by Matthew Cook
My stomach drops. I know that scent. It is the smell of burnt human flesh. I remember tasting it on Jazen Tor's breath on the day he died, burned from within by one of their enchanted stone blades.
The memory pushes away my fear, replacing it with cold rage. It reminds me of all the things I have lost to the Mor. Far, far too much.
We round the boulder, bodies bent, lest we silhouette ourselves against the sky. Below, the trail dips, dropping into a hollow. There, twenty-odd men—army irregulars from their tattered, mismatched clothes and simple weapons—are locked in battle with a quartet of Mor warriors. The men's commander, a lieutenant clad in the uniform and crimson cloak of the Imperial Army, stands in the van. He wields a magnificent sword, studded with emerald and jet. Human bodies litter the ground. Some are burning—shriveled, fetal shapes curled beneath columns of dark, greasy smoke. I am surprised to see that the irregulars have managed to bring down two of the Mor—their hulking bodies lie on the stones, leaking foul black blood from scores of stab wounds. These surviving men outnumber the Mor five to one, but I know that even for trained soldiers those are slim odds; what the Mor lack in numbers they more than make up for in sheer lethality.
The Mor tower over even the tallest of the militiamen. The creatures have long torsos, set atop stout elephantine legs. Their heads are blunt wedges, resembling nothing more than armored helmets. Green eyes glow in their mask-like faces, inhuman slices of sparkling jade.
Each has four arms. The upper set are massive and armored, tipped with thick, rending claws; the lower more delicate, terminating in disturbing, twin-thumbed hands. Each creature clutches a brace of stone sledgehammers or wickedly curved stone knives in their lower hands. The weapons steam in the chill air, glowing with sullen, orange heat called forth by the rock wisdom of their shamans.
Tiny bronze decorations swing from simple harnesses or from rings pierced through their bony hides. As they move, the ornaments clash together, filling her air with the sound of bells. Their only other clothing is rough breechcloths of pale hide, twisted around their thick hips. Their skin is a dull gray, the color of bedrock. If they feel the biting cold, they do not show it.
The lieutenant bellows a war cry and swings at the nearest Mor, his blade flicking out from behind his splintered shield. The sword clashes against the enemy's shoulder and rebounds harmlessly from its carapace.
The Mor replies, its upper arms scything out and down. The claws, strong enough to tunnel through solid rock, crash into the weakened shield, shattering it in a spray of wood and bronze. The swordsman cries out, backing away. His shield arm dangles, certainly broken. The Mor, sensing victory, strides forward, its glowing blades upraised for a killing stroke.
Without thinking I raise my bow, smoothly drawing the arrow back to my ear. I do not stop to aim; there is no time. There is only time enough now for instinct. I let the missile fly.
The broad head strikes the Mor in its side, slotting between two of the thick armor plates. The arrow sinks almost to the fletching; such is the power of the ash bow. The stricken Mor reels back, fluting in agony.
The lieutenant's eyes widen, then flicker up towards our position. I am already fitting a second shaft to the string. He sees me, and a grin spreads across his bearded face.
"Forward!” he screams, fitting action to words. His sword thrums as it cleaves the air, back and forth, back and forth. His men give a ragged cheer and follow behind, sheltering their commander as best they can with their crude leather shields.
"Lia, that one,” I say, gesturing to the rear-most Mor warrior.
"I cannot! The men are too close!” she says.
I growl, frustrated, but she is right. I have experienced first-hand the awesome power of Lia's lightning, an experience that nearly killed me. If her aim is even slightly off then the men may be struck as well.
Below, the lieutenant falls upon the wounded Mor. The mirror-bright blade finds a delicate spot, and black blood flies. He is magnificent, his swordplay a lethal dance. The Mor slips to one knee, and is instantly swarmed by the vengeful men.
Their victory is short lived. The remaining Mor pull together, shoulder to shoulder, forming a triangular wedge. As one, they plow forward, into the men's flank. Laval blades rise and fall; flesh steams and crackles. Men scream, then crumple.
I cannot shoot down into that swirling chaos; friend and foe are pressed too close together. I must separate the men from the enemy if Lia is to be allowed to bring her power to bear. Without hesitation, I stand, arms extended, exposing my position. There is no choice.
"For the Empire!” I shout. “Pull back! Retreat!” Below, all heads, man and Mor alike, swivel upwards. The Mors’ eyes, glowing balefully, fix on me.
"Pull back! Pull back!” the lieutenant echoes.
The command breaks the last of the men's faltering courage. They whirl, turning their backs on the foe, running pell-mell away from the fight. The lieutenant stands his ground, facing off against all three of the towering enemy warriors, giving the soldiers a few precious moments to disengage. His courage is breathtaking.
The Mor surge forward in pursuit. Even the lieutenant's skill is no match for such power; they will simply run over him, trampling him into the frozen mud, if need be.
"Lia, now!” I scream, letting an arrow fly. It misses the mark and skitters off a Mor's tough hide.
"But, he is still too—"
"Do it!" I roar, plucking a fresh arrow from my quiver. The Mor raise their claws and their burning weapons. Nothing human can resist such concentrated might.
Behind me, Lia whispers a command in the sibilant language of the air elementals. The sky responds.
The air is split with eye-watering brilliance as a stroke of dazzling blue fire lances down like the finger of a vengeful god. It strikes the rear-most Mor, wreathing it in coruscating energy. From it, smaller bolts flicker out, reaching out for the creature's companions. They dance and jig, their mighty bodies contorting and twisting.
The thunderclap which follows an eye-blink later is deafeningly loud. The lieutenant is knocked backwards, slapped aside like a child's toy. He strikes a boulder and slides bonelessly to the ground.
I flinch away, eyes shut tight. I have been struck momentarily deaf; the thunderclap's rolling echoes are muffled, as if I have cotton in my ears.
Blinking my dazzled eyes, I look down, searching for survivors. I know from bitter experience how strong the Mor are. Even the lightning may not have killed them all.
The inhuman warriors lie on the stones, their rocky hides darkened and split. Steam and foul, black ichor leak from rents in their armor. The smell that wafts up stinks of burning metal and charred fish. As I watch, one of the Mor, then a second, twitches and stirs.
"Finish them!” I call out, drawing my knife and scrambling down the rocky trail. The fleeing men stop in the road, staring at me in open-mouthed shock. With my wild, pale hair, dressed in scout's leathers and brandishing my long Ulean steel knife, I must be quite a sight. I rush past them, hoping they will follow. As I pass, some of them see my disturbing green-within-black eyes, and flinch away.
Below, the two surviving Mor struggle to rise, mortally wounded but not yet dead. So long as they draw breath they are dangerous. They must not be allowed the opportunity to get away lest they bring more of their kind.
The men come running behind me and I breathe a sigh of relief. We fall upon the stricken monsters, dancing around their feeble swipes. I kick aside one of their stone knives, cold and dark now without their rock magic to ennoble it.
"Lia, see to the lieutenant,” I call over my shoulder, then turn back to the task at hand.
Even at the edge of death, the Mor are still formidable, clinging to life with surprising tenacity. By the time the last one goes down, pierced by half a dozen blades, we are all panting and breathless.
I move to a boulder and sit, heavily. My arms ache. I look down and see my hands are slicked with their stinking black blood. I mutter a curse and dr
ag them across the stones, trying to wipe away the stain.
"How is he?” I call over to where Lia crouches beside the motionless lieutenant.
"Unconscious, but breathing. There is blood on his face."
I stagger to my feet. Lia has seen blood aplenty since we first met, but she is no healer.
I kneel beside the stricken lieutenant. Without meaning to, I open my secret eye, and instantly the map of his life, drawn by the power of the blood magic, is laid before me. I see his heart, beating strong and steady in his chest. His arm is a riot of pain; the twin bones of his forearm are broken.
I explore the injury, using my secret sight and wise fingers. I breathe a word of thanks when I see that the jagged ends have not pierced his skin; it will be hard enough to save the limb without the added complication of infection. My mistress's books were full of warnings about this silent, invisible killer, and I would spare him—and myself—the difficulty of treating such an affliction in the field. The broken bones will be trial enough for both of us.
The blood magic yearns to reach out and twist into his body, but I do not allow it. I am tempted to use it as I did in the mountains to heal the injury; if a second party of Mor were to find us, he would be at a disadvantage without a shield. But the risks are far too great. I can almost hear it whimpering, like a leashed hound scenting fresh prey, as I grasp it tightly. I will have to content myself with setting the bones properly and allow time and nature to do its work.
"Fetch me something to make a splint,” I say to the men. Eight remain, fewer than the number of bodies that litter the trail. They stare at me, unmoving, as if I have gone mad. “I'll need stout sticks, and bandages. And someone start a fire; I may need boiling water, and he will need to be kept warm. Go!” I yell, snapping some of them out of their battle trance.
"Help them; you know what I need,” I ask Lia. “And assign a few of the others to check the fallen. It's unlikely that any who were struck lived, but there's always hope. Those which cannot be spared...” I let the sentence trail off and she nods. Her time spent in the Mercy Tent, tending to the wounded beside Brother Ato, the priest of Shanira, has given her the bitter wisdom such decisions require.
"Who ... are you?” the lieutenant whispers. I did not know he was awake.
"A friend. A scout in the Imperial Army,” I say. He groans as I tear his sleeve, exposing the wounded limb. It is swollen and dark, twisted at an unnatural angle.
He tries to rise and I push him down, making shushing noises. “My men,” he groans.
"You can check on them later. You have to relax now, and save your strength. I have to set your arm."
He flops back. Greasy sweat covers his pale face. He must be in agony. “How many dead?” he finally manages to ask.
I look at the battlefield, and gasp. I realize that my secret eye is still open. Its otherworldly sight reveals the specters of the fallen warriors. The spirits linger near their fallen bodies, sightless, white eyes beseeching, mouths stretched as they moan supplications. Some call out in wordless fear, pleading with me for just another moment of life. Others keen for revenge.
For just a moment, I am tempted to grant their request, to command them to slip back into their shattered, torn bodies. Doing so, I know, would call forth my dark children, my sweetlings, from the fallen flesh. If more of the Mor arrive, drawn by the smoke and the stink of cooking flesh, then the sweetlings will be welcome allies.
Sour bile rises in my throat. Gods, no. Not again. Never again. There was a time when I looked upon my sweetlings as a mother would her own children, beloved and cherished. Since then, I have come to understand the perversity of such thinking.
With a word I send them away, commanding the spirits to leave this place and travel to the lands that await them. One by one, the ghosts fade into nothingness.
"Who ... are you talking to?” the lieutenant whispers. What has just transpired is invisible to mortal eyes. I close my secret eye and look down at him. He stares back, his handsome face drawn with pain.
"Most of your men fell to the Mor,” I say. “The rest are looking for supplies. If the arm is to heal properly, I must move the broken bones back to their proper places. It will hurt a great deal. Do you understand?"
He nods, then says, “Can I ask a favor? A big man, with a purple birthmark on his cheek, wearing a leather helmet and carrying a mattock. Did he survive?"
I remember seeing the man with the birthmark among the survivors, and tell him so.
"His name is Wentz,” the lieutenant continues. “He is the closest I have to a second-in-command. When he returns, can you bring him to me? I must tell him how to tend to the fallen."
"I will,” I promise. “But for now, I need you to relax. If you fight me it will only prolong the pain. Are you ready?” He nods again, closing his eyes tight.
I grip his wrist with my strong archer's fingers and pull. Bones shift and grate. His face, already pale, goes stark white. He tries not to scream, but in the end the pain proves too great. His cries echo from the stones.
I work as fast as I can, but aligning the splintered ends takes time. Before I am done, the lieutenant falls unconscious once more. I hurry to finish, before he comes round.
By the time the soldiers return, bearing wood and bandages, I am done, but the lieutenant's screams still echo in my ears. I splint the arm with trembling hands and remind myself that sometimes a healer must inflict pain for the patient's greater good. When he wakes he will understand I did what I had to. I hope.
I scan the faces ringing me and see the man with the purple birthmark, Wentz. “He said he wants you to tend to the fallen,” I tell him. “The ground is too hard for graves, so you will need to pile stones over them. The Mor won't disturb a body entombed in stone. Do you understand?"
Wentz nods. He mutters to the men and they fall in behind him. He walks a few paces, then stops. “What about them?” he asks over his shoulder. He points to the dead Mor.
"Leave them to rot,” I say. I remember all too well the indignities that the Mor have inflicted on our dead since their recent emergence. Farmsteads burned; every man, woman and child slain. Tiny, dismembered bodies left unburied beneath the cruel sky, a feast for birds or other scavengers.
Wentz nods again and moves towards the battlefield. Soon the stone cairns begin to take shape, gentle mounds of rock. I sit beside the lieutenant and watch the slow rise and fall of his chest.
I am uneasy, nervous. I feel the pressure of unseen eyes upon me. I scan the surrounding hills, but nothing moves save the falling snow. A thought occurs to me, and I stand to look over at the fallen Mor.
The men have piled their bodies, unceremoniously, at the edge of the hollow, amongst the tumbled stones. Snow is already beginning to dust their mighty limbs. They are certainly dead. Tentatively, I let my third eye slide open. I see them.
The specters of the Mor stand beside their fallen flesh. It is the first time I have seen such a thing; whenever men and Mor have perished in the past, their inhuman souls were nowhere to be found. I had never troubled myself with their absence, assuming they either had no souls as I understood them, or that they went to some underworld reserved just for them.
Their ghostly presence shows me I was wrong. I look at their translucent bodies. They are still, motionless as statues.
They are looking at me.
Human souls never stare at me so; they almost invariably have eyes only for their lifeless former shells. When I do manage to draw their attention, their eerie voices are always filled with calls for vengeance, or with pleas for another chance at life.
Not the Mor. The Mor merely stare, fixing me with their baleful, emerald gaze. One of them, the largest of the warriors, walks towards me. He strides through the camp fire, his spectral flesh passing through the flames. A chill twists itself through my body, raising the hairs along my arms, as I force myself to hold my ground. I will not back away from a ghost.
Be wary, my sister says, her voice flat and tight. She
is scared, too, I can tell. Just because no human soul can do you harm does not mean that the Mor have any such limitations. Who knows what magics they wield?
The Mor stops a few short paces away. It raises both of its right arms, pointing at me with finger and claw.
"I don't understand,” I whisper. I know it can hear me. “What do you want of me?"
The Mor speaks, its strange, piping voice breathy and insubstantial. The words carry with them a freight of feelings and emotions, which roll through my body like a tide.
Anger. Rage. Disgust. Loathing. Sharp, ugly feelings, as jagged and cutting as blades. And overtop all, tainting all else, an overwhelming, blanketing fear. I flinch away from the intensity of the Mor's feelings. Beside me, the lieutenant moans in his sleep, tossing and muttering.
"Begone,” I whisper, then, louder, “I said begone! I do not know what you want of me, but you shall not have it. Taint not this place with your presence. Go to whatever heaven or hell will have you, but trouble me no more!"
I feel the words rolling out, suffused with the power of command. If it were a human soul, it would be forced to obey. The Mor merely stares, slowly lowering its arms.
The others stride forward, their ghost feet quieter than a breath of wind. Soon they surround me, a circle of translucent specters. They all look at me with unwavering attention, as if marking me. Emotions buffet me, swirling currents eddying under the overwhelming loathing and fear. I feel wetness on my lip, and wipe it away. It is blood, running from my nose to drip from my chin.
"Please,” I croak as the ground begins to tilt beneath me. I hear my sister's voice; she is howling inside of me, as if whatever I am enduring is far, far worse for her, but it is a distant, insubstantial thing, as if she is far from me. “Please,” I repeat, unsure what it is I am even asking for.
I drop to my knees, and dimly feel the sharp stones gouge my flesh. “I don't understand. I hear you ... I feel you, but I don't know what you want. I don't understand!"