Asunder

by Tanya Schofield

  Garen paused to allow his eyes to adjust, since the blackness at the bottom of the stairs was absolute. The silence, too, was unbroken by anything louder than the rushing of blood in his ears. The moment turned into minutes, but still his vision did not show him more than the solid black. He lost count of his heartbeats.

  A hand clasped his shoulder, and Garen inhaled sharply in surprise. He spun to face the threat— or rather, he tried to spin, but the unseen hand was inflexible, inarguable. He stood where he was, blind and motionless and quietly angry.

  “Get off,” he commanded, attempting the smallest of pushes towards the thing. It had no effect. “I come here by order of your Lord. He summoned me.”

  The darkness that gripped him seemed to nod, though why he thought such foolishness, Garen did not know.

  “You are expected,” a voice murmured, barely audible even so close to his ear. There was no breath behind it.

  The hand did not loosen its grip on his shoulder, but instead pressed forward so that Garen had to walk or be forced to bend. He walked. The hand guided him, cold sharp fingers digging under his collarbone and insistently steering his sightless way through what felt like smooth, endless tunnels, sloping ever downward.

  Dim red light began to appear, and Garen could see the faintest outlines of doors, and perhaps those were figures, but he couldn’t discern the source of the light. Here, down deeper, the sense of malice was stronger. He must be close to Semaj’s resting place, Garen theorized. He wondered if he was to meet the Lord of the Dead right then. He wondered if he was prepared.

  “Stay,” the voice murmured.

  Garen was pushed through an archway to his left, and the hand removed itself from his shoulder as suddenly as it had grasped him.

  There was enough of the reddish glow for him to find the single stone bench. He assumed this was what passed for hospitality in the Witherin, for what else could this place be? He stretched the ache from his shoulder, where the unseen creature had gripped him, and sat down to wait, as he had been instructed.

  Logannus moved down the hallway swiftly, no longer slowed by the human. There was much to be done, and his Lord was in a fury. Had he the breath, he would have sighed his irritation that the power-hungry fool had been summoned at all. But he would not question the will of his Lord, no. To question was not death— it was worse than death. Death was merciful, and his Lord was not. He moved ever onward, down more tunnels, always deeper, always down. His Lord was waiting.

  Failure.

  Unheard screams of the already dead echoed in Logannus’ mind as Phelwen Semaj raged, as he had been raging for weeks.

  Failures all.

  The body had not been brought, Logannus knew. Each of the servants sent to retrieve it had failed. The time for Semaj to return had come and passed, yet his chosen vessel still eluded him. Beyond that, the girl still lived - every attempt on her life had failed.

  Worse, the humans were not falling as quickly as the Lich King had anticipated, his army was not growing. There were more cities and more people than there once were, but fewer gates of power. The humans were also learning quickly and adapting - burning the bodies of their dead rather than risk them reawakening each nightfall.

  Semaj’s fury was all-encompassing, and none were spared. He recalled the minions he had sent, ceased the attacks on the surface world, and drew himself inward, preparing.

  The shrieks continued.

  I bring news, Lord. Logannus waited outside the chamber until the screams faded and Phelwen beckoned.

  What news?

  His Lord’s barely restrained anger practically boiled in the impenetrable blackness.

  Your latest servant has arrived, Lord. The human.

  The seething non-presence of his Lord paused. Garen.

  Logannus sent him the image of the human he had left above, showed him the arrogant ease with which their guest had settled himself in the darkness.

  Phelwen devoured the sight, his anger shifting to pleasure in a single beat of the human’s heart. Yes. Garen. Yes.

  Countless impressions presented themselves to Logannus, and he nodded insubstantially though his acceptance was understood. He slipped away to make the necessary preparations, listening to the silent screams rise again as his Lord celebrated.

  Hours passed, and still Garen waited. The darkness around him pulsed with each quiet throb of blood in his ears. The dim redness grew no brighter, nor dimmer. The silence remained as it was, deep and impossible, broken not even by rat or spider. All of his senses were focused, but he had no warning when the chill hand again gripped his shoulder. Everything in him wanted to flinch in surprise, but he would not allow it. Rather, he stood.

  “I am ready.” His voice was even; he had been preparing his words for weeks. Garen had done as he was instructed, he had upheld his promise. Soon he would meet with Lord Semaj, the Lich King himself. He would tell the Dark King of his loyalty, of his vision, and the Lich King would be pleased.

  Garen’s most recent attempt to contact the assassin had failed, but it was of no consequence. Lothaedus had assured him it would be done, so it was done. The girl would be dead and Semaj would know … and Semaj would reward him.

  “Now,” the familiar murmur came, pressing him out the arched door.

  Garen walked as sure-footedly as he could in the faint red light, trying to pay attention to the twists and turns of the tunnels as his unseen guide led him downward, but it was impossible. It was all he could do to keep his feet beneath him as the last shreds of light were left behind, and all there was in the unthinkable blackness was the cold, sharp hand that gripped him.

  “Here,” the voice sighed, dry and somehow slippery.

  There, through the arch. Light. Dim and practically useless, but light nonetheless. Garen needed no guiding through that door. The hand remained on his shoulder as he wove his way around strange formations in the stone, rough and unpolished. Where the tunnels above had felt smooth and intentional, this place, this chamber whose edges he could not perceive, was wild and steeped in the darkness.

  Garen paused once, straining to listen. Were there sounds here, or had the silence finally begun to play tricks with his ears? The hand pressed him forward.

  “What is this place?” he asked, his voice loud and echoing. Did the sounds he imagined he heard just grow louder?

  His escort gave no answer.

  “Sit.”

  Garen sat where he was pressed, a low stone bench that seemed somehow central, though he could not tell how he knew. The light, if it could be called such, was barely enough for him to not go mad with the darkness. It provided no way for him to discern shape or surrounding. For the first time since making his plea, since conceiving his plan to join forces with Phelwen Semaj, Garen began to doubt himself. It was a small uncertainty, just a pinprick, but in such darkness as this, even small things became big.

  The hand removed itself from his shoulder, leaving only the icy memory of it behind.

  Garen was certain now that he was being watched, but by what he could not say. There was only the darkness, and the unquiet silence. Shadows seemed to swirl around him, though he could not see to be sure. His doubt grew, and with it came uneasiness, and his resolve slipped … it took every shred of self-control he possessed to not break from his seat on the bench and run.

  You.

  The not-voice in his head was deafening, intense. How many minutes had passed? Garen looked around him, eyes searching for some hint of a shape, but there was none.

  You have failed me.

  True fear gripped Garen for perhaps the first time in his life, and it was cold.

  “My Lord, I have sworn myself to you, I would never fail you,” he insisted, his voice not as strong as he willed it to be. His palms were damp where they gripped the rough edges of the stone bench. Something unseen sneered at him.

  The girl lives.

  Garen opened his mouth to defend himself, but closed it without a sound. It could not be true, yet it
was. Lothaedus had failed him. It was impossible, unprecedented – but Lothaedus had not killed the girl.

  “My assassin tracks her, my Lord, and he does not fail. Never has he failed me. A delay, perhaps, some unforeseen challenge, but be assured she will die.”

  Anger struck out at Garen like a physical blow from an invisible hand, and he had to brace himself.

  Lies. She lives. Your assassin has failed.

  Garen’s breath was short in his chest. This was impossible. Panic was coming, and he could no longer keep it at bay. Lothaedus was the best, there was none to match his skill, he had promised, he had sworn it would be so, this was not possible—

  I do not accept failure.

  “I will kill her myself,” Garen cried, rising to his feet. “Only let me go after her—"

  The soundless voice in his head roared ever louder, to the point of pain. Your life is forfeit.

  Garen did try to run, then, but hands he could not see gripped his shoulders with icy fingers that would not be dislodged. They laughed with voices that could not be heard as they squeezed and pressed. Garen let out a howl of frustration as more of the unseen hands clamped down on his legs, and shoved at his ribs. In a moment, he was stretched flat on the cold stone bench, held in place by countless freezing hands. A high, keening wail reached his ears, the only sound in this mad darkness – and Garen realized it was his own voice, screaming.

  Phelwen Semaj relished the sound and the fear and the unthinking desperation of the man who had sworn his fealty and yet begged to escape. His minions held the body still, chanting in their not-voices, raising the energy that would fuel the transformation of their Lord. The magic that had sustained him was throbbing, pulsing, pounding with every frantic beat of the living heart before him.

  The time was now.

  Garen felt pain such as he had never thought possible. It started in his belly, but held as he was, he could no more curl around the center of the pain to contain it than he could prevent it in the first place. His scream went ragged and then fractured into pieces.

  This sensation was beyond expression, beyond comprehension. It spread, burning like fire and ice and poison and desire, down his legs and up into his chest, where his lungs collapsed and his heart refused to beat. Still he felt it, moving up through him, down through him, consuming him. What fragment of himself remained in the husk of his body huddled helplessly in a corner of his mind, waiting for the end, waiting for the tidal wave of agony to crush him entirely.

  He saw the face of a man in the darkness. He could not turn away from that terrible face, the sunken eyes and colorless lips that hovered over him in a shadowy kiss more intimate than a lover could imagine, and more painful than a thousand deaths.

  Garen prayed for death, he reached for death, and he begged for death, but he was learning what Logannus already knew - death was merciful and Phelwen Semaj was not. Phelwen Semaj was the Lord of Death, the Lich King, the Bringer of Pain … Garen went insane as his consciousness was swatted to one side, and the Dark Lord donned his body as though it were no more than a cloak.

  Phelwen Semaj stood. The body was good, the body was strong – but the body was blind. He extended his hands out to either side of him, palms up, and spoke harsh words from a language long-dead in a voice that did not belong to the body he inhabited.

  He spread his fingers on the last syllable, and fountains of light boiled up from his palms. Power coursed through him, and he willed the light higher until it formed two columns stretching into the blackness above and broke in a wave on the cavern’s ceiling. There, it took on a life of its own, inhabiting the rocks high above, spreading like wildfire, like a disease. In moments the whole of the chamber was illuminated with the vibrant, sickly light that flooded out above him, through the door and into the remainder of the Witherin.

  Phelwen Semaj looked out at the shapes of formless darkness, wisps of imagination that resisted the light as they awaited his direction, and he smiled a terrible smile.

  His time had come again.

  34

  Melody’s dream was dark and warm, though not the fever-heat of earlier. She knew it was a dream because Jovan was there, lying behind her with one arm under her head. She knew it was Jovan because she could smell him, like salt and earth and sunlight… He was stroking her hair away from her forehead, she was tucked against his chest. It was too perfect. Hot tears stung behind her closed eyes, and she tried to force herself awake by sitting up.

  A warm, strong arm tightened around her belly, preventing her from moving. “Easy, now. You’re all right.”

  It was Jovan’s voice. He was there, this wasn’t a dream. Melody gasped.

  “Jovan?” She whispered the word, keeping tight control over her voice. “It’s you?” She twisted around so her eyes could confirm it, and brought her hand up to touch his face.

  “I’m here,” he told her, tightening his arms around her in a gentle hug.

  She returned the embrace, smiling through the tears that spilled over her cheeks. “But how…?”

  Jovan buried his face in her unfamiliar hair, breathing in the rain-sweet scent of her while he puzzled over her equally unfamiliar voice. “What do you remember?”

  Melody thought. “Pain,” she said. “And heat.”

  Jovan, too, remembered that heat. How she had survived the fever for over a week was still a mystery to him.

  “I dreamed of you,” she added, squirming backwards and running her fingers over his chest and shoulders, reassuring herself that he was there, he was solid and real. “I dreamed you forgave me.”

  “I did,” he whispered. “I do.”

  Melody tensed in his arms as she remembered more. “He’s returned,” she said. “I felt it, in another dream. The Lich King…”

  Jovan nodded. “You talked in your sleep for that one. I heard it. Felt it.”

  “I’m supposed to stop him.” Melody leaned up and kissed him, just a brush of her lips on his, and he rolled back, adjusting her so she lay mostly on top of him.

  “Easy,” he reminded her. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  Red curls spilled over her shoulder into his face, and he pushed them back behind her ear with a gentle hand, wanting nothing more than to continue the kiss, smoothing away the worried turn of her mouth. Her stomach growled, loudly, and Jovan smiled.

  “Maybe you can save the world after lunch? Smells like Senna’s got food ready.”

  Melody tipped her head, not recognizing the name. “Senna?”

  Jovan kissed her forehead. “Senna is a Healer. She’s why you’re alive.”

  She looked around the unfamiliar room again, trying to remember … anything. “Where are we?”

  “Gira,” he replied.

  The word meant nothing to her, and she blinked at him, waiting for more.

  “I don’t know the full story,” he said. “I’ve only been here for three days. You’d have to ask Senna or Aggravain.”

  “Aggravain.” Now that word was familiar, and called to mind a wet clearing outside of … where had she been? Ravenglass. There had been a man there, Brody Douglas. He followed her, but then there was the beast, and then Aggravain…

  “You remember him?”

  Melody touched her arm and found the wound sore, but nearly healed. “Yes.” She said little else, lost in thought, until her stomach gave another loud rumble. The smell of bread and cooking meat filled the room.

  “There are a few people downstairs that will be relieved to see you up and about,” Jovan said, getting to his feet but motioning for her to stay. “I’ll get your things.” He laid a long green dress that Melody didn’t recognize on the end of the bed.

  “That’s not mine,” she said, slipping out of the tunic she remembered Lianodel giving her so long ago, now torn and stained with blood.

  Jovan smiled as the clothes dropped to the floor. He had forgotten how … unreserved Melody was. The pendant he had given her still graced her neck, gleaming softly above her breasts. The smil
e slipped from his lips as he noted how thin she had become.

  “Senna left it for you,” he replied. “Were you sick before the fever?”

  She didn’t answer, she was busy tugging the soft fabric over her head and getting her arms in the right places. The borrowed dress hung on her thin form, and the skirt hid her feet where it brushed the floor. She reached for her hair, swaying dizzily.

  “Here,” he offered. “Let me.” Jovan tore a strip from Melody’s abandoned skirt, gathered the soft mass of her hair at the base of her neck, and wrapped it with the fabric as neatly as he could. “It’s not a braid, but …”

  She turned and smiled her thanks up at him, bracing against his chest when another wave of dizziness struck.

  I wish I weren’t so weak. Her stomach growled again.

  “You’ve had nothing but broth for days,” Jovan said. “You need real food. Come on.”

  She accepted Jovan’s arm as she descended the stairs, comforting herself with the knowledge that at least she wasn’t sicking up all over the place. That much she remembered from before, at least. The rest was still uncertain.

  The common room of the Inn was full of people, too many people, people who all stood as one when she came around the corner. Only Jovan’s arm around the small of her back kept her from backpedaling at the sight of the crowd.

  A delighted bark came out of the throng, followed immediately by the hunting dog she had known since she was a young girl.

  “Attilus!” Melody sank to her knees with her arms thrown wide, clutching the dog for balance when he skidded into her and began to lick the happy tears from her face with his familiar animal glee. Somewhere a woman insisted that the dog could not be inside, Senna was going to have a fit, would someone please get it out— but no one moved to obey.

  Jovan stood behind Melody, bracing her with his legs so the animal didn’t knock her completely off her feet.

  “Melody?” Calder looked at the red-haired girl embracing the dog, and her name was a question in his mouth. This could not be the girl he had left in Cabinsport, Calder thought. Steel- no, it was Jovan - met his eyes over her head, and nodded. The ranger rubbed his eyes and looked again, seeing the light in her red-gold eyes when she looked up at him and smiled. It was her.