by M. Walsh
Before the words got out, she saw the blade explode from the center of James’s chest. Stark, looking confused and angry, pulled out his sword and watched him collapse to the ground.
Upon seeing him fall, his white vest turning maroon, Lily was consumed. Blind, raging fury overwhelmed her thoughts and heart. All that made her what she was disappeared—only the demon remained. Before Stark could react or mount any defense, she was on top of him.
She remembered very little of what followed. When she returned to her senses, there was not much left of Byron Stark but mangled and bloody pulp. The bones in his limbs were shattered and hung limp like a ragdoll. His ribs had been broken in and chest torn open. His heart would later be found several feet from his body. Most of the flesh on his face had been clawed away.
Lily regained herself, finding her hands drenched and dripping with blood. She had never lost control like that. Never before had she been so consumed by her demonic instincts. She felt nauseated and disgusted—on the verge of weeping.
She crawled to James. His breathing was strained, and his face had turned pallid. “James,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “You’re going to be all right. I’ll find some help. Stay with me, okay..?”
Lily hadn’t given thought to how she would explain what happened. At the moment, her only concern was getting James help. But he stared at her with a strange look in his eye. He looked at her as though she was a stranger he’d never met.
“Just stay with me,” she repeated. She reached into his pocket and took out the Sigil. She held it in his hand and said, “You’re going to be okay, all right..? I’m going to get help and—”
Her hand stung. She pulled back and saw steam coming from her palm. James gripped the Sigil, and there was a look of concentration on his face as he breathed his last breaths.
Lily tried to take his hand again—only to feel more intense burning. This was followed by sharp pain in her forehead and strong pressure in her chest as though something was squeezing on her heart.
She looked into James’s eyes and realized she’d felt these pains before. The Sigil was hurting her. He was trying to drive her away with it.
“James … I didn’t—I’m not …” she said, her voice breaking. “Please …”
His breathing faded. He shut his eyes, and his body went limp.
Lily tried to pick up the Sigil, but it only burned her again.
12
Lock sat in the dining room, flicking grapes around the table. The bowl in front of him was full, but he hadn’t eaten one. He was still having trouble sleeping.
A week had passed, and perhaps as proof Aster was a relatively quiet town, talk of the fight was still a popular subject. Whenever he ventured into town, he was sure to overhear someone talking about the Synclaire men who bravely fought some bandits outside the wall. Why, were they the same Synclaires of Vigor? The ones related to the Lamont royal family who escaped before the country was consumed by the plague? Is there actual nobility living in Aster now?
Most of the focus was on Deck, as would be expected, but Lock felt the occasional stare of townsfolk as he went about his business. No doubt Cassie did, too, but he wondered if it made her uncomfortable at all. It certainly made him uneasy.
“Are you going to eat any of those, Lock?”
He was snapped out of his thoughts by Cassie sitting beside him at the table. She took a handful of grapes and popped one in her mouth.
“Where have you been?” he asked, hoping to get his mind off the fight.
“Down in the square,” Cassie replied. “I had lunch with the Magistrate’s daughter.”
“At least you’re making friends.”
“I think she just likes me because of our name.” She shrugged. “She might also hope I can introduce her to Deck.” She popped another grape in her mouth. “Where is he? Out riding again?”
Lock nodded.
“It’s like he’s looking for trouble,” she said. “I still can’t believe you were attacked. Right outside the wall, too.”
“It was nothing,” he said. “Just some thieves.”
“Still,” she said. “At least Deck was there to handle it.”
He nodded, but said nothing else. Deck accepted the attention, but Lock kept the specifics of his involvement to a minimum. He didn’t tell anybody he killed someone—not even Seria. Even if the woman was some bandit about to kill his brother, he couldn’t get the image of her bulging eyes and face turning white out of his mind. It was there to greet him every time he tried to sleep.
“So,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away. “How was your lunch?”
“Fine,” she said. She looked like she was going to say something else, but only finished, “It was fine.”
He saw a face on his sister that was becoming familiar. It was the mask to hide how much she hated it in Graylands. She was trying to give the place a chance. Trying not to complain. And what the mask revealed above all—to Lock anyway—was there was at least some part of her that knew she was being unfair and looking for things to dislike.
She tried, but it seemed something was always bothering her these days, and her commiserating had become almost comical. Deciding he could use the cheering up, Lock pressed her.
“You sure?” he asked. “Nothing you want to get out?”
She squirmed in her seat. She was itching to vent, but trying to mitigate it or knew she was making a lot out of nothing.
“Cassie..?”
“Well,” she said. “I know how this will sound, but …”
“But..?”
“Have you noticed anything strange about the way people talk here?”
Lock’s eyebrows shot up.
“When we first arrived, back in Bartlett,” she said. “I thought I noticed something odd, but I wasn’t sure if it was just me. But today, listening to the people around here talk …”
“It’s a different country, Cass,” he said. “People are bound to have different accents and ways of speaking.”
“It’s not that,” she insisted. “It’s not accents. It’s the way they say certain things.”
“Such as..?”
“Haven’t you noticed how many people here say ‘you know’ and refer to everyone as ‘guy..?’”
He hesitated. He had noticed people in Graylands tended to use expressions and slang he’d never heard back home. It didn’t bother him, but he wanted to see if she would act it out. “How do you mean?”
“For instance, at lunch today, I overheard someone at the next table. Everyone was ‘this guy’ or ‘that guy,’ and he kept saying ‘you know’ when he talked.”
“Example..?”
Her face darkened, and Lock suspected she knew he was egging her on. He thought she wasn’t going to do it, but she burst out with: “I was supposed to meet this guy at the, you know, the store. But, you know, it’s too hot, so the guy cancelled. You know..?”
Lock broke into laughter.
“I’ve also noticed people in this country are overly fond of saying, ‘oh yeah.’”
“Oh yeah..?”
“Not funny.”
He let out another round of laughter. Cassie stared at him, arms crossed and rolling her eyes, but trying not to giggle herself.
“It’s just slang,” he said. “Most of the people in this country are refugees and pilgrims from the Two Empires …”
“And fugitives,” she added.
“And a few of those. My point is, it’s only natural a lot of the people here are going to develop a very … informal way of speaking.”
“They sound like buffoons. Or children.” She shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Or ignorant children.”
“You should hear some of the things I’ve heard in the tavern at night. There’s profanity in this country that would make a Graigman cringe.”
“I’m thrilled you think this is a good thing,” she said, walking out of the dining room. “Enjoy listening to people who talk like derelict ten year
olds.”
“Give it time,” he said. “In a few weeks, you’ll be talking no different.”
That stopped Cassie in her tracks. “Not on your life,” she said with absolute certainty.
“I don’t know, Cass. That impression sounded a little too natural coming from you.”
Her mouth turned into a capital O in shock. She didn’t have to say it aloud—her face did it for her admirably enough: How dare you?!
“You’ll be cursing with the best of them in no time,” he called as she turned and ran up the stairs, covering her ears. With a satisfied grin, Lock ate a few grapes—content to have his mind taken off bandits, battles, and death for the time being.
* * *
Deck Synclaire rode out alone before dawn. Today, he followed the rising sun, heading east where the forest ended and gave way to harsher conditions. Rolling hills turned to mounts of stone. Grass shifted to dirt patches and weeds. The air turned dry and still. Even with the sun on the horizon, he could feel a hot day that would be unbearable further east where the land became open desert.
The silence, stillness, and isolation of these lands were soothing to him. He was half-tempted to keep riding, camp out overnight, and only return the following day—longing to see what lay just a little further.
Deck knew he was considered by many the black sheep of his family. He didn’t entirely resent that perception either. He always was somewhat removed from his younger siblings. He stood out in looks and temperament—although there were times he saw Cassie behave similarly—and he was always eager to venture out. His father was content to hide. Lock and Cassie, given the choice, would stay put.
Deck needed to move. The world beckoned.
He rode on as the sun rose brighter and hotter with each minute. By noon, it blazed high above, leaving the shadow of Deck and his steed, Dian, directly beneath them. Sweating, he found a small creek and dismounted his horse to cool his face and take a drink. Dian, a powerful brown stallion, did likewise, and Deck—despite the sweltering heat—savored the solitude and quiet.
His serene mood was interrupted when a breeze blew through a nearby narrow pass. It carried with it a rotten smell like meat left out in the sun. It was mixed with another and far worse odor he couldn’t even place.
Leaving Dian at the creek, he unsheathed his sword and crept to the pass, pressing his back against the rock wall. The pass overlooked a relatively steep drop that went into a small valley. The rock wall rose upward into mountains and formed a semi-circle. In the valley, he saw the entrance to a cave that was so closed off, it allowed no light to enter—looking like a gaping black hole in the mountainside.
In front of the cave’s entrance was the source of the stench: bodies. He had come across a massacre.
He headed into the valley, gripping his sword, not sure what to expect. The only sound was the slight breeze, buzzing of flies, and the chirping of birds in the distance—which added to the unsettling, surreal feel of it.
As much as Deck fancied himself a warrior, even he had to resist the urge to gag. None of the bodies were intact. He suspected someone more experienced in combat—or Troa—could put together what had happened. There was a wagon that had been smashed to bits. Some of the bodies were slashed, but he couldn’t tell if they were from swords or animal claws.
The most notable thing to take from the massacre was the brutality. Arms and legs were strewn about, ragged at their stumps, as if they’d been ripped from the rest of the body. Some men had been torn in half at the waist—their torsos several feet from their legs. One was missing part of his head, and Deck was fairly certain—with another tumble in his stomach—the poor bastard’s head had been bitten in half.
Inexperienced in war he might have been, he did know something about hunting and tracks. Based on the dried blood sprayed all over the place—all of it with a thin layer of sand and dirt atop—the massacre happened at least a few days ago. The bodies were swelling up, and their skin had turned an unnatural shade of purple and green.
Tracks were everywhere with no rhyme or reason. Some looked like they arrived from the same direction he did. Another set came from the south. He suspected there was a lot of milling around before whatever happened here happened. And when the dying started, panicked running followed.
Aside from the bodies and broken wagon, there were the remains of a few horses—also ripped to pieces—but not enough for the number of dead men. Deck figured some must have escaped, and sure enough, there were horse tracks scattering from the scene in all directions.
The tracks that stuck out most were the large flat ones which had what appeared to be clawed toes. Inspecting them closely, and noting they seemed to come to and from the nearby cave, Deck got an idea what happened.
He turned and stared at the cave entrance, and the stench—more foul than the rotting meat and death—was emanating from there. He gripped his sword and took a few tentative steps toward it.
These men had come to meet here for some reason or another. Perhaps an exchange? Bandits planning a score? Who could say—but they met in front of this little cave, with no idea what might dwell within. And for some reason—perhaps the commotion or something else—whatever lived in the cave had woken up and wasn’t happy.
Despite the tension running through his body, Deck had to smirk. Whenever his conscience—or common sense—told him to do something (or not do something), it seemed to always come in the voice of Troa or Lock.
Why are you not turning around and getting out of here? it said, sweat dripping down his face. Whatever is in that cave is likely content to stay there and needn’t concern you.
Was it curiosity? Was it that reckless streak getting the better of him?
No, he thought. There’s something else in there. Something …
(calling me..?)
He was at the entrance to the cave, and the stench was overwhelming. It was similar to stepping out of a cold room into steaming humidity—like passing through an invisible wall. Worse than rotting meat—it was putrid. The stench of an unwashed animal left in a confined space to wallow in its own filth for gods only knew how long.
Upon stepping through the invisible barrier, Deck gagged on reflex and his eyes began to tear. Going further in, he saw the sides of the cave glistened with some kind of pus. The ground beneath his feet was damp, which somehow made it even more disgusting. Another step and he was forced to cover his mouth and choke. This felt less like a cave and more like walking into a sewer.
Finally stopping, Deck asked himself what he was doing. Any further, he wouldn’t be able to see. As if the butchered bodies weren’t enough of a sign to turn around and pretend this cave didn’t exist. Even if there wasn’t some ungodly beast dwelling within, it couldn’t be less inviting.
But there’s something in here, some part of him insisted. Something important. Something these men died for. Something whatever lives here is keeping.
“Maybe I’m just going crazy,” he muttered aloud.
As if in response, from the darkness he heard what could only be described as a kind of growling belch. He froze in place, gripping his sword tighter. He waited, his body tense and ready to spring, but the cave remained still.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he hissed. It seemed clear there was some kind of beast inside, and if it was able to slaughter over a dozen men, walking into its lair blind was suicide.
Backing out, he shouted, “OI! Show yourself!”
His voice echoed, but only slightly—which told him the cave wasn’t cavernous. He waited, and a louder, angrier growl emerged from the darkness.
With a grin that looked half mad, Deck roared: “GET OUT HERE, YOU UGLY BASTARD! COME AND FACE ME!”
He had no idea if the beast could understand what he was saying, nor did he care. It wound up not mattering because his threat was met with a gut-wrenching roar. It was a wet sounding thing, and Deck could imagine saliva or worse spraying from the creature’s mouth.
The ground trembled, an
d he heard something large, thick, and damp moving through a cramped space. Something was coming, and it was big. And judging from the growling that accompanied the approaching beast, it was angry.
At the cave’s entrance, Deck rapped the butt of his sword against the rock wall and yelled, “Come out and DIE!”
There was another roar. Wasting no time, he climbed up and around the cave’s entrance, hoping he might be able to catch the beast off guard from high ground. His adrenaline pumping and heart pounding, Deck let out a strange chuckle as he heard one more roar. Getting as high as he was going to get—eight feet off the ground and not quite over the entrance—he wondered what Lock and Troa would say if they saw him now and muttered, “I must be crazy after all.”
The first thing he saw was a gnarled hand that only had four fingers—one of which was half gone. The skin was a greenish shade of gray, and the nails were purple and brown. The rest of the beast emerged, and Deck could now see the cave was too small for such a thing.
Its flesh was covered in scars, scrapes, and warts. The creature was bald, save some strands of white hair that hung from its scalp. It was thick and wide, with massive broad shoulders at least four feet across. Its top half was too big for its lower, causing it to hunch over and drag its arms in the dirt. The smell was overpowering. It was clearly the source of the odor in the cave, but somehow even worse. Deck’s eyes watered just being in its presence.
Now seeing it in the open, he knew what he was dealing with: a troll. Even without seeing the blood stains on its hands, he could tell this was the creature responsible for the massacre. He wasn’t sure if trolls were creatures of the Black, like demons and their ilk, or if they were just particularly foul, violent beasts. What he did know was they were exceptionally strong and notoriously hard to kill.
You really stepped in it now, Deck.
Sword in hand, he leapt from his perch on the rock wall. Jumping, he gained an extra few feet of height. If he was lucky, he could plunge his sword where the troll’s neck met its spine and kill it—or at least cripple it—instantly.