A March of Woe

by Aaron Bunce

  El’bryliz didn’t understand the reference, but he didn’t have the breath to question it, so he simply nodded.

  “You ready to climb?”

  El’bryliz nodded, steeling himself, but as he tried to lift his foot onto the first step, his legs grew unsteady. It was disorienting, and for a heartbeat, he thought he might fall over.

  “I’m sorry,” he started to apologize, but realized that it wasn’t just him.

  The ground shook violently, the sound of grinding stone and crumbling mortar rising in a deafening crescendo. Tristan fell sideways, pulling El’bryliz off his feet in the process. Another rumble shook the building and the torches suddenly went dark.

  El’bryliz curled up in a ball as chunks of rock and wood rained down all around, pummeling him like dozens of armored fists. Pressure mounted above him, pinching him in places and smashing him in others. He cursed the darkness, the rocks and debris, and whatever unseen force decided to bring it all down on top of him. He didn’t realize that he was cursing them out loud, or in Ishmandi, until his voice was the only thing he could hear.

  He shifted, managing to break his right leg free from the weight. Debris shifted, sliding all of its pressure onto his shoulders. His mangled hand screamed in protest and he cried out, wrenching his body until he was finally able to pull it back into his body. Drawing his knees up into his body, El’bryliz curved his back and pushed.

  The weight shifted, driving him back down again, but he refused to give in. He pushed again, straining until the weight above him moved. Cloth ripped, and someone groaned, but thankfully, it finally shifted. A dim, flickering light cut in as the blanket of debris broke apart. The torches hadn’t been extinguished, at least not all of them.

  El’bryliz staggered, but stood, the wood and stone clattering around him. A draft of damp air touched his stomach. He reached down in a daze, his hand passing right through a large tear in the heavy fabric. He was all but naked underneath, his robe nearly torn in half.

  “What…what?” he stuttered, trying to make sense of the darkness and chaos. His head was fuzzy. He remembered lifting his foot to walk up the stairs, and then…up became down, and the crushing weight fell.

  A distant rumble shook the floor, sending dust and debris clattering down all around him. He scuttled forward, his shoes slipping and sliding beneath him.

  “Trist…an?”

  In the shifting darkness, someone groaned.

  “Tristan?” he whispered, bending over and fishing the half-dead torch out of the rubble. His voice sounded harsh, like a hissing snake.

  Rock and debris clattered to his left. A distant shout echoed into the room, but they sounded muffled and far away. El’bryliz crawled on his hands and knees until he found a hand, and then proceeded to dig, hefting the debris through his legs. Several moments later, he pulled Tristan free, the dark-haired man covered in so much dust that he was almost unrecognizable.

  “Tanea. We need to go back and get her,” El’bryliz said forcefully.

  Tristan shook his head, his eyes unfocused and watery. It was several heartbeats before he met his gaze, and simply said, “Alright.”

  Arm in arm, El’bryliz and Tristan staggered back through the storeroom, the room’s landscape a distorted and treacherous mess, and stopped abruptly.

  “Flog me simple,” Tristan breathed.

  El’bryliz cursed loudly in agreement, wiping dust and blood off his face. They couldn’t get to Tanea, or the storeroom used to house the priest and his ilk. The hallway was gone, replaced by a massive pile of rubble.

  “No…it can’t be. She was my responsibility.”

  El’bryliz couldn’t see how anyone beyond the wall of rubble survived. His insides became a dark, sunken pit, with his heart dying at its center. To the hells with all else, Tanea had come back. She had saved him when she could have fled to safety. He tried to sink to his knees, willfully falling into despair, but Tristan grabbed him by the remnant of his robes, further tearing the garment.

  “Oh, no. There’s another way around. They’re counting on us, don’t give up on me,” Tristan said, pulling him back towards the stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  Dire News

  The winter wind roared, sweeping off the lake like a hungry beast. It swirled around the castle, changing direction at will, digging at the stone and shingles like hardened talons. Frost formed on the glass, creeping onto the heavy iron latches and stone sill.

  Lord Geoffrey Thatcher, eldest son of Councilman Walter Thatcher, and provincial lord of Karnell, stood before the large window, his gaze drifting lazily over the dark water of Lake Mynus. Another gust of wind buffeted the window, snow pelting the glass like hurled pebbles. A solitary boat appeared out of the storm, its sleek hull riding a gigantic wave, before sinking into a trough and disappearing from sight.

  Mad fool, Lord Thatcher thought. “What kind of person takes to the water in a storm like this?” he asked, turning to the room behind him, but it was empty. Two chairs sat before the crackling fireplace, a thick, fur rug spread across the stone before them.

  “Thea!” he called, turning back to the window. He didn’t remember hearing his wife get up from the chair by the fire. Had he been too deep into his own thoughts? Had she spoken to him before leaving?

  The light from the room shone into the darkness beyond the window, reflecting on the swirling particles of snow and ice. Lightning forked through the swirling clouds, illuminating the boat as it crested yet another wave. Another surge of wind rattled the window, splattering more snow and slush over the glass. Something rattled in the adjacent chamber, forcing his attention away from the storm. A moment later a shadow appeared in the doorway.

  “Are you to spend the whole night before that window? You’ll catch a deathly chill,” Thea said, a steaming tankard clutched in her hands.

  “I didn’t hear you leave,” Geoffrey said, absently, unable to fully pull his attention away from the window, and the storm-battered ship. The boat was free of the shoals now, but instead of turning out towards deeper water, and the well-traveled trade route across the lake, it was leaning and straining against the wind and moving towards the castle.

  “Are we expecting company?” he asked, watching the ship bob out of sight before reappearing.

  “Company?” Thea echoed. “I can’t fathom who would travel in this. The path from Silma must be nearly thigh deep with snow by now, and the road to Jorgenhald is bound to be worse.”

  Geoffrey nodded, and pulled his hands off the wide, marble sill. He brushed his palms against his velvet robes, looking down when he couldn’t feel the soft fabric. He’d left his hands near the window so long they’d become numb with cold.

  You fool. You’d freeze yourself to death if she hadn’t returned, Geoffrey thought, embarrassed.

  “Come, and warm yourself by the fire. I have a funny story to tell you,” Thea said, settling into one of the high-backed chairs.

  “Yes, the fire.” Geoffrey turned and took a step back towards his wife, but hesitated a moment, before sliding back towards the window.

  The boat had turned fully now, its bow cutting the angry waves rippling out of the castle’s small, sheltered harbor. “Are you quite sure we aren’t expecting company?” he asked.

  A sense of dread filled him. The kind he always felt when unexpected messengers arrived at their gates or vultures circled a spot out in the woods. In his experience, they both signaled when something horrible happened.

  Ill news is an unwelcome guest, he thought, remembering his father’s favorite saying.

  “Lady Eleana Foldsmeth is due in a fortnight or so. She sent me a letter ages ago, practically begging me to have her. She wants to walk the gardens and see the snow lilies, but you know her husband. He is most likely sending her on his behalf to soften you up for lower tax on the fishing guild,” Thea said, blowing on her steaming tankard.

  “I would rather parlay with the lady than the good lord. His breath offends…” Geoffrey started, r
eaching up to pull nervously at his beard. “But Lord Foldsmeth is a meek man. He wouldn’t venture near the lake when there is a stout breeze, let alone such a winter storm. Nor would he allow his wife to sail in this either. I wonder who sails to us now.”

  A chair creaked behind him, followed by the swish of velvety fabric rubbing together.

  “Mani’s robe,” Thea whispered, appearing next to him. “Surely madness drives them, or–”

  “…It’s urgent news,” he finished for her and turned.

  Geoffrey leaned in and kissed Thea on the cheek. She met his gaze, the crow’s feet around her gray eyes pulling tight. Even nearing fifty winter thaws, she was beautiful. She had strong cheekbones, full lips, and brown hair streaked with red. Her hair had started to gray in the past few winter thaws. If anything, it only made her more attractive, more regal.

  He passed by the fire, wanting only to settle into the chair, but duty forced him on. Thea started singing softly as he pushed through the door and closed it behind him. It was a lullaby. One she sang to each of their children when they were babies. He hadn’t heard her sing it in a long time. Not since their youngest was a babe. He didn’t know why, but that thought worried him.

  Two men flanking the door stepped away from the wall and fell into step behind him, their armor rattling with each step. Geoffrey didn’t need to see them to know they were there. They were his shadows, his private guard, following him whenever he left his private chambers.

  The air was cold in the hall, the warmth of his chambers now a fleeting memory. Part of him cursed the drafty galleries and dank corners. The passageways were always either too hot or too cold. Much like the petitioners that lined up on the castle steps every morning. They either had too little of something, or wanted too much of something else. He could find no escape from disputes.

  “Not even the weather knows compromise,” he muttered, grasping the ornate banister and trotting onto the stairs.

  The steps groaned beneath Geoffrey’s boots as he descended, fourscore paintings covering the walls all around him. The sweeping stairwell turned abruptly left as it wrapped around the square room. His father looked down on him from somewhere above, and his grandfather, just like his likeness would someday for his sons and grandsons.

  His butler Plator, an aged, stooped man, waited for him below, his black robes and white linen hat clean and in proper order.

  “My Lord, there has been no word from the ship. No signal fire, and with this wretched wind, no birds,” Plator said, the lines on his weathered face deepening with a scowl.

  The old man gave a quick bow as Geoffrey approached and fell into step next to him.

  “Is it my father? News from the Council?” Geoffrey asked, thinking out loud. In reality, it could have been anything. Unfortunately, his mind always went to the same, dark places. Death, he found, had such a lasting effect on people.

  Plator started to huff and wheeze, clearly winded by trying to keep pace with the younger, fitter man. “It could…be, My Lord. We have…received no word…from Ban Turin in as many days.”

  His valet, a young boy of eleven winter thaws, ran ahead of them and stood before the front doors.

  “My heavy robe. The fur one,” Geoffrey said, gesturing the boy over.

  “My Lord, the wind’s bite…the snow, it’s is too much. Whomever it is, we will bring them to you. You, fetch the earl a cup of tea and some biscuits. I will set you up with a comfy chair by the fire,” Plator said, snapping his fingers at a young maid walking by.

  Geoffrey shook his head, turning as the valet hustled over, a thick garment clutched in his arms. He threw his right hand into the sleeve of the fur robe, turning to extend his other arm in and pull it up and over his shoulders.

  “I cannot wait, Plator. No one travels in weather like this unless it is something dire. I…have a feeling.”

  “My Lord, I must insist,” the old butler argued, but Geoffrey silenced him with an upraised hand.

  “Not now, Plator. Set up the tea in my study. I will have it there after. To warm up.”

  The old man bowed and took a step back, snapping at the maid again, before turning and bustling down a side corridor. Geoffrey cinched the robe closed and pulled the hood over his head. He took a breath to steady his nerves, and stepped out through the door.

  The storm slapped him like a massive, cold hand. It ripped at his robe and bit at his skin. His guard moved in, cradling him protectively with their bulk of armor and shields. They moved off together, making their way down the garden path, his wife’s prized flowers lost somewhere in the fog of the storm.

  They descended the massive, stone stair, turning left and then right in the switchback’s steep descent to the small island’s sheltered harbor. Geoffrey skipped off the bottom step and turned, ducking behind the protective cover of a stone wall. The protection of the wall ended far sooner than he would like, the cobblestones underfoot giving way to the ice-slicked wooden gangway of Castle Astralen’s private dock.

  A stone shack sat on the water’s edge, half of the building sitting on stilts over the dark, chaotic water. Light split the darkness as a door opened. A solitary figure appeared, a lantern in one hand, the other wrapping a heavy scarf around his neck. The dock master moved towards them, seemingly oblivious to the winds and stinging snow.

  “Milord, you should wait in me shack. Stay warm by me fire until we’ve secured the moorings,” the dock master said.

  “Not necessary, Sharnin,” Geoffrey said, shaking his head. He was growing tired of people coddling him. I’m a grown man, a warrior, and the lord of a great province, he thought.

  “Ye best stand clear, then. The water is furious. The wind is pushing the rollers right over the breakwater. There’ll be no keeping that boat steady, save she crash right into the castle,” Sharnin said, motioning him back with the lantern.

  Geoffrey turned and jumped back, the dark form of the ship surging into view on a dark swell of water. Even with no canvas hung, the boat moved quickly. Sharnin, the dock master, hooked an arm protectively around his shoulders and pulled him back.

  “Wait, no!” Geoffrey said, fighting back.

  “She’s coming in too fast, Me Lord. To safety with ye,” the younger man said, his voice muffled by the ice-covered scarf.

  Geoffrey turned, stepped on his heavy robe, and stumbled, just as a massive, dark wave rolled into the sheltered harbor. The ship rose, riding the surging water forward. Waves slapped violently against the dock wall, breaking ice shelves loose and spraying frigid water high in the air.

  “What do we do,” Geoffrey yelled, pulling his robe free and collecting himself.

  Sharnin said something unintelligible, but turned just as the water roared. Or it might have been the ship, Geoffrey couldn’t rightly tell. The boat nosed down as the waved crested and slowed, before the water pulled it back out towards the breakwater once again.

  “Have them throw lines. We’ll pull it in by hand,” he said, but Sharnin’s hand had come to rest on his chest. “What?”

  “Back, Milord. Back to the castle. Run, go now!”

  Geoffrey lurched back, the man’s strong arm extending. His first instinct was to berate him. To lash out, but he didn’t have the chance. The strange groaning noise filled the air once again, louder and more desperate than before. It wasn’t the dock, or even the ship. It was a noise he’d only heard once before, when a devastating storm struck the lake and swamped half the castle.

  The water level in the sheltered harbor dropped suddenly, a strange slapping noise rising above the stinging wind. Hundreds of fish appeared, flopping out of the water, instantly turning the dark surface into a roiling, frothy soup.

  Geoffrey was moving back towards the castle, but he didn’t consciously move his legs. His guards clustered in tightly around him, their strength ushering him forward. The ship had been pulled back completely out of the harbor, but it was rising, tilting forward on something immense and dark.

  He lost sight of the shi
p as they passed behind the wall. Faster…move faster you fool, he told himself. He tried to run, slipped, and tried again. His boot found purchase and he kicked off. He ran down the path, the wall blocking his view of the harbor and the approaching wave. His heart hiccupped in his chest, and he struggled to swallow down a hard lump in his throat.

  The first step felt impossibly tall. His knees and hips ached as he threw himself upward. His guards huffed and cursed behind him, their armor and shields rattling loudly. A gust of wind roared in, whipping his robe up and nearly pushing him right off the edge of the stair.

  Geoffrey turned, bunching up the heavy garment and stumbling forward. The wave forced its way into the harbor, moving like an uncaring, dark wall. He gasped for air, his chest aching. He felt old, and slow.

  The wave swallowed the dock master’s shack just before he turned to climb the last flight. The small building was there one moment, its windows burning cheerily in the storm, and in the next, it was gone.

  He had just a dozen steps left, and then a handful. Weight fell on him from behind and he toppled forward, onto the garden path. The soldier braced and pulled him off the ground. Geoffrey turned in time to see Sharnin, still clutching to the salty scarf around his face, swept off the stair, just a handful of steps below them.

  The angry water roared over the stairs, slapping up and spraying him with an icy mist. But he was safe. The ship struck the rocky bowl of the island, the forecastle splintering in a shower of wood and rock. It keeled heavily to port, turning with some powerful but unseen riptide.

  Geoffrey watched as the horrible swell of water pulled away, the ship meandering pathetically in its wake. It tipped, the edge of the stone wall that previously sheltered him appearing suddenly from beneath the water. Wood groaned, before popping and snapping loudly. The ship rocked for a moment, until the water released it, disappearing from the small harbor as quickly as it entered.