A March of Woe

by Aaron Bunce

  Henri passed through the small town, abandoned carriages sitting on either side of the road. They sat at angles, the spokes of their wheels shattered and their bodies smashed together, their combined bulk effectively blocking much of the road. Henri tried to skirt around the carriages, but there wasn’t room.

  Why would they block the road? Henri wondered, moving to open the door closest to him. He focused his emotions, and felt his hand close around the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The other carriage door was stuck fast as well. Henri backtracked down the lane, trying to find a way around the blocked road, but the murky, squirming mass of the phantom road blocked him in. It formed a tunnel around the buildings and refused to expand.

  Henri turned and took a single step towards the carriages. The gloom above him opened up as a flash of brilliant lightning streaked by. It arced outwards, branching into hundreds of fingerlike knives of light. The light exposed churning, moving shapes, flexing ominously. Another flash of lightning cut overhead, and then another, battering him with riotous sound and light.

  Ducking down, Henri scuttled forward, his hands held up to protect his head. Lighting cut down, striking the building to his right, the subsequent boom washing over him like warm water. He rolled, the hair on his arms and neck standing on end.

  This is wrong…something is wrong, he thought in a panic. He couldn’t remember anything on the phantom road feeling or sounding so real before. It was always muted, disconnected.

  He covered the distance to the carriages in just a few strides, but recoiled as light crashed out of the sky just before him, covering the road’s blockade in a wave of searing heat and light. When he peeled his eyes open again he was greeted by a very different sight.

  A wave rippled through the air, forming a jagged, oblong circle. He could see the carriages through the strange ripple. Formerly colorless and dull, they looked real and full of life now. Snow and wind blew against him, sweeping through the carriages and picking up debris along the way. Henri recoiled from the biting cold icy particles. He could feel the cold, did that mean…

  Henri reached out towards the icicle-covered wood of the carriage door, desperate to touch something real again, but the ripple flexed and collapsed just beyond his hand. Everything became dark and drab again, as if a door to the real world was slammed in his face.

  Lightning continued to arc overhead, crashing into the gloom as Henri pulled himself up onto the carriage. He easily climbed up the side, mounted the roof, and moved to jump off the other side. But his left foot caught on something and instead, he tumbled awkwardly over the edge. Henri flailed for a moment, but managed to orient himself and pull his body upright.

  “Sixth Arm!” he spat, as he caught sight of what tripped him. A shadowy arm extended out of the roof of the carriage, its form moving and flexing like oily smoke, its fingers wrapped securely around his ankle.

  The hand tightened around his ankle, wrenching with disturbing force. Henri grunted, pulled, and kicked. His foot glanced off what felt like coiling stone. The arm tightened further as another burst out of the carriage roof behind him, spattering oily droplets of shadow in the dreary snow. Henri cried out as cold, strong fingers dug into his shoulder and slammed him down. He wasted a few moments trying to pry the shadowy fingers loose, before a sharp edge dug into his belly.

  Idiot! Herja’s blade, Henri chided himself, awkwardly pulling the blade free from its sheath.

  With a twist and chop Henri brought the radiant blade down on the arm clamped onto his shoulder. Oily, shadowy flesh parted, severing fingers. The arm flailed, violently smashing its stump into anything within reach. Henri wrenched up and drove the dagger through the other arm, rolling off the carriage roof just as another group of arms burst through the wood.

  Waving the blade before him like a torch, Henri backpedaled as dozens of the coiling arms pushed out from the carriage doors, and then the snow around his feet. He tripped, performed an awkward cartwheel, and leapt over more of the strange appendages.

  “Herja!” Henri yelled, now confident that the appearance of the horrific appendages wasn’t normal – as far as normal in the phantom road went.

  The gloomy, ash-like snow muffled his voice, but he called out, continuing to move. No one responded, or appeared. The gloom overhead lifted, exposing thick, murky clouds. Bright, white lightning arced through the cover, chaining out until it covered most of the sky.

  Could Herja hear him? Was she listening? He had to consider the possibility that he was on his own for good.

  The arms continued to stalk him through the snow. They moved just beneath the surface, disturbing the powdery white like moles burrowing towards food. Henri narrowly missed tripping over a large rock, and decided to turn and run. He stuffed the knife back into its sheath, frightened by the prospect of tripping and cutting himself with the radiant blade.

  A colossal wall loomed out of the gloom, stretching so far into the distance on either side that he couldn’t see an end. A memory triggered as he approached the heavy portcullis.

  The Rydart wall – the King’s Road. Ban Turin, why am I in…his realization was cut short as the slithering arms burst out of the snow around him, slapping and punching at his legs. One of the arms latched onto his leg and pulled down hard. The arm extended suddenly, exposing a coiling, flexing shoulder and the tip of a head. He wrenched the blade free and severed the arm at the elbow, the hand melting in the snow.

  With the gates closed, Henri moved in the only direction available. Up. Jumping with a startled cry, he latched on to the gate’s thick crossbars. He wrenched his body up a dozen paces and hung, stealing a glance, hoping that the wretched things weren’t following him. If they were, Henri couldn’t see them. The white-gray snow at the base of the gate looked pristine – in fact, there was no sign of his passage either. The iron gate and unblemished snow hung silent and drab beneath him, as if he had never been there.

  Unwilling to return to the snow, but unwilling to hang there forever, Henri pulled his body up. When he reached the top of the gate he worked his way sideways until he found a finger hold and moved onto the stone.

  Henri chuckled, his body lithe and strong as he shimmied his way up the sheer face. There was nothing funny about his situation – far from it, but he knew there wasn’t a man or woman alive that could make this climb.

  “Luca, if only you could see your old dad!” he whispered, scrabbling up the last length of sheer stone and pulling himself onto the ramparts.

  Henri hopped down and turned right down the battlements, moving towards one of the gateway’s bastions. The large braziers were dark, and there weren’t any soldiers in place. Strange. Henri remembered his last trip to the capitol, and how soldiers swarmed all over the defensive walls, marching back and forth and heckling folk below. It was a show of power and dominance – a reminder of the people’s place, always beneath them. But now, it looked and felt abandoned.

  This isn’t normal. None of it is, he reminded himself and moved through the open hatch and down the circular stair. The door at the base of the tower was closed, so he crawled out the open window and dropped onto the lane. Ban Turin rose up beyond the courtyard, an immense, slopping mountain of dark buildings.

  The snow at his feet was thick, the covered cobblestones dotted with a number of strange mounds. Henri picked his way forward, taking note that the closest mound was not only person-sized, but he could clearly see the outline of sprawled arms and legs.

  Did something happen on the phantom road…delirium perhaps?

  Or am I…Henri cut off his own spiraling thoughts as he considered the repercussions. The phantom road was leading him to Eisa, through a Ban Turin scattered with death and darkness. Fear drove him forward into a run, hopping haphazardly between still, snow covered bodies.

  * * * *

  Kida groaned and rolled over, pain flaring in his head and neck. His body ached, he felt cold and wet, and couldn’t immediately tell where he was. He remembered noise, wind, and water, but
that was it.

  He rolled free, his feet tangling in something heavy, so he reached down and pulled free, his fingers bunching up in a thick, warm, blanket. Blanket? Warm? He ran his hands over his chest and legs, but he wasn’t wet, or cold, for that matter.

  Reaching up, Kida rubbed his eyes as he fought to clear his vision. Thankfully, the fog lifted and the room solidified around him. The chamber was large, the walls covered in richly colored tapestries. Decorative furniture sat before a small fireplace on the opposite wall.

  “Where am I?” he asked, sliding out of the bed and reaching up to cradle his throbbing head.

  Wind rattled against the window to his left, something wet spattering the glass. He walked slowly to the window, leaning heavily against the sill. Wet snow and ice covered a good portion of the barred window, large white capped waves just visible beyond.

  Castle…water. He puzzled, something finally jarring loose in his mind. He remembered a boat, the deck rocking beneath him, the air tinged by the sour smell of vomit.

  He limped over to the fire and plopped down onto a seat, scanning the room quickly just as a door to his right clicked and creaked open. Warm light spilled into the room, a small backlit figure moving in noiselessly.

  Kida slid forward to the edge of the seat cushion, confusion and fear mixing in equal parts. He quickly pushed for more answers, but struggled to remember anything beyond the violently rocking ship, and waves. There was so much wind and water.

  “Oh, Mani’s blessing be fallin’! You’re up and lively!” a young woman said appearing in the light of the fire.

  “Greetings,” Kida grunted and popped up from the seat, grabbing his head as he moved erratically to bow. He fell back on the seat, cursing.

  “Heavens! Are you alright?” the young woman asked, coming forward quickly.

  “F…fine,” Kida said, hastily, tenderly rubbing the angry knot on his forehead. He could smell the young woman now that she was close. He caught hints of food, mixed with something sour. Her hands were small, wrinkly as if soaked in water too long, and covered in small nicks and cuts. A memory bubbled forth. Soap. She smelled like the lye soap the monks used to soak their robes. A bit more of him bubbled forth, the cloud in his mind lifting.

  “And you’re in no need of bowing to me, young master. I be Mary, I works in the scullery, cookin’ and doing some of the washin’. I also tend the fires here in the east wing, too. You been sleeping for such a time, I hope I didn’t rouse you,” the young maid said, apologetically bowing her head.

  “You didn’t wake me. I just…I just…where am I?” he asked, the room’s draft forcing him back towards the fire. Mary watched him carefully, nodded, and moved to stir the fire. She moved efficiently, restocking the fire from a rack next to the hearth.

  “You’re in the Blue room. Well, you see, we call it that for no other reason than the rug and cushions are all blue. Apologies, I ramble horrible bad. You’re in Lakeview guestroom of the east wing…a guest of Lord and Lady Thatcher. They says that you was on a ship braving these hells awful waves. It crashed on the rocks in the sheltered harbor. Lord Thatcher hisself pulled you out of the ship,” Mary said excitedly as she stood, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Kida cupped his head with his hands. Thatcher…ship. He could remember who he was, where he lived, and what he did, but he couldn’t remember why he was on a ship, or now in Castle Astralen, the home of Lord Geoffrey Thatcher, Earl of Karnell.

  “I beg your leave, young master. His lordship will be wantin’ to know that you’re up and around. Can I be bringin’ you hot tea, or some soup?” she asked, bowing and backing away from the hearth.

  “Yes, please. That sounds very nice,” Kida said, struggling to tear his gaze away from the flames. His frustration grew as he fought to put the pieces together. He looked up and realized that the young maid had slipped quietly back out of the room.

  Slowly, Kida stood and paced before the fire, favoring the swollen and painful lump on his head. He was a Denil monk, well, an understudy at least. Not just an understudy, he was understudy to Brother Hobart Dalman, senior monk and appointed First Scribe.

  I was with Brother Dalman. We were in Ban Turin, he thought suddenly, the fog peeling back and exposing more of his memories. “Damn,” Kida cursed, turning and pacing back in the opposite direction.

  He remembered his time in the capitol, transcribing countless pages’ worth of parchment as Brother Dalman spoke, recounting his meeting with councilmen, merchant lords, and well-connected bureaucrats. He could remember listening and writing, but not what he wrote.

  “Brother Dalman sent me…” he pressed, turning on a sore heel to pace back in the other direction.

  The door cracked open again. Mary balanced a platter holding a covered tureen and a steaming mug. She set it on a table next to the settee before moving off around the room, lighting candles and lanterns. Once finished she silently slipped back out the door.

  “Brother Dalman sent me here…” he repeated, willing the reasoning forth. Brother Dalman wouldn’t have sent him away willingly. An understudy’s place was by their teacher’s side.

  Kida turned and paced back towards the door and walked past the tureen and steaming mug of tea. It smelled delicious, igniting a sudden yearning in his belly.

  “Perhaps food will shake the truth loose,” he muttered, lifting the lid free and allowing the plume of steam to wash over his face. His hand passed right over the spoon sitting on the platter and patted his left side. My knapsack!

  His knapsack, always slung at this side, was gone. He’d reached for it because he always carried a spoon and fork with him. It was one of the first bits of advice Brother Dalman gave him prior to leaving the Citadel.

  “Unfortunately, you can trust a stranger’s cooking more than their cleanliness,” he muttered, the older man’s words spiraling back.

  Yes, his knapsack. He was carrying a message. That had to be it…an urgent message. His head hurt the more he pressed, but there was no stopping it now. He was sure of it. He was carrying an urgent message from Brother Dalman to Lord Geoffrey Thatcher.

  “That is it. Yes. I have a message,” he repeated, slapping his palm on the table and straightening, “but…”

  “I am heartened to hear that,” a tall, regal man said from the doorway. “I have troubled over that very question since your boat first appeared out of the storm. After all, it would take a message of great urgency to convince a sane captain to sail Lake Mynus in such weather. And beyond that, convince a sane captain to accept no gold upfront for passage.”

  Kida jumped and almost knocked the tureen off the table in the process. “Milord!” he said, turning and bowing, his beating heart pounding a frantic drum in his head as well. His legs grew wobbly as his vision filled with bright, flashing colors.

  Strong hands grabbed him under the arms and he felt his weight lowered into a seat.

  “Breathe, young man,” Lord Thatcher said, quietly.

  After a few moments, the spell passed and his vision cleared. Lord Thatcher kneeled before him, his hands still poised to grab him if needed.

  “I am sorry, milord. I… my head… I think I struck it on something,” Kida apologized, embarrassment flooding him at his near fainting spell.

  “A handful of men died on that ship, young man. I don’t say that to burden your heart, please know that. But it would be fair to say that you were lucky to survive the short journey. Let me apologize. Lady Eleana Foldsmeth is due to arrive as a guest. She is a most gracious and wholly disagreeable woman, and J’ohaven knows how long she will stay,” the Earl said, scratching his beard. “But listen to me, burdening you with such trivialities. Please forget that I said anything. If my wife were to find out, I would never hear the end of it. What is your name?”

  “I am Kida, milord, principle and understudy to Brother Hobart Dalman, First Scribe of the Denil order.”

  “Well, Kida. It is nice to officially make your acquaintance. I see that Mary brought you so
up. You must be hungry. Here, you eat, and after we will discuss the urgent news that has brought you here,” Lord Thatcher said, gesturing towards the tureen.

  Kida watched the Earl settle onto a padded bench before the fire, facing him. He marveled at how young and strong he looked. A few streaks of gray cut his dark hair and beard, but his blue eyes were clear and radiated strength. He was far from the weathered old man Kida had expected.

  Mary appeared from behind him and set the platter down in Kida’s lap, lifting the lid so he could eat. She flashed him a rosy-cheeked smile, curtsied, and quickly left the room. It was only then that Kida noticed the guards standing inside the chamber door. Another stood behind them, at the food of the bed. He hadn’t even heard them enter.

  Not wanting to appear rude, Kida took the spoon and ate a bite of the soup. It was savory and delicious. He tasted lake fish and thick vegetables, and fought the urge to slop the hot food quickly into his mouth. He rarely ate in front of anyone other than other monks, so having a provincial lord seated across from him made him more than a little self-conscious.

  Lord Thatcher absentmindedly pulled on the same section of his beard, the hair in that spot grayer than the rest. Kida could tell something weighed heavily upon him.

  “Might I inquire, milord, as to the conditions of my effects? I carried a knapsack with me on the boat,” Kida said tentatively between bites. Lord Thatcher cleared his throat and sat up straighter, pulling his eyes away from the fire as he motioned to one of his men.

  “Bring Kida his personal effects, please, Roderick. Plator should know where they are,” Lord Thatcher said, before sitting back.

  Kida took another bite, his nerves settling back down. He would feel right once the knapsack was in his arms, and he was able to hand the note directly into the Earl’s hands – just as Brother Dalman had instructed.

  “…although I do not remember a knapsack,” Lord Thatcher said suddenly, shifting in his seat and not looking away from the fire. “I would know. I was there when they pulled you out of that boat. And good thing, too, the water washed that poor vessel back out to sea not long after. We watched it promptly sink to the bottom. I hope this knapsack you speak of was not terribly dear to you. But again, I ramble. Please, eat!”