Dirge of the Dead

by Reed Logan Westgate

  “I fear my troubles are of a more serious nature than the average parishioner,” Xlina replied, leaning heavily on the iron gate.

  “Is a peasant’s burden so different from a King’s?” the old man retorted. “The struggles the caterpillar faces on its journey to becoming a butterfly matter not to the jay that swoops in to make the caterpillar it’s meal.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Xlina answered. “I’m not trivializing their problems. It’s just that mine are so... so overwhelming.”

  “Ha!” the old man laughed from the belly, “It is you that misunderstands. You see your problems as big because they are yours. They overwhelmed you because all you see is what lies before you.”

  “Perhaps,” Xlina nodded soberly, “Maybe I should seek the direction from another source.”

  “Direction?” the old man scoffed, pulling a rose bloom free from its stem and rising to meet her at the gate. “Only a fool preaches he knows the way while making the same journey into the unknown as those around him.”

  “Not much for the clergy?”

  “Oh, they mean well,” the old man sighed, looking at the doors of the cathedral, “but I find those shouting directions are most often lost themselves.”

  “What then do we do?” Xlina asked, looking at the red petalled rose in the gardener’s hand, “Who do we turn to when god doesn’t answer?”

  “The rose grows from bulb to flower,” the old man replied. “Despite its thorns, the rough edges, it grows and blooms. Never once does the rose question what it is supposed to be. It merely is. It accepts its thorns and its beautiful petals, a harmonious duality being both sharp and soft at the same time.”

  “Beautifully dangerous,” Xlina quipped.

  “Dangerously beautiful,” the old man smiled, reaching up and placing the rose stem behind her ear. “Have faith, young one, all is as is planned.”

  “I’m afraid I am running low on faith,” Xlina smiled, her voice trailing off.

  “A religious man standing at the riverbank, bucket in hand, who prays to god for water often finds a crisis of faith.”

  “God helps those who help themselves,” Xlina repeated back to the elder, “Is that it?”

  “I am just a gardener tending my flowers,” the old man answered returning to his work, “I cannot choose how they bloom child, all I can do is fend off the weeds, provide fertile soil, and hope for the best.”

  “You’re pretty wise for a Gardner,” Xlina teased with a smile. “What is your name?”

  “Wise for a Gardner perhaps, but foolish for an old man who should be sleeping instead of weeding,” he answered with a smile. “You can call me Weh.”

  “Weh.”

  “Yah,” he nodded with a smile.

  “Thanks for your time Weh, but I am afraid I have put off this next task for far too long,” Xlina smiled.

  “I should thank you,” the old man smiled, “For spending your time listening to the rambling of an old man.”

  “Your garden is full of love and wisdom, Weh,” she answered, doing her best to find a compliment that would touch the elder’s heart, “I hope sleep finds you well.”

  “Much better now that the garden has been tended,” Weh answered, rising once more. “Balance in all things, only when the garden is in balance does a true gardener rest.”

  She smiled and turned, striding confidently down the brick walk toward Heart’s Hearth. She wished there were more like the elder Weh, who seemed genuinely interested in the wellbeing of all those around them. She saw the sign of the Heart’s Hearth and steeled her resolve, keeping her pace steady as she drew near. A sudden collision on her hip returned her focus to the moment as her eyes lowered to see a waif of a boy on the ground at her feet. His face peered up, covered in grim, with fearful eyes.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he blurts out, scrambling to his feet. A wallet fell from inside his jacket. It was black leather with a blue monogram stitch that struck a stark contrast to the tattered jacket and jeans the waif wore. He scuffed the ground bashfully with a sneaker that appeared to be bound with duct tape. She reached for the wallet and offered it to the waif gingerly.

  “Better be careful who sees you with this,” she remarked, dropping to a crouch to look the boy in the eyes. His brow wrinkled as he gingerly extended his hand to take the wallet. She saw it in his eyes at that moment. The boy was the same waif as in her dream.

  “Thanks.” he grabbed the wallet quickly and bolted down the street, running in the direction she had come. She did not need to give chase. Nor did she need to see him turn and push through the iron gate. She already knew where he was going to hide and what was going to happen next. Valeria had warned her against going anywhere but Heart’s Hearth, but her dreams haunted her. The look of the dark-skinned woman as she kneeled on the floor gurgling her last breath.

  “Dammit all,” she sighed, turning and running away from Heart’s Hearth and back toward the Cathedral.

  Chapter Ten

  The Heavenly Host

  Xlina barreled up the walk and through the large oak doors of the Cathedral bursting into the main hall. The scene was as she had seen in her dreams, with an entryway lined by votive stands filled with rows of red and white candles. The main hall was lined with pews on each side facing a stage and alter at the head of the church, a golden gross standing prominently in the background. She darted to the last pew to find the waif lying on his belly examining the wallet. He looked up, startled in fear.

  “I didn’t steal it,” he blurted unconvincingly.

  “You must run, now,” Xlina commanded, “It’s not safe here.”

  “I’ve nowhere...”

  She cut him off with a growl, hoping to spare the boy from witnessing what was about to happen. He was young, timid, and afraid. She hated doing it but lacked the time to coerce the boy to leave, her fist clenched in the air before his eyes and burst into a violet ball of nightmare energy.

  “Be gone,” she commanded forcefully. He dropped the wallet in terror and bolted for the door, not stopping to look back at the monster in the church that had scared him away.

  Xlina turned to the end of the stage where the dream had shown the battle between the dark-skinned woman and the soldier. She bounded forward toward the door as her other hand lit up with fresh nightmare energy. No one was dying tonight, she told herself.

  The door next to the stage burst open exactly as it had in her dreams, with the dark-skinned woman stumbling in. This time, instead of defensively grabbing the candelabra, she was greeted by Xlina, hands lit with nightmare energy crackling with raw power. The woman skittered to a stop on her bad leg and tumbled down to the floor, her eyes wide with surprise. The shadowy soldier appeared in the doorway and the telltale thud of the crossbow sounded, but Xlina was already in motion. Having seen the vision in her dreams, she knew the shadowy figure was armed. She knew he would take the shot, and she dove to the floor in a roll as the bolt shrieked past and buried itself into the pew behind her.

  She came up from her roll fists held before her defensively. The soldier stepped forward, his hand dropping the crossbow and plunging for the athamé on his opposite hip. Xlina was faster, leading in with a pair of strikes, a left right combination aimed at his face. Her fist hit a wall and her arm shuddered like she had struck a sheet of iron. Her nightmare energy rebounded and coalesced over the green shield surrounding the man like a bubble. The power of her release echoed back as the nightmare energy exploded on the shield, sending a shock wave of energy back that blew her from her feet and sent her crashing roughly to the floor beside the dark-skinned woman.

  “Aye, looks to be a right donnybrook,” Atcham smiled menacingly. “Two awakened for the price o’ one.”

  Xlina’s arms were numb from the rebound of the magical nightmare energy. She laid on her back with her senses swirling in her head. She had never experienced such a complete counter to her magic. Atcham drew his athamé and stalked closer. But the dark-skinned woman was there. Her
surprise at seeing Xlina gone, she hefted the golden candelabra and swung at the man’s head. He parried with his free hand and ducked, the clumsy blow slipping the strike like a well-trained boxer. He countered with a quick swipe of the athamé, setting the woman back on her heels to move away from the cutting blade. He casually flipped the knife mid swing, letting the blade drop, so it was pointing down from his fist before cutting back in a reverse swing that sent the dark-skinned woman stumbling back. The tip of the blade met the flesh on her shoulder as she fell more than dodged the strike, the blade drawing a thin red line.

  Xlina, seeing the eyes of her opponent focused on the dark-skinned girl, kicked with her heel in a thrust that collided with Archam’s left knee just above his combat boot. His leg buckled under the blow, and she was relieved that his warding had not stopped her attack. He grunted angrily, turning his gaze on Xlina.

  “Bloody wagon!” he exclaimed, his voice seething with anger. He swiped at her legs with his dagger, causing Xlina to roll to the left, away from the dark-skinned woman. She was making him choose his target. He could focus on her or the dark-skinned woman, but not both.

  “No magic,” the woman called as she thrust the candelabra into the small of the soldier’s back. He spun about, grabbing the end of the candelabra with his free hand. Xlina took the opportunity and rushed forward, driving her shoulder into the same knee she had kicked. She felt the joint extend the wrong way under her weight and the leg buckled. He immediately released the golden candelabra and grabbed for her ponytail, yanking her head back violently and raising his athamé high into the air for a finishing strike.

  “Die, you filthy sod!” he bellowed with his thick Irish accent. Xlina saw the knife plunging down from above, saw it streaking for her chest and in sheer desperation, she pushed both hands forward and released another torrent of nightmare energy. The magic collided with his spell shield, once more sending a reverberating blast of energy cascading through the church and pushing Xlina away from the soldier. He cursed as she slipped from his grasp, his knife finding nothing but air as the shock wave blew her back, rolling across the floor. She came to a hard stop, hitting the pew behind her.

  The dark-skinned woman chanted from behind the soldier, her hands drawing arcane sigils in the air. The smell of basil hung heavy in the air as the woman triggered her spell. Darkness claimed the cathedral as the shadows dancing on the walls from the many candles grew and stretched, covering all in a blanket of darkness. Xlina heard the shuffling of feet, the commotion of bodies moving in the dark, and felt a soft hand under her arm lifting her to her feet. The Irish soldier cursed and wailed, stumbling over the candelabra in the dark with a tremendous clatter. The sound of the athamé skittering freely across the floor brought her some relief.

  “Come away in the darkness,” a soft voice whispered in her ear, pulling her away and guiding her through the pitch-black shadow. The spell was more than just darkness it enveloped the senses, blurring out all traces of light. In the darkness, one’s eyes could adjust, outlines and shapes could take form, but under the shadow spell, there was nothing but blackness.

  Xlina followed the woman’s lead, hearing the soldier’s cries of anger closing behind them. His gait was heavy, his leg injured from her repeated strikes she could hear his wince with every thudding step. Her mysterious companion, also slowed by a bolt in her leg, was making little ground trying to escape despite the cover of darkness.

  “Guide me,” Xlina pleaded, grabbing the girl by the waist and hoisting her up on her shoulder. Xlina broke into a run in the darkness, trusting her mysterious friend to guide her true.

  “Straight, twenty feet,” the woman answered and Xlina continued slowing to a stop and reaching out, she felt the smooth time worn oak door before her. She pushed through and hurried out into the night.

  Passing through the door, the cool night air assaulted her senses as she moved beyond the darkness. She spun and slammed the door of the cathedral shut. Knowing their attacker was still in pursuit, she ran down the stone path and through the iron gate, with the woman slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Xlina cleared the gate and cut back down the brick path toward Heart’s Hearth. Let the bastard follow them into the safety of the Hearth where the guardians of the Hearth, Brick and Mortar would come to her aid.

  She bounded down the brick walk, seeing the Hearth’s welcoming gooseneck sign extending out from the stone building. She stopped and set the woman down, dropping to a knee to examine the bolt.

  “It looks bad,” Xlina replied as she examined the feathered bolt protruding from the woman’s leg.

  “It feels bad,” the woman answered with a grimace.

  “Sorry,” Xlina apologized, looking up at the woman. Her breath came in gasps as she leaned on the stone wall of the tavern. She looked anxiously up the road toward the cathedral, as if expecting their attacker to come bearing down on them at any moment. “I have friends inside, we’ll be safe.”

  “No one is safe,” she shot back, turning a worried gaze on Xlina.

  “Boy, isn’t that line getting familiar,” Xlina countered, motioning to the door.

  “Don’t you know what that was, girl?” She replied, her voice dropping low.

  “Xlina,” she corrected, “My name is Xlina.”

  “Tamera,” the dark-skinned woman answered.

  “What was that guy?”

  “That was Archam,” Tamera responded, her hands steadying herself on the wall as she gingerly put weight back on the injured leg.

  “Caught that part,” Xlina replied, offering her shoulder for support.

  “He is a member of the Heavenly Host,” Tamera clarified, “Though I know not what stirs in Portland to bring such evil men here.”

  “Why did he want to kill you?” Xlina asked as they made their way toward the tavern door.

  “He is hunting for one of our kind,” Tamera shrugged as if it were obvious, “When an awakened threatens the natural order, the diocese summons the Heavenly Host to cull the black sheep from the heard.”

  “So why you?” Xlina pressed on.

  “There are too many of us,” Tamera replied, “And with the Council in disarray, it’s the perfect opportunity for the cult of religion to reclaim its place of power. Never would I have sought sanctuary in the cathedral had I suspected the Host had already arrived in Portland.”

  Xlina pushed through the door to Heart’s hearth and the fresh scent of apple pie and cider immediately assailed her. The familiar scents made her mouth water and her stomach grumble. The tavern was quiet this night, with only a few patrons at the scattered wooden tables throughout the dining area. The iron chandeliers illuminated the small dining hall exactly as she had remembered. The hearth at the far end stood as tall as the room and she relaxed, knowing the truth of the golem that was the fireplace and the nature of the fire spirit that dwelled within. When threatened, the hearth would spring to life as a stone golem more than capable of thwarting ne’er-do-well.

  The door to the kitchen swung open, revealing the aged Penelope Burglecut, exactly as Xlina remembered her. The stout woman waddled more than walked on her bum leg, carrying an oversized platter in her arms. Her ruddy face was outlined by salt and pepper hair on either side, and she beamed a friendly smile that revealed three missing teeth.

  “Xlina lass,” she gleamed with a smile and a chortle that warmed Xlina’s insides. “Burgle ‘tis Xlina!”

  “Penny,” Xlina greeted the warm memories of the elder Penny, brushing aside all thoughts of the mysterious Tamera and her injury.

  “Ah, but trouble be following you to be sure darlin’,” Penny cooed, placing her tray down on the bar and scrambling over to help with Tamera.

  “Trouble doesn’t need to follow me Penny,” Xlina chuckled awkwardly, feeling guilty for once again bringing danger to the Burglecut’s doorstep, “At this point, I think it just generally knows where I am.”

  “Ain’t that the truth boss,” the booming voice of Burglecut echoed lou
dly in the hall. The hulk of a man emerged from the kitchen in his leather apron, sullied from a hard day in the kitchen. He was a layer of muscle and fat, like the strongmen of old with a handlebar mustache and a heartwarming smile. His muscled arms held an array of tattoos which were rich with magical sigils. He brushed his dear Penny aside and grabbed Tamera under the armpits, hoisting her like a toddler and setting her gently on the bar.

  “My dear Burgle,” Xlina smiled, so thrilled to see the couple.

  “Aye, but I had that,” Penny scolded her husband, wagging a stubby finger in the air menacingly.

  “But fine thanks I get,” Burgle jested, turning to Xlina and wrapping her in a hug. He lifted her clean from the floor in his powerful arms.

  “Is Oxy commin’ to dear?” Penny inquired, looking over the bolt protruding from Tamera’s leg. The attention made the proud woman squirm as the pair fawned over the wound.

  “No, I am afraid I have...”

  “No matter,” Penny cut her off with a wave of her hand as she bent close to inspect the bolt. With a quick swipe of her hand, she grabbed the end and pushed it through Tamera’s thigh until the barb popped clean through her jeans in the back. Tamera howled in pain, drawing looks of concern from the patrons in the tavern.

  “Better tend to that,” Burgle said, quickly grabbing the end of the bolt with his hand and snapping the barb off effortlessly. Tamera grabbed her leg and cursed in a language Xlina unfamiliar to her.

  “Gwo vant kochon!” Tamera cried in pain.

  “Oi! You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Penny retorted with a shake of her head as she pulled the bolt by the feathers back out the front of the leg.

  “Easy,” Xlina said reassuringly as she rushed in, catching Tamera as she swooned in pain. She embraced her under the arms and held her upright as she recoiled from the bolt being hastily yanked from her leg. Blood seeped for the wound freely as Penny wrapped a clean white linen around it.

  “Done nasty bugger boss,” Burgle replied, discarding the barbed head on the bar with a clang.