by Martin Ash
‘No longer, sire, if ever it were so,’ Gully said, ‘which I do not believe, for I only did my duty. But today you have saved my life, and the lives of young Sildemund here, and our friend Picadus, both of whom I love like brothers. It was a stroke of great good fortune that you should come upon us like that, in such lonely wilderness.’
‘Fortune it was, indeed,’ the Prince agreed.
‘What brought you there, sire, if I might ask?’
‘I’ve been engaged upon a mission to Garsh, in Tulmua, and am returning now to the capital. Military activity by the Tulmu authorities in that region has had the contingent effect of displacing a renowned brigand, Fagmar, known as Fagmar the Angelic. Knowing him to be operating in this vicinity, I sent out scouts. They spotted smoke from the wagon, then became aware of your plight.’
‘Garsh?’ Gully mused. ‘I’ve heard there is military activity there. It’s the cultist enclave, isn’t it?’
‘The Revenants of Claine. Aye, it is.’
‘They’ve weird beliefs, so I’ve heard.’
‘They are reincarnates, if you would believe their patter.’
‘Do they not claim knowledge of some great secret?’
Prince Enlos nodded stiffly. ‘Such is their claim. Most consider them to be nothing more than lunatics.’
Gully gave this some thought. ‘Word is that Garsh is currently under siege by Tulmu troops. There’s been talk of a massacre there.’
The Prince patted his horse’s sleek neck but made no reply.
‘But Garsh is in Tulmua, sire,’ Gully went on. ‘I know that at one time the Revenants spread into Darch, but that was long ago. They were exiled to Garsh more than a century past. I was not aware that Darch held any interest in them now.’
Prince Enlos gazed straight ahead. ‘Unfortunately, it is not a matter I’m at liberty to discuss.’
They rode on, passing more travellers on the road as they drew closer to the capital. The wilderness gradually gave way to fields, orchards and meadows where workers tended their crops or goats, and cattle grazed. The sun was well past its zenith whey they crested a gentle rise and saw, in the heat-shifting distance, the might Tigrant bending languidly across a green and fertile plain. Spread along its banks, shimmering in the haze at the limit of their vision, could be discerned the walls, domes and towers of the great river city of Dharsoul.
VII
After a restless and uneasy night Meglan was up as the first glimmer of dawn washed the dark low in the eastern sky. Of her two guards, Jans was asleep in his blanket beside the embers of their campfire, while Eldan, who had the watch, sat nearby with his back to a boulder. Meglan saw from his posture that Eldan also slumbered. She shook him roughly – ‘Wake up! Get yourself ready! We ride immediately!’ – then went to Jans and roused him in a similar manner.
They led the horses out onto the road, Jans and Eldan chewing tack and hurriedly gulping water from their sacks. Meglan gingerly rotated her head and neck to ease the stiffness and tenderness that were result of Skalatin’s attack on her the previous day. Jans and Eldan confirmed that her throat bore livid bruising, more pronounced than earlier. Her chest and shoulders were also painful, and she moved with care.
She glanced back along the way in the direction of Volm. The morning was light enough now to reveal a layer of thick grey cloud spread across the sky above the city. Volm itself was not visible. The sea glittered far off in the distance.
Meglan thought about her father, Master Atturio, alone in his bedchamber, probably still sleeping. Or would he be awake, worried about her? Almost certainly he would know by now that she had gone. She felt a pang of immense guilt for leaving him. He was less than an hour’s ride away. Her chest heaved. Oh, benevolent soul of Yshcopthe, keep him well!
She mounted Swift Cloud. ‘Let’s go!’
She made off at a brisk trot. The two men quickly climbed into their saddles and spurred their mounts so as not to fall behind.
Within minutes Fate dealt a blow of cruel irony. Eldan’s horse stumbled on a rut in the road and wrenched a foreleg. Cursing, Eldan was forced to halt and dismount. As Meglan seethed with impatience he examined the animal, then looked up, shaking his head.
‘She’s lame. She won’t be carrying me anywhere for a couple of days.’
Meglan vented a scream of exasperation. ‘Do the gods themselves conspire against me?’
Her emotions surged in her breast. Eldan said, ‘The nearest posting-house is several hours away. Volm is nearer. Do you want to return so I can hire another horse?’
Meglan shook her head. ‘Go! Make your way back to Volm as best you can. We’ll continue without you. Go straight to my father. Tell him I’m well and will return to him very soon.’
With that she wheeled Swift Cloud around, and with Jans as her sole guard she set off again for Dharsoul and Sildemund.
~
For Master Atturio the daylight hours passed without great event. He had woken early and asked for Meglan. Upon receiving the news of her departure he had merely nodded to himself. He had known she would go. He had also known that he was powerless to prevent her. He feared for her, and for Sildemund, upon whom he had laid the burden of the mysterious red stone.
Atturio questioned himself, his motives, his reasoning in acting the way he had. It was too late for regret now, of course. What was done was done. But he recognized that, however unwittingly, he had become the agent of a great misfortune which was affecting not only himself but others close to him. Master Atturio felt the weight of a great and profound sadness descending. Deep within him was the growing fear that he would never set eyes on either of his children again.
He might have risen that day and exercised a little in his room, testing his injured leg, but his mood was such that he could not summon the inclination. Neena brought him food and drink. He ate alone, without enthusiasm. Two guards stood at all times outside his door. At least one more was stationed elsewhere in the house. Master Atturio half-expected that Captain Gosbedah would return with more questions, but he did not. At some point, though – probably after darkness fell – Atturio did not doubt that he would be paid another visit by Skalatin.
He recalled the events at the secret grotto where he had discovered the stone. Why had he not listened to Edric then? He saw again Edric’s mutilated corpse. He imagined poor Dervad, his chest cavity filled with shattered glass and shards of broken pots. The images haunted, mocked, accused. He saw Skalatin hovering astride him, felt the pain again as his hand was crushed in Skalatin’s murderous grip.
He railed against himself for what he now perceived as his irresponsibility and greed. He should have returned the stone immediately to Skalatin! Dervad might still be alive, and he, Atturio, fifty crowns wealthier. True, he did not have the stone when Skalatin first came for it. But he could have let Meglan go after Sildemund to bring him swiftly back, as she had suggested. Better, rather than risk Meg’s safety, he could have sent a rider who might have caught Sildemund before he reached Dharsoul. Had he followed that course, might Sildemund have returned by now, or early enough to effectively prevent the terrible events that had ensued? It was possible, Master Atturio acknowledged, but unlikely. So his excuse was valid: he did not have the stone. But Atturio knew that at all times he had clung to the hope that he might make more from the stone than Skalatin – or his client – had offered.
He waited in a suspense of dread, tormented, half-sensing something of what was to come.
From outside his room the sounds of the street filtered through the open window. Bustling during the day, growing quieter in the torrid afternoon when many folk slept, then rising again to a low hubbub as evening drew close. He could see, through the window, the roofs and upper floors of the city, framed by a gap between the two buildings opposite. He observed the slow passage of shadows as the sun moved imperceptibly across the sky, heard the cries of gulls, saw the light change gradually on the domes and minarets. The low hills in the distance were opaque blue. He won
dered unceasingly about Meglan, dear, sweet Meglan. Where was she now? How did she fare? Was she safe?
And Sildemund, of whom he was so proud. He was surely now at Dharsoul, or close. What would he find there? Was he, through his very possession of the red stone, imperilled? Had he been prevented by some means from even reaching the capital?
Master Atturio lay, his body still. His hear beat unnaturally fast, his thoughts raced. The night drew down.
Neena came in to light the candles in his room. She bathed and dressed his injuries, then returned with his evening meal: a broth of steamed vegetables, then spicy meat and cracked wheat with warm doughbread pancakes, and a flask of robust red wine. She scolded him, for he had barely touched his midday meal.
‘Would you like me to sit with you? You’ve been alone all day?’
‘No, Neena, leave me please. I want only to rest.’
He waited, noting familiar sounds within the house, waiting for those that would signal the arrival of his visitor. A rap at the door downstairs? He had not previously been aware of Skalatin’s knock, so no, probably the first indication, if he strained his ears for every nuance of sound, would be Neena’s footsteps as she shuffled to the front door, then her laboured return upstairs. She would knock at Atturio’s door and announce the visitor.
Or would Skalatin simply march straight up without waiting to be announced?
Atturio heard the scrape of a foot outside the door. He started nervously, then relaxed: just one of the guards shifting position. There was a muted chink and accompanying light thumps downstairs, but that would be Neena going about her normal business, or perhaps another guard. Beyond the window a dog bayed. Master Atturio caught the distant strain of a male voice, rough and basso, raised in spontaneous song.
Later came sounds of revelry drifting across from the tavernas and pleasure houses. Atturio grew impatient with the strain of waiting. He could not relax, nor sleep, nor get up and walk. His leg and hands pained him and there was a fierce, relentless throbbing behind his eyes. He wanted no more. He could bear the tension no longer.
He was aware, quite suddenly, of a movement at the window. A shadow, a dark blot, obscuring the dark that was already there. It came soundlessly, no warning scuff or scrape of a body scaling the wall.
Skalatin stepped down into the room.
With two strides he was at the bedside.
‘Where is it?’ He was garbed as before, in a dark burnous, hooded, his face concealed. His voice had the rasping, scouring quality that Atturio had come to detest and fear.
Atturio was at first too taken aback by his entrance to respond. Then, recovering, he felt himself outraged. This man, this thing, had murdered Dervad and Edric. Likely he had come here now with murderous intent. Atturio would not speak to him – not yet.
‘Guards!’ Atturio called. His voice quavered. It was feeble, but it carried far enough, for the chamber door opened and the two armed men stood there. Seeing Skalatin they drew their short-sabres.
Skalatin emitted a scoffing sound. He stepped swiftly across the room and punched the first man hard in the face. The fellow cannoned backwards as if struck by a battering-ram, knocking his companion off-balance.
Skalatin reached out and seized the second guard by the throat, yanking him into the bedchamber, lifting him off his feet, wrenching, squeezing, shaking him. The poor man gurgled, his feet kicking. Skalatin gripped his sword-wrist to prevent him striking back, and shook him with terrible strength, then dropped him and struck him with a powerful backfist, breaking his neck.
He thrust the body aside. The first guard was rushing back into the chamber, blood pouring from his nose. He lunged with his sabre, but there was little room for swordplay. Skalatin moved nimbly to the side. The guard’s elbow struck the door-jamb, deflecting his blow.
Skalatin grabbed his arm, hauled him inwards, swung him around and hurled him at the wall. As he crumpled, Skalatin leapt onto his back, thrusting his knee into the man’s spine and grabbing his chin. With a swift movement he wrenched back and up. There was a sickening, tearing sound. The man screamed and fell silent. Skalatin released his lifeless body.
He turned back, and laughed at the sight of Master Atturio, white-faced, half-sitting in his bed, clasping a dagger in one bandaged hand.
‘Again, old fool? Again?’
Atturio let the dagger fall. Skalatin came close and bent towards him. ‘Do you have it for me?’
‘I – I’ve sent for it! Believe me, I will have it soon!
‘That’s not enough!’ Skalatin thrust himself straight. He strode to the door and kicked it shut. He pace the room, once, then came back to the bedside. He took a deep, glottal breath. ‘I warned you. I showed you the price. Plainly it wasn’t enough.’
‘I’m trying! I’m doing all I can! Believe me!’
‘What does it take?’ Skalatin hovered over him. His voice dropped to a low purr. ‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘The malkin. The love-ly chi-ld.’
‘Meglan?’ Atturio shuddered. The very way in which Skalatin intoned the words filled him with revulsion.
‘Aah. Meg-lan. Yesss.’ Skalatin lifted one leg and climbed onto the bed, straddling Atturio’s waist as he had before. He took the upper hems of Master Atturio’s nightshirt, drawing him towards himself. Atturio was powerless to resist. Again he found himself gazing into infinitely cold, dark eyes, a heartless stare, and recoiled at the reek of Skalatin’s breath.
‘Whe-re? Where is love-ly Meg-lan?’
Atturio shook his head but his voice caught in his throat.
Skalatin thrust him back and sprang from the bed. ‘I shall find her!’
He swept from the room. Atturio heard his footsteps descend. There was a cry, then shrieks downstairs, the clatter of something falling, noises of a scuffle. A male voice cried out, and was abruptly curtailed.
Master Atturio half-rose to try and get out of bed, then froze. He stared, stupefied, at the two bodies on his chamber floor. Was this some terrible dream?
The shrieks resumed below. Short, repeated screams and sobs, intermingled with Skalatin’s berserk snarls. Atturio tried to drag himself from the bed. Heavy, forceful footsteps returned up the stairs, their pattern irregular as if something bulky was being dragged or impelled upwards.
He sat rigid, too afraid to move.
The door flew back and Skalatin re-entered, hauling poor, sobbing Neena by her grey hair, which he clasped in one fist. He dragged her to the bed. ‘I don’t find the malkin, but this will do just as well.’
‘Please, no! Leave her! She’s done nothing! She has no part in this!’
‘Where is it? Where is my heart?’
‘What?’
‘My love-ly stone. Where is it?’
‘I’ve told you! I’ve sent for it! It will be here soon!’
‘Bah!’ Skalatin spat in fury. He raised his arm, and Neena, who had been forced to her knees by the pressure of his fist behind her head, was hoisted high. She squealed, clawing at his hand, her toes no longer touching the floor.
‘No! Please!’ Atturio implored him. ‘Please!’
‘Where is love-ly Meg-lan?’
‘She’s gone. To bring you the stone. Truly!’
As he spoke, Master Atturio was confronted by the appalling image of Meglan in Skalatin’s hands. Was he condemning his own daughter with his words? He spoke again, desperate to ensure Meglan’s safety. ‘We’ll leave it somewhere. Anywhere! Just tell us where. I’ll put it there for you!’
‘Aaah! You-do-not-learn!’
Skalatin’s unencumbered hand shot out and around with horrific speed and punched into old Neena’s frail chest. Even as it moved, Atturio glimpsed something clawed, pincered, in the place of fingers. The monstrous hand ploughed into Neena’s flesh, smashing bone and tearing tissue as she hung. Her body twitched, her legs kicked out helplessly.
Skalatin pulled free his bloodied hand. Something liquid slithered to the floor. He showed Atturio the s
till palpitating heart he clutched. Releasing Neena’s body, he pulled aside his mask. He held the glistening organ and its writhing, rubbery tubes, red, purple and bluish, up before his face. Atturio stared in horror at the peeling, rotten skin of that face, its fleshless gums laid bare by a lipless mouth. Things seemed to move in those gums and within the mouth; tiny, wormy things with a life of their own. Atturio glimpsed the yellow fangs that lined the pitted jaws, the rope-like greyish tongue that flicked out to lick the old woman’s vitals.
Skalatin bit into the wet flesh and tore a great gobbet free. He chewed and swallowed, eyeing Atturio, then mockingly pushed the heart towards him. ‘You want, old man?’
Then he scowled and made a sound of disgust, flinging the heart away. It smashed glutinously against one wall, splattering blood and slime in whiplike trails, and rolled to the floor. Skalatin spat pieces of meat from his mouth. ‘Gaah! That one’s no good!’
Now he stood over Atturio, his mouth twisted into an obscene grin. Even as Atturio stared, the face began to change. Rapidly, it moulded itself into new forms. And suddenly, to Atturio’s horror, the face gazing at him from beneath that dark cowl became Neena’s.
Neena, smiling benevolently, perfect except for the eyes which never lost their expression of soulless depravity. Even the body beneath the burnous had re-moulded itself to take Neena’s form.
Atturio gaped, at Neena who stood before him, to Neena whose violated corpse lay on the floor, and back again.
‘Where is love-ly Meg-lan?’ enquired Neena’s voice.
Atturio struggled to speak. ‘Please! Please! We will give you your stone!’
The head that was both Neena’s and Skalatin’s swivelled slowly from side to side with a mocking smile. ‘Ah, no matter. I will find her. I will find love-ly Meg-lan, and what she has.’
There was a sudden movement of Neena’s shoulder. Master Atturio gagged as something hard and cold plunged deep into his chest, followed by a searing, tearing, explosive pain as that obscene limb foraged inside him.