Parasite Soul

by Jags, Chris

  “I’m content enough to be here,” Sasha shrugged.

  “I’m not sure if I shouldn’t be turning you in to the guards,” Rollic mused. “I don’t want you bringing trouble down on my family.”

  Simon couldn’t banish an image of his father dangling at the end of a rope, his face purple and distorted, ravens pecking at his bulging eyes. He wanted to scream, in rage or in sorrow, but both emotions were locked away behind a bleak wall of shock. In place of emotion, he experienced a disorienting disconnection from the world, as though he were all that was real, and he answered as though he were following one scripted line from a play with another.

  “Do what you must,” he said numbly.

  “I won’t if you leave now.”

  Simon nodded. His mind was a fog and he wasn’t quite sure what he was agreeing to. He beckoned to Niu. “Come on.”

  “Where?” she asked simply.

  Simon didn’t know. The world hadn’t yet coalesced into a reality he recognized, and it didn’t seem to matter where he wound up. He vaguely remembered agreeing to escort Niu home to Jynn, and he supposed he had nothing more pressing to occupy his time. It wasn’t as though he could go home.

  “I’ll help you to go home,” he said at length. Some of his scattered wits were returning to him now. “But first… I have to see him.”

  “Your father?” Niu asked quietly.

  Simon nodded.

  “He’s been buried,” Rollic chipped in, blunt as ever. “They had him strung up in the square for a day or two, but they put him under yesterday.”

  “That is enough,” Niu snarled, fists curling.

  Simon held up one hand wearily. “It’s alright. Where did they put him, Rollic?”

  “Well… they threw him in the swamp,” the ginger lad responded, with all the tact of a charging jaggermund.

  “Swamp.” Simon repeated dully. “Fine. We’re going, Rollic. There’s no need to call the guard on us.” He gestured for Niu and Sasha to follow him and pushed his way into the field of maize.

  “Not through our cornfield, you’re not?” Rollic called after them, disbelieving.

  “Yes, that’s the plan.” Simon waved a distracted farewell.

  “Look,” Rollic yelled as Simon slipped between the stalks, Niu in his shadow. “You can’t just…”

  What would certainly have degenerated into a furious stream of invective ended in a yelp of shock and alarm which dissolved into disturbing gurgling. Simon slowly, unwillingly turned and found he was unsurprised to see Rollic pinned to the side of the barn, slowly sagging, one tine of the pitchfork jammed clean through his throat. Nor was he surprised to see Sasha, head bowed, holding her hair delicately away from her lips as she slurped greedily at the wound. She caught his eye and smiled slightly, the first indication of a genuine expression he’d seen her employ.

  Simon was dimly aware of how he should have reacted. He should have berated Sasha harshly and cut his ties with her. He should have been consumed by horrified guilt for having failed to prevent the bruxa from murdering Rollic. Instead he felt, and did, nothing at all.

  This is what my life has become, he thought, and kept walking.

  VIII

  At the far edge of the cornfield, Simon, Niu, and Sasha found themselves overlooking the hamlet of Brand. The anticipated glorious homecoming of Simon Dragonslayer was instead indisputably the worst moment of his life. The untidy scattering of dwellings crowding the tiny marketplace seemed less like the warm, inviting homes he remembered and more like the jaws of a trap. The dying sun reddened streets which were largely silent, with only a few folk about their business. His own home - largely obscured from his perspective by an evergreen windbreak - seemed to be cringing away from him, lurking behind its leafy shield like a wounded animal. Simon found himself wondering whether anyone was looking after old Adelaide the cow.

  A newly-erected gibbet squatted at the center of the market, a tumor on the face of a trusted friend become stranger. Simon couldn’t bear to look at it. His father had died there, kicking and jerking as his face darkened, blue and swollen. Tears pricked Simon’s eyes.

  “How are you?” Niu asked with genuine concern, one hand on his arm.

  Truthfully, Simon didn’t know. He hadn’t processed the loss of his father. Part of him wanted to believe that Rollic had, for some unfathomable purpose, been lying about the execution; that the man who had raised him was forever gone seemed almost laughably unreal.

  Rollic’s death also failed to resonate, as though he’d dreamt it. While the two of them had never been friendly, he’d known Rollic all of his life, and the young farmhand had never done him harm. Sasha’s bloody handiwork should have struck a deep and shuddering chord of horror in his soul, but in place of revulsion and regret, he felt only hollow emptiness.

  Some distracted speculation on Simon’s part had narrowed the bruxa’s motives for killing the unfortunate young farmhand down to just two. The possibility that she’d simply been hungry was alarming; if true, Simon and Niu might well be next on the menu, and they had enemies enough to contend with without one so vicious in their own camp. The alternative, however, was even more worrisome: that Sasha had murdered Rollic out of some misguided sense of empathy for Simon. In the former case, she was as any hungry beast, her driving motivation easy to understand if not to deal with. In the latter, she was completely deranged.

  Still, providing she didn’t wind up opening their throats in the night, he supposed she might be useful. He was no fighter. The rash, impulsive boy who had drawn overoptimistic levels of confidence from a rusty old sword had, in this past week, withered and died. While he had ample proof that Niu could take care of herself, she was only one person; King Minus and his daughter commanded an army. Sasha, however, was as a shark, designed for killing. Simon had never heard tell of any undead with a conscience, but there were tales of such creatures forming temporary allegiances with humans if it suited their interests. He could only hope this was one of those instances.

  Sasha wasn’t his biggest concern at present. He knew it was foolish to risk visiting his father’s final inglorious resting place: the small stretch of swamp to the north of the village. He wouldn’t even be able to view the body, but he was desperate for closure. Veter deserved an apology; to hear his son admit what a fool he’d been, how naïve, unworldly, and ultimately destructive his actions had been. No doubt his father was already watching him from the Afterworld, but that wasn’t enough for Simon. If he didn’t make the effort to deliver his message personally, what kind of greeting would his father give him when he finally joined him in Vanyon’s great halls? What forgiveness could there be for a son who had brought ruin on the family and then fled from it? He’d made a lot of stupid mistakes lately; if he intended ever to sleep again, reparations were in order.

  And I have to do it alone, he decided. I can’t risk Niu’s life.

  He told the handmaiden as much; predictably she argued, but he was adamant. One person who knew the area well, he said, could move more swiftly and was less likely to be spotted. She was unconvinced by his reasoning, most probably since she had no confidence in his ability to cross a street on his own without courting disaster. Changing tactics, he asked instead for privacy in order to commune with his father, and she relented, nodding wisely.

  “It is similar in Jynn,” she said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in life beyond the mortal kingdom,” Simon returned combatively. In light of his loss, the last thing he wanted to have doubts cast upon was his belief in the Afterworld, but he couldn’t resist challenging her.

  “We do not,” she replied patiently. “But we speak to the memories of our loved ones. Once on the evening that we learn of their passing, while emotions still run raw; once again on the same evening, a year later, when we are calm and reflective. It is very healing.”

  This seemed reasonable enough, if misguided, so Simon elected not pursue the conversation. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Wait here for me.
”

  Niu smiled slightly. “I will. In the meantime, I will sample the corn. Be careful.” She melted back into the field.

  “You too, Sasha,” Simon told the bruxa, who was showing a disinclination to follow the handmaiden. She gazed back at him blankly, head cocked to one side. When he started downhill, however, she stayed put, and he sighed in relief. Of all the mistakes he’d made in recent days, leading a bruxa to his sleepy hometown had the potential to be the most destructive.

  Under the sparse cover of runty trees and low walls, he skirted Brand as best he could. The tiny village had never seemed so large; while it was possible to walk from one end to the other in scant minutes, navigating the perimeter undetected took time and planning. Leaping a sluggish stream, he dashed through a small copse to Widow Oakland’s cottage – the newest building in the village, and one its owner maintained with pride, using gains which gossip suggested were ill-gotten. From there, he crab-walked behind a wall until he crouched behind the property of the widow’s significantly less tidy neighbor, Renford, sheep farmer and enthusiast. The sheep in question were ambling about peacefully in their paddock. One or two glanced questioningly at Simon as he slipped past, but neither Renford nor his wife or children were anywhere to be seen.

  Simon’s luck held as he dashed from home to home. It was easier to believe that he was hiding from his own people than he might have imagined a week prior, but it still ached. Twice he was forced to lie low as one of the villagers pottered about in his yard, but not once was he spotted. The darkening sky had driven most of his old neighbors indoors. By the time he’d ducked into the cluttered and overgrown yard behind Brand’s little church, he was free to disappear into the scrubby undergrowth which separated the village from the marsh to the north. He couldn’t shake the sense that he was being followed, but saw no pursuers and attributed his jumpiness to nerves.

  Brand’s marsh wasn’t a popular destination for the locals, especially as it was said to be haunted by will-o-wisps and worse. Simon, who had played here with Jeb and Dannon as children, had never seen anything of the kind. Presently, he wasn’t much in the mood to care. He moved carefully but quickly. As the ground grew softer and more treacherous underfoot, reeds springing up amongst the mosses in place of grass, he looked for traces of activity. Swatting at small, biting flies, he circled the stagnant pools and quaking stretches of sucking mud, keeping a wary eye out for human activity.

  In the distance, he heard voices. An argument, it sounded like. Straining his ears, he thought he discerned the strident tones of Gemma, the local baker. Growing up, Simon had felt the old harridan’s broom more than once – she liked to swat unruly children about the shins – but now that her body was growing too feeble for physical assault, Gemma’s voice still packed a punch. He couldn’t make out whom she was arguing with, but he imagined that person was contemplating their bootlaces in a desperate attempt to avoid eye-contact with the rheumy old bat. Smiling wanly, Simon realized he very nearly missed her, doubting as he did that he would ever suffer through one of her interminable scoldings again.

  Distracted by this fresh pang of loss, Simon nearly missed the telltale signs of something having been recently been dragged through reeds which were just now recovering from the weight which had briefly flattened them. His heart began to thump as he followed the track, knowing that he was unlikely to find physical evidence of his father’s demise, but feeling the horror of it just as acutely. Leaden legs drew him forward with little regard for his will.

  The fading trail terminated in a small swampy pool, by which point Simon’s thundering heart could probably have been heard in Brand. Duckweed blanketed the water’s surface, save in the center, where something large had disturbed the growth. Peering reluctantly through this murky opening, Simon could detect a disturbance in the mud; some object had indeed been devoured by the swamp.

  Rollic hadn’t been lying, then. An awful emptiness seemed to make a shell of Simon. Sagging wearily, he slumped to his knees and his hands began to shake. A small moan escaped his lips unbidden, and he was glad no one was nearby to hear how small and childlike he sounded.

  Did his father truly lie just ahead, forever buried in the mire? Without seeing the body it was hard to credit, but he felt in his bones that it was true. Ingloriously interred in the reeking muck before him was the man who had raised and cared for him; a stolid and unimaginative man who’d failed to comprehend Simon’s flights of fancy but who had stood by him even in moments of dispute. His only family. How had the soldiers treated him so cavalierly? Did they not have fathers, families of their own?

  He remembered Veter’s gruff warning that his quest to slay the Cannevish Wyrm had been purest foolishness, and his heart ached – if only he’d listened! Yet he also recalled how King Minus had bestowed upon Simon the name Dragonslayer, a title which would have infused his father with lasting, heartfelt pride. That he could never boast of his accomplishments before the hearth of their little cottage while the fireflies danced beyond the open windows was Simon’s deepest wound.

  “I’m sorry, father,” he whispered, tears trickling down his cheeks. “Truly, I… this was my fault, I am to blame for where you lie…” He clenched his fists around a handful of reeds he could not even remember plucking. “I was reckless and foolish, like you said, like you all said, Jeb and Rollic and everyone. I know mmother would have taken your part if she’d…” Survived the plague which had swept Cannevish, shattering countless families, when he’d had been too young to remember. Simon swallowed thickly. “I… I ruined everything. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  For a moment, an aching silence reigned across the marsh. Then he heard the harsh laughter of children in the village, who had found someone or something smaller than themselves to bully. The petrified squawking of a chicken identified their victim, followed by shouts from its owner. The spell was broken.

  Simon stared sadly into the pool for some time. He couldn’t know if his father had heard him in the Afterworld, he could only hope. As to forgiveness, he longed for it, but wasn’t at all sure he deserved it. He wasn’t certain he would ever recover from this moment, from the finality of having condemned his strongest supporter and only kin to the stinking depths of this wretched boggy grave.

  Time to go, he thought dully. Had it not been for Niu, waiting for him, he might have remained for a time, or perhaps forever. But he’d derailed the handmaiden’s life with his stupidity as well, and he had an obligation to see her to safety. Knees damp, pants clinging, he hauled himself to his feet and put his back to the marsh.

  Retracing his steps toward the church, the marsh sucking reprovingly at his heels, he tried to focus his thoughts on the trials ahead. He couldn’t yet imagine how he and Niu were going to escape the country. Niu’s strategy - walk through checkpoints with confidence - was hardly going to work at a border crossing. Might it be wiser simply to lose themselves in the wilds for a time, until the princess and her father relaxed security, assuming them dead or fled? Surely they wouldn’t continue to expend their resources searching for an insolent peasant and a renegade handmaiden indefinitely. Or would they? Could they be so petty?

  Lost in his worries, Simon failed to notice the rustling reeds and shivering branches amongst the small copse to his left until it was almost too late. A pale blur launched itself from the cover of the straggly growth and barreled toward him headlong, howling shrilly, mud spraying beneath broad, slapping feet. With little time to react, Simon shrieked and pitched himself facedown into the mire as the apparition leaped, clutching arms folding upon the space he’d occupied a split second earlier. A flash of snarling teeth, wide, woeful eyes, and a flying mat of filthy black hair sparked a shock of recognition in Simon: this was the wendigo he and Niu had encountered in the cabin outside Saber Bend.

  Spitting mud, Simon fought desperately for purchase in the mire as the wendigo rounded on him. This creature, then, had been stalking them all along, no doubt waiting until they separated to attack. Simo
n regretted dismissing Niu’s concerns, that night in the barn, but there was nothing for it now: he was alone, unarmed, and entirely unprepared for the attack.

  “I…” he sputtered, grasping at a flimsy and protesting sapling to anchor himself, “I’m not your enemy, I wanted to free you, remember?”

  The wendigo bared its teeth, hunching in a predatory crouch, preparing to spring. Simon scrambled clumsily to his feet and backed away, arms outthrust.

  “Look,” he managed as the creature, hissing softly, glared balefully at him from behind a curtain of greasy, tangled locks. “I never meant for… it wasn’t my idea to… Why would you come after me…?”

  Because he thinks he’s protecting his family, such as it was. Every muscle in the creature’s body strained taught. The hunger in its eyes was terrible. Simon fervently wished he’d brought Sasha along, after all.

  “I’m a fugitive, like you! I wouldn’t tell anyone about what went on in your…”

  He cried out as the wendigo sprang, shielding himself with crossed arms as the weight of the monster bore him down into the muck. His world was reduced to a blur of snapping teeth and rotten breath as he grappled desperately with his assailant to prevent it closing its reeking jaws on his face. Predator and prey churned the spongy soil with thrashing feet, struggling for control. Stained incisors raked Simon’s forearm, tearing flesh, spattering them both with blood. The metallic scent seemed to drive the wendigo wild; it began to batter Simon relentlessly with fists while Simon howled and kicked beneath it.

  This is it, then, Simon thought in panic. I’m going to die. This is the inglorious end of the great Dragonslayer. And maybe I deserve it; if I’m dead, I can’t ruin any more lives.

  “What in the name of Lesquann’s shriveled tits?” someone gasped from nearby. The wendigo’s head snapped up. Simon heard the scrape of multiple swords leaving their sheaths, and his blossoming relief abruptly withered and died. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.