“Ah,” replied Moreth. “Whatever peaceful folk stayed in the Second City are said to have vanished, perhaps driven off by the blood eaters. It’s possible they ended up in Amakri or Lakpoli sanctuaries. We also have wisemen and wisewomen in Central Geadhain who act with many of the customs we’ve seen in Pandemonia, so surely some of these ancient people must have migrated West.”
A whiff of mystery intrigued the scholar. The sequence of these events struck him as important. Were those who remained in the Second City driven off by the blood eaters, consumed by them? Did they vanish? Did they find solace in the West? Or did something else occur that would account for the missing populace? Perhaps he was thinking too much on matters only an archeological dig would solve.
Moreth partially answered the scholar’s silent question. “My friend, he spoke of them as if they died—the ones that stayed, not those who may have struck out as neither Amakri nor Lakpoli. Whatever happened, no one knows whether they rejoined their fellows—as we should do, as our group is moving ahead.”
Indeed, Pythius had finished his survey of the land and had now started to lead his small party of warriors forward.
“To bring our dialogue full circle—and to steal your thunder, scholar—that’s why this is called the City of Ghosts. Linger out here after night has fallen, and you’ll become one yourself.”
Limber Moreth left the pair of his companions standing at the bottom of the hill. When Talwyn didn’t respond to Mouse’s nudge, she pulled him along. As they walked through the City of Ghosts, the scholar watched the white drifts for movement and concentrated on the subtle oscillations of the wind, wondering if the missing souls still lingered here. Waiting.
II
Night came on fast. The Doomchasers—three men, three women, and the shaman were all that had come—did not pursue the retreating light at their usual breakneck pace. Long before the day ended, they slowed their steady climb and sought shelter in a crevasse. Pythius paused and examined the ground. Eventually, he determined it was safe. Then began the nimble lowering of members of the war party into the gap to nowhere. The larger of their number barely squeezed through the dark crack. Mouse supposed its tightness would keep out winged, stalking horrors. Never beyond the reach of her own self-interest, she chose to go last after listening for splats or the sounds of people being eaten. Soon, she weaseled her way into the crack, felt someone wrangle her waist, and was pulled down.
Blinking in the darkness, she patted whoever it was that had assisted her into the low cavern. It was a woman, she realized, as she cupped a breast. She quickly apologized. “Sorry. Quite ample, though. Good for you.” A glimmer of light lay ahead, and she and the huntswoman walked toward it. Her companion had to hunch over to avoid scraping her head on some of the lower parts of the oddly tilted ceiling, which was higher in some places and lower in others. It was smoothly wrought by men’s hands, Mouse realized. White radiance from the light source ahead played off rivets and inlaid images tiled upon the floor and roof.
Her eyes and imagination played the wildest tricks on her. Under the icy glaze of the ceiling, she thought she saw a phantograph: a bizarre bestiary, depictions of men and women, towers of glass, and small suns trapped in cylinders. She realized it was a fresco, and received better glimpses of the intricate craftsmanship when she scuffed away some of the snow at her feet. So focused was she on the ground, she literally stumbled upon the small warband, kicking Talwyn smartly in the heel. “Oh, sorry. The floor. What I can see of it under the snow. By the Kings.”
“Incredible,” replied Talwyn, who was doing the same shuffle himself, and had examined and deduced much already. He glanced at Mouse with a fire in his eyes. “From the gradient of the ground and the supporting grid work that has been embedded so artfully into the architecture, I’d say this is only a small part of the city. Buried or collapsed. Perhaps from the wrath of the Green Mother. Some of the stone is cracked and buckled, which suggests some manner of seismic event; I can’t say for certain, though. The metal elements of this city have been warded against oxidization by magik, surely—although the grout seems to have been treated merely with a patina. Its hue can be just as revealing as the rings of a tree. It’s a shame there isn’t much more to explore beyond this small pocket of tiles. Well, it’s insulting to deprecate such artisanship as tiles; these story-piece wonders were wrought by master craftsmen and fablers. I’ve nothing else to call them though, other than tiles, given their size. I think this was a street, perhaps—from the tiles, the angle, and a few other details. A collapse occurred up ahead. It’s all blocked off with snow there. I expect we’ll see more of the city, however, as it is into its depths that we shall descend.”
It would have required a great deal of concentration to sift through Talwyn’s many words. Mouse correctly assumed that the city was old, had fallen into ruin, and left the matter there. She sat with the others on their humps of snow and warmed herself as they did in the crackle of a pale eldritch fire. Sticks and flint hadn’t created this flame. It was a disembodied light that hovered above a pit of snow, giving off no smoke or smell, but blowing a balmy heat. It was so warm, in fact, that Mouse quickly removed her gloves and hood, but the snow around the fire and upon which they sat seemed unaffected by the heat. Magik, she thought snidely. Breaking whatever rules it pleases. The same ivory sparkle of the flame glowed in the gaze of the Doomchaser shaman. It was kind of him to have used his power. Doomchasers were warriors and hunters of the night. They didn’t need flames to see. As she considered the notion, she realized that with the exception of their first encounter, in which Pythius had proved his mastery of herbs, and a blast or two from his enchanted war horn, the shaman had practiced little magik at all. Perhaps his abstinence could be linked to the schism of which she had learned.
Eventually, the shuffling scholar abandoned the study of buried secrets, though he knew there would be more ahead, and sat beside Mouse. She could see how the shaman’s stare followed the scholar. The man’s eyes flashed with intent. Suddenly, she understood why the Doomchaser had used magik in the face of whatever prohibitions had been put in place against it. “Hmm,” she said smugly, while passing a finger of jerky to Talwyn.
“Hmm, what?” he replied.
“You can’t tell me that you don’t see it.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
“A man as shrewd as you? Bullshite.”
“I don’t see anything.” Talwyn shifted, and looked away from the man whose stare he’d been dancing with across the fire.
“You certainly do.”
Trying to be discreet, even though none of the Doomchasers seemed able to understand Ghaedic, Talwyn turned and mumbled to Mouse, “I am a curiosity to him. A stranger with an aptitude for culture. A parrot that amuses him with the clever phrases it makes.” While speaking the words he only faintly believed, he flushed as he remembered the Amakri wrestling with him, or tenderly holding his wrist. “This is a foolish discussion in which to indulge. We are on the verge of war. He and I are from two very different cultures. I do not believe that the Amakri approve of my kind of man—”
“Really? I saw two blokes kissing in the encampment the other day. Right there in the winter morn for all to see. They went inside a tent after and made themselves a little fire. And they weren’t shy about the noise.” Mouse winked. Talwyn blushed. “Listen, I’m not a girl for love, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.”
“A girl for love?”
“Well, you can be the girl if you like. I suppose you and he would have to work that out at some point.” Talwyn turned red as a boiled crawfish. “Nothing to be ashamed about. Perhaps it’s different where you were raised.” Mouse scratched her head. “Where were you raised?”
“A number of places. I traveled a lot,” replied Talwyn guardedly.
“All right, Mr. Traveled-a-lot. I’m assuming you’ve seen any number of cultures and family arrangements. A man or woman can lie with whomever he or she choo
ses. I know that you’re smart enough to not be a bigot. But self-loathing is another matter. It’s possible you have a shade of that.”
The canny woman had analyzed him as effectively as he picked apart the behaviors and mysteries of the world. Talwyn struggled with what to say. His thoughts hung around him in a black cloud. She worried she had upset the peaceful fellow with her jibes and sniping humor. “I’ll just leave you be,” she said, turning away.
Talwyn’s cracking voice stalled her. “My mother, bless her soul, held on to life long enough to squeeze me out into this world before dying from consumption. I was taken in by women—my mother’s working peers—who, too, had been discarded by society. Women of cheap lace and boozy perfume. Women with hearts cleaner than their bodies. They never abused me or mistreated me. They treated me as if I were their son. Such a lucky boy, to have twenty mothers and many sisters. I’ve never known such love from strangers. They spent their very hard-earned crowns on books for my mind, which was budding even then. I was walking at three months, speaking at six. Doing their accounting by the age of four. The matron passed me the reins, and I ran the place until I was accepted into the Academy at Gloamshire. Before I left, I saw to it that my mothers and sisters would be tended to. I fattened the investments I’d made until each had enough that she could put that sordid life behind her. Now they are grandmothers. A few of them are happy spinsters, and one or two of them have become artists and scholars, one is a professor. I visit my old family whenever I am in Riverton. That’s why I so often return. My heart aches for each of their sweet gray heads and the smiles that once charmed a man’s honor from his coin purse.”
Talwyn looked down, speaking quietly and uncertainly. “I want you to know that I’m not the way I am because I spent my childhood around women, dresses, and sex. I was born this way. I am no less a man for whom I love. Although, I am a better man, a freer man, thanks to the influence of my mothers. When it comes to love, though, I am conflicted. I’ve seen what men do, what they did to my family. The cuts and bruises. The tears, the murder—though we got that sorry bastard, we did. It is easier, my friend, to avoid tempting one’s heart with desire. It is better that I learn from the lessons of my mothers and sisters and refrain from repeating their mistakes.” Finished, Talwyn now looked defeated.
Echoes of his tale touched Mouse with a warmth she rarely experienced. He was a lost child, as she was. He was afraid of love, as she’d once been. Mouse stood, and, overcome with sympathy, kissed the man’s coppery head. Despite their road weariness, he smelled of a baby’s talc and fresh scalp. What a pure and innocent soul. He deserved to be happy. She hovered, smelling, as people do when sniffing infants. Then she pulled away before she could feel truly absurd. As she leaned back, she whispered, “It’s a wonderful story, Talwyn. You should not be afraid to share it—or yourself—with anyone.” Hovering near him for too long gave her the impulse to inhale his baby fragrance once more. “Kings, you smell wonderful, too.”
Mouse left the scholar to find Moreth. With the aid of the tunnel’s white hues, she spotted his lurking shadow not far from camp. Talwyn remained by the flame conjured for his comfort, and when Pythius glanced his way, they resumed their dance of stares.
III
Mouse sidled up next to the shadow that stood in the dark. She’d found Moreth just where the cavern ended—sealed by a heap of snow and rubble. For a while, she watched his white measured breaths. Everything about the man was controlled, which was why she was certain the glimmering black lines and sniffles had to be watery eyes and a runny nose caused by the cold. He couldn’t possibly be crying. Could he? “Moreth?” she asked, quietly.
After a few snorts and a cough, he replied. “What is it, little Mouse? I was enjoying a moment to myself. We’ve been stacked upon one another like tinned fish these past weeks. A man needs to breathe.”
“Or cry. I could leave you to do some more of that, if you’d like,” she suggested. Moreth held his breath. Mouse’s compassion went only so far, and she’d already exhausted most of her stock on Talwyn. She continued, “We’re similar, you and I. We don’t like to air our problems. We equate sharing with weakness—with a need to have our pain validated. I know you don’t want that from me, or from anyone. But how about making use of the willing ear of a fellow bitter soul?”
Moreth snickered. “That doesn’t sound so terrible.” A great sigh fell from the master, and with it, much of his pent-up worry. He turned to the wall and touched its surface like a widower caressing his wife’s tombstone. In a sense it was a gesture for one he loved, for a man whose tainted, blood-eater-spoiled remains wouldn’t even be touched by worms wriggling through the soil. There was nothing earthly left of the Slave now save his necklace, for which Moreth reached.
Touching the talisman opened his heart, and he spoke. “We came here to the Forever Stones to hunt the fiercest of what Pandemonia had spawned. After replenishing our stocks at Eatoth, we took the longest journey of my life, next to this one. We chased the legends that these hardened nomads feared. There isn’t much that frightens people who chase doom, people such as this tribe. However, all the tribes of Pandemonia feared the blood eaters. Still, something had changed in my friend during our time in Pandemonia—right after Eatoth. I’ve seen men quail before destiny, watched them deprive themselves of glory, and his was a darkened frustration not dissimilar. He became a beast even darker than the one I’d known. I worried about him, about where our journey would lead. I should’ve known. I did know. After all, I’d spent much of my life watching men die.” A few white puffs of breath and time passed while Moreth clenched away tears. He slid down the stone and dropped his arse to the ground, then let his legs lazily sprawl. Mouse, silent, and stoic as promised, sat next to him. He resumed. “My father was absolute rubbish, as you know. I wouldn’t say that the Slave was kinder. He was crueler in many ways. Still, he cared for me. For my welfare. For my strength. I cared for him. I believe that was why he stayed with me for so long, despite his yearning to die. The proud cannot take their own lives, no matter how far they fall. I think this was the best way for him to die, then. In battle. At the side of one for whom he cared...”
At last, a challenge had appeared. Months of hunting in the wilds of Pandemonia had brought broken bones and deep scars, but nothing of heart-pounding peril. Finally, Moreth and the Slave had found such a dark thrill in the green-canopied vales and moss-backed ruins of the Forever Stones. The legends were true. They’d met beasts as fearsome as those from childhood nightmares: women of smoke, bloodlust, and shadow. They’d seen the charnel caverns, the winding tunnels spackled in bone, shite, and regurgitated filth. The smell was like that of a sewer filled with excrement from rotted bowels: utter putrescence. Nothing Moreth had experienced in his life, including his father’s depravities, had ever repulsed him more than the smell and the warm, greasy darkness of those catacombs. Iron strong, he and the Slave had delved into those sickening hunting grounds and returned with a prize of heads. And now they’d escaped the tunnels and dashed through the primeval thicket, evading the swooping, shrieking nightmare women that ruled the caliginous realm.
In the shadows of an emerald bluff, they hid like bandits in a stony ravine roofed in great rent logs. They peered through the mossy overhanging. For hourglasses, they played their game of stillness and calm, and eventually convinced their hearts that the terror was over, that they need not beat so furiously. They didn’t smile. They didn’t piss. They barely moved until the sun needled the place with light. When daylight came, Moreth at last felt he could relax and celebrate their victory. He nudged the man who’d been hunched and steady as a turtle for hourglasses. The Slave shuddered, tipped over, and hit the peat-padded ground with a wet smack. The man flopped, black oozing and bubbling from the many seams in him. Moreth’s elation twisted to screaming panic, and he threw away their grisly sack of trophies. Alas, the poison had somehow made it into the Slave. How long had the Slave hunkered, weeping on the inside, as his organs churne
d into melted butter and his eyeballs leaked from their sockets? What sort of son was he that he had not even known his father had been dying beside him?
Moreth didn’t worry about secondary contact with the blood eaters’ venom; he didn’t think the poison worked in that manner, having been told only fresh cuts and bites were lethal. In that moment, he really didn’t care whether he lived at all. Life would have no meaning without the man who’d taught him passion. He flipped over his sputtering, farting friend and wiped what ebon goop he could off the lined face. The Slave’s gritted, teeth-baring grimace might almost have been a smile. Into Moreth’s hands, the Slave thrust an object. Moreth didn’t look at it; instead, he held the leathered hand in his and stared into his hunter-father’s dark eyes until they lost their shine and grew dull, then gray.
When the Slave was long dead—ash white, black veined, and beginning to turn gelatinous—Moreth examined what he’d inherited. Clenched in his hands was his hunter-father’s necklace: the talisman that he always wore, and that suggested that he, too, was cared for by someone, somewhere.
As warriors do with their dead, he buried his friend according to old tradition. The sun crept along, dangerously thinning the light, and welcoming the time when the blood eaters would fly once more. However, Moreth cared not for much besides this moment. He donned the dead man’s talisman, and the coldness, hardness, and certainty of the stone reminded him of the stern spirit of his hunter-father. He shrouded the rapidly liquefying remains of his hunter-father in branches and leafy wrappings. As he drew together the final layer over his friend’s grave mound, he sang. Another tribute to the old ways, to the days of tribes and wild magik. These were the only story-songs of the West that the Slave had ever tolerated.
Night stained the day with black as Moreth sang under Pandemonia’s queer stars. Suddenly, he found he was no longer alone. At first, grieving and tormented, he wondered if this were a waking dream, or if he had also passed beyond. For with him was a woman, white and beautiful, with a stare like diamonds and hair like wisps of frost. Perhaps this was a spirit guide sent to claim his friend. When he stopped singing, she halted her slow crawl from the bushes. The enchantment over Moreth broke as he noticed the black trails—bold against her ivory flesh—that trickled from her mouth. He watched her sniff like a hungry dog the rustling pile beneath which his friend lay. He and the Slave had been warned that the blood eaters were relentless hunters. They never abandoned prey within their hunting ground. This one had come to finish her meal. And so he would finish her. Moreth reached for his pistol…
Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) Page 67