as they arrive in the room with the badges. She takes one from the guard on duty and hands it to Elkana, then signs a few papers.
“Spymaster?” Elkana asks. “Then ye must have files on Wellhall residents, right?”
Siffon blinks a few times as her face evens out into a cool mask. “I have no idea what you mean,” she says.
“Oh, aye, that,” Elkana says. “But do ye have one on Reunne, the gray elf we’ve been working with from the undercity?”
“I told you,” Siffon says. “I have no idea what you mean.” The even lines of her mouth and eyes are starting to turn angry.
“Well, thank you,” Severkin says, heading back down the hall. “We’ll return with the Spear.”
“But she can tell us about Reunne,” Elkana says, looking at Siffon, who glares back. “Oh, fine. We’ll be on our way. But if Reunne kills us when we’re not looking and ye could have stopped it, I expect a proper fancy funeral funded by the state.” Siffon cracks a smile but instantly levels her face again. Severkin and Reunne head out of the guardhouse and down to the city, heading for the undercity.
“So, Elega,” Elkana says. “Ye met her?”
“No,” Severkin says. “But I hear she doesn’t like gray elves.”
“Ah, well, this’ll be loads of fun, then,” Elkana says.
NICK WAKES up reaching out into the air. He’d been dreaming of Mom making bacon at the stove. She’d looked like that old ivory cameo of hers, pale, posed, and delicate, and the kitchen had smelled like home again. There’s no smell in his room but the one coming from his dirty laundry in a pile in the corner. He dresses and goes downstairs.
Dad is reading the newspaper and eating cold cereal. Nick goes over to the stove, where he’d dreamed the phantom of his mother, where he sometimes sees her shadow even when he’s awake. He doesn’t use the stove himself, never really looks at it, but now he studies it. It’s simple, white, clean of food stains, but a thin stubble of dust has begun to crop up on the sides. Behind it, the wall is painted white, except that there’s a blackened column, like rising smoke. He notices the range hood is blackened as well, shadowy claw marks on the metal. He tries to think of the last time he actually looked at the stove. Has it been like this for a while? He leans forward—the paint in the center of the black smoke on the wall is chipping away in a vertical line. Nick reaches out and pushes a flake of it away with his fingernail. It crumbles and falls behind the stove, leaving a small white triangle along the crack.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks from behind him.
“How long has this been like this?” Nick asks.
“What?” Dad asks. Nick looks behind him. Dad is still staring at the paper.
“This burn,” Nick says, and turns around and flicks another piece of paint out from around the crack.
“That’s old,” Dad says. Nick goes to the cupboard, takes out a bowl and pours cereal and milk into it, then sits down across from Dad.
“I don’t remember any fires,” Nick says.
“You must not have been here,” Dad says, and flips a page of the newspaper. Nick notices how his father raises it to cover his face slightly, like a mask. Severkin would think he was hiding something. So does Nick.
“You’re the only one who would burn anything,” Nick says, taking a spoonful of cereal, “and I’m always here when you’re cooking.”
His father lowers the top half of the paper and stares at Nick through his glasses. “Maybe you were upstairs, playing your game, or sleeping, or possibly studying, though I know that’s a long shot.”
Nick feels the prick of the ragebrew, coursing up his arms, making him hold the spoon so tightly it starts to burn his hand.
“It’s not fair, the way you and Mom don’t tell me things,” Nick says. “You make all these choices that change my life and you don’t tell me why. It’s like…” Nick searches his cereal bowl for a weapon to hurl at his father. “It’s like I’m a slave,” he says. It’s crude, disrespectful to his ancestry and the ancestry of thousands of others, but it’ll hurt Dad. And that’s what he wants.
Dad looks down, contemplating the last few pieces of cereal floating in his bowl. It becomes quiet. Nick expected anger, yelling, one of the various lectures he’s heard before, but there’s just silence. Finally Dad takes a deep breath. He looks up.
“You’re right,” he says. Nick feels his skin cool and his hairs stand on end, all re
aching out for something. “It’s not fair,” his father says. “And it’s not what all the books and counselors say to do. They say to be open and honest. But your mother…she loves you so much, you know that, right?”
Nick nods.
“The burn marks are from a fire your mother accidentally set about a week before she left. She was cooking…something, I don’t remember. Got confused, added something, and whatever was in the pan went up in flames.” His father puts the newspaper down on the table, irons it with his arm. “She panicked; I grabbed the fire extinguisher. You were upstairs, the music on, reading some magazine about your game. When you came down for dinner, you asked about the smoke and Mom said she’d burned something.” He tilts his head to the side and smiles a little. “Which wasn’t a lie.”
Nick takes a deep breath. He looks down at his cereal, which has grown soggy, and mashes it with his spoon. What box on the checklist is for setting fires? 1, 2, 3, and probably 8, too. Does he have to check them all, or can he just pick one, he wonders. But no, the ragebrew in his blood tells him, that’s not enough. Not enough to leave her family. It was just a fire so small he hadn’t even noticed the damage until now.
“So she went away,” he says, “ ’cause, what? Because she had a cooking accident? Then you should have been locked up a long time ago.”
“She’s not locked up, Nick!” Dad says.
Nick gets up and empties his cereal bowl into the trash. “I’m going to be late for school,” he says, and heads back upstairs. Dad doesn’t follow.
When he comes back downstairs, his father isn’t around, so Nick leaves for the bus and then for school. But his frustration continues throughout the day. He can feel himself unfocusing in class, can feel the late summer air coating his body like cotton balls, softening everything outside him, making it fuzzy and distant. The only time things come back into focus is at lunch.
“So I’m going to send you a playlist,” Nat says, taking out her phone. It has a bright purple case. “I wanted to tell you in person, though, so you didn’t think I was just sending you some random link.” He takes out his phone and looks at the link she’s sent him, to a playlist called “Nick.” He clicks the Save button. He’s unsure of what to say. It’s all gotten so confusing, and he keeps thinking about the crack running up the burned paint in the kitchen.