Four years have passed since the events in the previous chapter.....
Chapter 8 The Dead City
Seedstide 1924
Four years later
Nature had reclaimed Erturia for herself. Through the granite buildings, windows rotted by the passage of two centuries, it snaked and wormed. Its green tendrils gripped the worn stone like a frightened child. The flagstones in the many courtyards of the Empire’s foremost city had been buckled as the bushes and trees erupted forth, splitting after decades of insidious pressure. The towers that crowned the rectangular halls and sober town houses were wrapped in thick green ivy, softening the harsh features of the Imperial architecture.
Marthir padded through the weed-infested streets, marvelling at the overwhelming silence of the city. For the plants, as ever, had more bravado than their animal counterparts; it had been two hundred and twenty four years since the day time stopped in Erturia and no bird song had echoed around its walls since.
Erturia: the dead city. The gigantic mausoleum was home now only to the foliage and to the deceased. Marthir’s animal instincts set her nerves on edge as she prowled into one of the city’s large squares, weaving between the black statues around her. She halted to sniff one out of curiosity and she smelt only charcoal.
The city was populated now by the charred corpses of its citizens. Instantly incinerated they were now petrified eternally in their moment of death. Traders still argued silently, gesturing at some unseen event transpiring towards the centre of the city. Children still ran to their mothers, their tiny features now shiny black masks. Marthir saw five soldiers in mid-stride, their spears held aloft, moving towards the enemy soldiers. Enemy soldiers derived from their own kin. And as the civil war that tore apart the Empire had ended in one cataclysmic instant they had once more united—in death.
There were so many black statues, thousands and thousands, and Marthir had wept when she had first seen them the prior day. She and her five companions had snuck across the Wastes, the barren land that surrounded the once magnificent city, avoiding patrols of black-armoured knights. Last night they had crept like thieves into the dead city, in awe of the ruined majesty of the famed outer walls. Yet within the walls came the real sight—a city populated by charcoal statues, lit by the sinister glow of the red and silver moons.
Marthir could sense the restlessness of the dead around her as she crossed the square. A lichen-coated fountain sat in the centre of the square, its waters now thick with green slime. Balanced on the edge of the fountain was a young lady, smiling at one of the soldiers as he moved past. Once again Marthir paused and touched her paw gently on the shiny black leg. The charcoal was solid and robust, cold to the touch. What had the girl being smiling about as the city was torn apart by fighting? A secret lost now in time.
Marthir became aware of a faint grating noise somewhere in the distance as she entered a broad street at the far end of the square. A moment of indecision held her; should she retrace her steps and fetch the others? After all she had agreed with Kervin that this would be just a quick scout ahead before the five others followed her. If there was trouble she could use Kervin’s skill in taming her wilder side as well as the fire magic of Ygris. Her acolyte Ebfir and the two warriors, Iogar and Ograk would also be an asset if she ran into any knights.
Curiosity got the better of her, which was ironic given that she wore her feline form. She quickened to a run down the overgrown street. The main avenues of Erturia extended straight from the six gates, each arranged at the corner of the vast hexagonal outer wall. The street she journeyed down ran parallel to the Avenue of Iron, the main route from the south-western gate. The street continued over a weed choked bridge, the River Erturia bubbling beneath its chipped base, and turned after three hundred yards to join the main avenue. Marthir paused and examined it with interest; the foliage was crushed and shredded. It was evidence that some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.
The noise was getting louder now. The grate of metal mixed with a continual hiss and dark smoke rose above the roofs to the north-east.
Marthir took a run then leapt onto the remnants of a broken statue. Her powerful legs pushed and she sprang to a first floor balcony then across to a low flat roof. Her claws scraped on the tiles then with a scramble she was atop the roof. From here she bounded across from rooftop to rooftop, making a dizzying course over the skyline of the city.
Within ten minutes she neared the centre of the city, the convergence of avenues that was the Imperial Circle. Here the magic that had incinerated the outer fringes of the city had been so intense that no carbon statues stood. In their stead were shadows seared on to the walls of the great structures.
She moved across the rooftops of the opulent buildings. Marthir, though a creature of the woodlands and never one for the cold stone of cities, was nonetheless impressed by the grandiosity of the Empire’s finest architecture. Around the enormous central square she could see the legendary buildings: the Great Library, the Halls of Justice, the Treasury, the Mausoleum, the Temple of Egos and the Temple of Tindor, the twin gods of the Empire.
Marthir looked down with astonishment to where the Emperor’s Palace stood, or rather once stood, at the south-eastern corner of the square. Its former magnificence had been shattered, the remnants of its marble and granite walls now like a crushed eggshell. Clouds of dust rose from the skeletal remains, drifting into the spring sunshine. At first Marthir thought some gigantic iron dragon sat within the devastation but as she looked closer she saw with consternation it was some huge machine.
It stood about eighty feet high and was thirty feet square at its base. Its tarnished iron plates creaked and rasped in a hideous din, the rivets juddering as it laboriously excavated the rubble from its path. Steam hissed like an angry serpent, scorching any bare flesh around it, whereas at the rear of the machine black choking smoke belched forth. Marthir could see three or four trolls, large and muscular with cruel flat faces, whipping a line of slaves with zeal. The slaves seemed to be in two teams: the first pulled small boulders and stones from the tracks of the iron behemoth, the second shovelled black chunks of coal into a furnace in its belly.
Atop the pinnacle of the machine were three dark-armoured knights, operating a large array of levers and wheels–Knights of Ebony Heart. Marthir spotted a long ladder that ran up the side of the metal plated structure. More knights stood at the periphery of the excavation and Marthir could see two in particular with different armour and helmets. The pair gesticulated to a small group who then saluted and strode to convey directions to the others.
The noise was deafening, augmented by the keen hearing of her feline form. Marthir began to descend the rooftops and balconies. Solicitude at this affront to nature overwhelmed any sense of caution.
She came to rest at a partly ruined terrace on the former Grand Auditorium. The white stone of the balustrade had worn smooth with age and the frescoes of heroes had faded like a long forgotten dream. Marthir noticed a dozen shadows emblazoned on the wall, next to the three doors leading to the theatre’s interior. She shivered at the horror of their poses, their moment of death etched forever in a city that no one ever saw.
Her green eyes focused on the slaves shovelling charcoal bricks into the furnace. They were mostly men, tall and dishevelled, with long matted hair and braided beards. Perhaps they were barbarians or wild men from the bleak plains of Foom or even horse lords from Kanshar? Then she saw a slave stoop to break chunks of charcoal into smaller pieces before scooping it with a shovel. With a jolt she realised that it was the arm of a black statue; they were using the charred corpses of Erturia as fuel.
It was time to return to the others and relay her findings. The mystery remained as to what the knights were trying to excavate from the foundations of the Emperor’s Palace but that could await investigation. Marthir turned to retrace her path across the rooftops. She could see the two senior knights walk away from the others and northwards across the rubble-strewn Square of Cordius. They passed an iron fenced park that formed the eastern border of the square and strode towards the buildings that occupied the northern perimeter. Marthir tracked them with her eyes as they advanced up the steps of the Great Library.
She might not get another chance at spying on such senior knights—the Druid council would be impressed with such information.
Within three minutes she was approaching the library. Her passage amongst the shattered bronze statues that once stood at the perimeter of the Square went unnoticed. She kept low, as if hunting, and checking the coast was clear, bounded up the steps to the enormous doors.
The Great Library was an archetypal Artorian monument and neither time nor nature could diminish its pomposity. With the same spirit that had planned the precise hexagonal design of the city—with its wide tree lined avenues and its open airy squares—the Library was a geometrical dream. Its frontage soared with straight edges and sharp right angles, topped with triangular eaves and carvings in the stone. Its relative shelter from the erosive northern winds, behind the taller Halls of Justice, had preserved much of the design on its main aspect. The walls were carved with scenes of glory and military prowess; even this place of learning was touched by the pervasive military ethic of the Artorian Empire.
Marthir paused in the foyer of the library, her nose seeking her prey. A surge of saliva came to her fangs as she got a sudden urge to eat man flesh. With great effort she suppressed the instinct; she had remained in this form overly long.
The scents lead through the main corridor and to the western wing of the library. She noted that there was a wide marble staircase to the upper levels just to her right. The enormous library she now entered had two stories, with a balcony running around the entire perimeter of the room at the level of the first floor. Access was gained via ladders and via tight spiral staircases in the corners of the chamber, set back into the depths of the thick marble walls.
The scents had passed through this room and there was another smell she had picked up: it was sour and pungent, the odour of death. A tingle of panic ran through her as her feline instincts told her to flee, but once again she suppressed the urge.
Her golden body shimmered and warped as she moved across the room and in a heartbeat she was once more in her native form. Four years had made little difference to Marthir: she retained her vibrant glow and healthy curves, her wide full smile and the defiant glint in her eyes. The tattoos had been extended over her abdomen and down onto her hips and buttocks.
A ray of sunlight crept through a near opaque window sited high on the walls. It felt warm on her bare skin. Marthir crept over to the wide table in the room’s centre atop which were half a dozen books. She swiftly pored over them, ignoring the thick coat of dust on the table top. They were books about the Emperor’s Palace, floor plans dating from four hundred years ago. She read down the pages of the adjacent tomes. They were histories of Erturia and of Artoria. They detailed how the Emperor’s Palace had been rebuilt after its collapse during some magical conflict. She had never heard of such an event in the many fireside stories of the Empire still told by travellers the country over. She tried to read more: some demonic catastrophe overtaking Erturia, the Empire in danger and the Empire’s strongest wizards battling.
Loud voices almost made her knock a book from the table. Marthir whirled, melting once more into the shape of the mountain lion. Her powerful back legs propelled her towards the corner stairs and she slipped into cover just as the two knights entered the chamber in the company of another man.
This third man was thin, with long black hair tied in a lank ponytail. His skin was chalk-white as if he were cast from the same stone as the gigantic library. His step was graceful, like that of a dancer, and he was attired in archaic robes: purple velvet trimmed with silver. It was as if he had been lifted from one of the books that sat on the table.
Despite his gaunt features and porcelain complexion Marthir felt a strange attraction to this purple robed man. It was as if all the energy in the room was drawn towards him, as if light and sound soaked into his monochrome body. He halted before the desk and then turned to address the two knights.
“I do understand your concerns, Darklord Jüt, but the plan is nearing its critical stage. The time for wavering passed some years ago,” he said in a soft voice.
The taller knight was clearly agitated. “I understand what you tell me, Xirik. And I appreciate the seminal moment we now approach—yet we take a massive gamble on this action. How do we know he will accede to our wishes?”
A cold humourless smile stretched Xirik’s skin taut.
“We do not truly know anything, Jüt. My dear grandmother used to tell me that death was the only certainty. That shows what she knew!”
“Nonetheless, Jüt has a point,” the second knight said. “We are warriors—we thrive on tactics and certainty. He will bring us neither if the books are anything to judge.”
“Darklord Klir, you forget the seedlings of this whole endeavour. The vision was as clear as if Lady Nekra had carved it across my forehead. For five years my mages have laboured for this; even now they seep through the shadows, sewing the dark seeds that shall allow us total domination!”
The two knights were silent and Marthir could see the reflection of Xirik’s white face in their black polished armour. She barely dared breathe.
Finally one spoke, his voice sounding tinny and cold from beneath his black metal mask. “Accept our apology, oh dark one. It was not our intent to show disrespect for the will of the goddess. By your command we shall return to coordinate the more…militaristic aspects of the plan.”
Xirik smiled and nodded then gestured and the air shimmered before his hand. A goblet appeared: a golden chalice with burning red rubies embedded in its swirls. The dark wizard sipped from the goblet as the two knights bowed and began to leave. A thick red liquid dribbled down his chin and Marthir’s keen nostrils flared as she scented blood.
“My lord, I ask your pardon at the disturbance,” a voice said from the door of the room.
Marthir chanced a glance around the corner of her hiding place and past the protrusions of a hundred books she saw a knight enter the room. The two Darklords stood by his side. His black metal mask was shaded within his hood; his boots were dusty from the excavation.
“Speak swiftly, soldier, ‘ere I elect to quench my thirst with something a trifle warmer,” Xirik said.
“Th-the perimeter patrol think they have discovered some intruders, my lord. Th-they are near to the south-west gate, just off the Avenue of Iron.”
Xirik frowned and tapped the rim of the goblet against his teeth.
“Why would anyone chose to sneak into the dead city? We shall need to take one of them alive or at least dead but still warm enough for me to interrogate him. I shall attend this personally.”
“It would be my honour to do this for you, Xirik,” Darklord Klir said. “You are never your strongest in the sunlight.”
Xirik’s face flashed with anger and Marthir held her breath. He turned with a flourish and threw his goblet against the bookshelf but twenty feet from Marthir. The blood splattered across the spines and trickled down towards the marble floor.
“Take care, Klir. My dark powers are not to be underestimated even in the hateful glare of the warmest Pyrian summer. Sergeant, alert your patrol. I shall join them there shortly.”
Xirik’s arms weaved and his purple velvet cloak billowed, the shadowy depths within spilling out like tar. His pale features shimmered and twisted and in three heartbeats he had transformed into a large black-hawk, its eyes a glowing red. He flew into the air, towards the higher floors and then out of sight.
Marthir dug her claws into the stone steps as she endured the agonising wait for the three knights to exit the room, muttering dark plans between them. She bolted from the spiral corner staircase and out of the chamber. Her heart was pounding; she needed to make it back to the others before Xirik got there.
***
“We should be looking for her, Kervin, she’s been gone far too long,” Ograk said.
Kervin squinted out the grimy window into the small square that lay before the inn. Marthir had been absent for nearly three hours now and despite her prior assurances he worried whether she had been too bold. He idly rearranged her folded green robe atop the table; his fingers toyed with the intricate stitch work of the seam, designed so the garb fell apart when stretched during the druid’s transformations.
“Can you sense her, Ebfir? Form some kind of druid magic link or some such thing?” Kervin asked.
Ebfir, a small balding druid, was meditating in the corner of the inn’s common room. He looked up with a placid expression and shook his head. “The Woodlink is only a skill for a master druid, friend Kervin, and then only in places of nature.”
“Right. Sorry,” Kervin said, rubbing his dry eyes. “Even after years of travelling with Marthir I’m never sure what you druids can do. In fact I’m not certain how you do it either—it’s not as if you have a gem of power jammed into your breastbone.”
“You are not the first to query the gifts that Nolir has bestowed us,” Ebfir replied, with a beatific smile. “The xirande of the four Orders have spent centuries pondering the occurrence. I understand they refer to it as the druid paradox.”
“Aye, even I’ve heard of that,” Kervin said. “Though it was buried deep in the manic twaddle that comes from Ygris’s lips. So the Woodlink—as you call it—is out of the question then?”
“This city that mistress has brought us to… it is tainted with the breath of the dead, not the warmth of nature.”
“Not with nature?” Ograk said. “I haven’t seen this many weeds since I last visited Sir Tinkek’s garden. I tell you, Kervin, if that knight was here he’d have us out looking for her.”
“Onor’s spit! If the knight was here he’d have us charging down the bloody avenue tooting war horns and taking on an army of dark knights, on the off chance he’d get his name in some ballad,” Kervin said. “No, I think Sugox smiled on us when he gave Tinkek the gout last winter.”
“If only it was contagious then I’d not have come on this fool mission for those bloody tree-huggers,” Ograk said. “Me and Iogar were offered a job on a ship bound for South Aquatonia. I’ve never had a girl from the Isles before.”
Kervin sighed as Ograk skulked away, dragging his war hammer behind him like a sullen child with its toy. Ograk, a broad curly haired Feldorian, was more notorious than Ygris for his continual wining.
The Fire-mage hobbled down the stairs from the roof terrace, as if on cue.
“Ah young carouser that I call friend Ograk,” Ygris said. “The gentle rustle of the multitude of blossom trees that echo like a rich Kokisian opera cannot rival the banshee’s lament that escapes from your bee stung lips. Far from me to question the motivations of your pin headed companion but he seems to take more interest in the antique ports and liquors of the bar than the potential doom we find ourselves faced with.”
Iogar, a huge North Artorian warrior, grunted and returned his attention to the rows of dusty bottles stocked behind the low wooden bar. Ivy had entered through a cracked window and grew like a veil before almost half of them.
“I can’t say that five years away from your prattle has conferred me any resistance to it, Ygris,” Ograk said. “How come you are the only bloody Fire-mage in Nurolia that doesn’t spend his days scuttling back to pay his earnings to the higher sashes in the Tower of Flames?”
“This is a laudable query, young Ograk. It is simply a far more powerful calling to spend my days irritating your good self. I luxuriate in a rather unique status, treading the knife edge between palastar and unoristar, assisted by a rather reprehensible collection of documents related to the carnal activities of a senior mage—kept of course in a chest with remarkable fire-proofing.”
“Just my bloody luck—I’ll go to my grave with your gibbering in my ears.”
Ograk stepped gingerly around the charcoal statue of the barman, frozen in a posture of wiping his bar clean. A thick layer of dust sat on the fissured wood.
Ygris chuckled and strode to the black statue, holding his hands out in mock enquiry.
“Kind sir, we have yet to indulge ourselves of your establishment’s hospitality. Pray tell what has the finest city in the Empire to offer us this fell day? I fear my belly so empty that I consider it highly probable that an enchanted tapeworm, confused about its usual route of entry, had slipped down my fiery britches and has worked its way unseen through my tidy hole below. Yet dare I mention my thirst? I see you have a range of vintages, centuries old that I agonise may now be so alcoholic that they would even make my comrade Kervin’s eyes water and encourage him to sing that little ditty about the lass from Aquatonia West with the purple furred br..”
“Ygris!” Kervin said.
The Fire-mage chuckled and approached Kervin.
“Ygris, you should treat the dead with more respect,” Kervin said. “It’s bad luck to fool around with them. This place is dense with the cheated spirits of the Empire.”
Ygris nodded a touch sheepishly and came to sit next to his friend.
Ograk leant against the dusty bar, attempting nonchalance. “What happened here to make them this way, Kervin?”
Kervin peered out of the dusty window again, chewing on some tobacco. He scratched his brown beard as he spoke; this place made him itch.
“No one really knows. Everyone within the city and in the lands for about a hundred and fifty miles around was killed. The last records from Belgo and Keresh detail that a force from the eastern part of the Empire, under the Praetor of the East, had attacked Erturia.”
“That was the Emperor’s brother wasn’t it? He ran Goldoria, Thetoria, Ssinthor and Mirioth?” asked Ograk.
“Yes, I think so,” Kervin said. “They’d snuck across the Khullian Mountains somehow or maybe around through Kanshar and Foom. While the battles were going on in the Straits of Belgo and down the Valley of Shurt between Feldor and Keresh, he obviously thought he’d try come and surprise his brother.”
“Some family reunion,” Ograk said, looking at the incinerated bar man.
“Then some serious magic was let loose and puff the Empire ends with a flash,” Kervin said quietly.
A silence fell on the room and Kervin looked back out on the square. A dozen black statues were frozen in mid stride, their feet now obscured by small bushes that flowered purple in the spring sun. He shuddered and turned to Ygris, who was twiddling with his beaded beard in thought.
“The end of the Empire and the chaining of the magi,” Ygris said.
Ograk uncorked a dusty bottle that his silent friend had passed to him and sniffed it with reluctance.
“I thought you were all towing the line since the Mage Wars? That was donkey’s years ago, before both Empires!” Ograk said, starting to sip the port.
“You surprise me with a knowledge that does not relate to either the chink of coin or pursuits most carnal, Ograk! Indeed your wet maid must have broken you from her teat oft enough for you to recall that indeed the original Codex came about after the Dust Plague of Azagunta, that signalled the cessation of the war. Yet at that time it was not so restrictive: it simply forbade any mage from the rule of a nation or lands. It still allowed us to fight in the armies of kings and dukes and indeed the Empire embraced wizards as it spread its tendrils across the lands. Years later, in the wake of the Empire’s demise, a council met in Belgo. They were formed by the fragments of the shattered Empire. Sadly they bowed to the zeal of the Goldorians and created a code that heavily restricted any wizard from serving in armies or conflicts beyond the miniscule.
“Now, sadly, the majority of the wizards of this world are naught but civil servants with parlour tricks. There remain many tales, agreeably most apocryphal, about straw sucking peasants, brains addled by serial bestiality who were foolish enough to chance their arm against a wandering member of the Order. Ah, the gamble of slinging goat soil at a baldy you erroneously consider a visaline only to bask in the torrent of lava from the thrusting arm of a ferenge.”
“Well your Codex is a good thing if charcoal boy here is anything to judge by,” Ograk said. He shuddered as he swallowed the antique port. “Onor’s spit! That’s wiped the lining of my throat.”
Kervin laughed and looked back out of the window. In astonishment he saw a galloping horse burst from the far side of the square, scattering the black statues like skittles. He leapt to his feet, grabbed his bow and smashed the dusty window with his elbow. It exploded outwards with a crash and he yelled to the others in the room of the danger.
Eight knights ran into the square in pursuit of the horse. Kervin saw a quarrel jutting from her flank as she galloped towards them. Ygris was at his side as the three others gathered their weapons and he pushed open the door to the inn and began speaking words of power.
***
Arrows hissed past Marthir as she thundered across the uneven surface of the square, her hooves tearing apart the small shrubs. Two knights staggered back with shafts embedded in their necks. She saw Ygris at the door, his red and black robes swirling like smoke. Twin torrents of flame poured from his hands. They shot past Marthir’s right side, making her horse hair steam, and exploded into the knights. Their screams echoed in the square as the magical fire turned them into flailing bonfires, their armour glowing a searing orange.
Marthir’s equine form blurred and metamorphosed into her naked human guise, still running at a pace. She gestured frantically to Kervin but it was too late.
The black-hawk landed behind Ebfir, who was in mid-transformation into a bear, his robe unravelling. The ebony bird had entered through the open door to the roof terrace. In a crack of black smoke it transformed into Xirik.
Ebfir whirled, fur erupting from his face as he grew to the size of a brown bear. Xirik’s hands darted forwards and grasped his face, his nails sinking into the flesh as if it were butter. Ebfir wailed, shuddering and twitching as his life force drained from him. His skin, half covered in fur, dried like a leaf in autumn. Within seconds he had shrivelled to a husk and his crumbling corpse crumpled to the floor of the inn.
A roar rang out as Iogar vaulted the bar and charged across the large common room of the inn towards Xirik, closely followed by Ograk wielding his warhammer.
Marthir almost collided with Kervin at the door. She was panting and caked in sweat. The tracker fired another two arrows in quick succession as the four remaining Knights of Ebony Heart ran for cover at the edges of the square. A crackle of fire swirled around Ygris as he stepped aside to allow Marthir past. In the square a fifteen feet wall of flame erupted, sending dark smoke billowing into the spring air.
Xirik laughed as Iogar bellowed and thrust his longsword through the purple robed mage’s chest. The sword entered to the hilt then emerged from his back with a shred of cloth. The huge warrior gaped in astonishment as Xirik still stood; it was like the blow had done nothing more than ruin a good outfit. Xirik grasped the hilt of the sword and a green flame erupted from his hand, flashing up the pommel and engulfing Iogar. The Artorian warrior staggered back screaming and collapsed to the floor before a stunned Ograk.
“He’s a ghast, Kervin, he’s undead” Marthir wheezed. “We’ve got… to get... out of here.”
Ygris swore and whirled, sweat springing on his shiny bald head. He pushed to the front of the three at the inn entrance and began to mutter incantations to battle the undead sorcerer.
Ograk, too distant from Marthir to hear her warning, charged at the smirking wizard. His huge warhammer swung down with a crippling momentum and struck the side of the pale mage’s head. With a horrible crunch the entire head imploded, as if made of nothing more than dust. Ograk wrenched the hammer back from the stump of the neck, readying for another blow.
The headless body of the wizard lunged forward as Ograk swung back. His bony hands grasped the warrior’s ring mail vest. The fingers penetrated the metal like it was paper. With no more effort than swatting a fly, the headless figure lifted and threw the two hundred pound man across the length of the inn. Ograk smashed into the shelf of bottles behind the bar with an explosion of glass and liquid.
Marthir grabbed Kervin’s arm in panic and yelled for him to get hold of Ygris, but the mage had entered the fray. Kervin flinched as quarrels hissed through the open door from the knights in the square.
Marthir’s world exploded as she began to turn to run. She staggered forwards, a crossbow bolt having ripped through her shoulder. A wave of intense pain flooded her mind, warm blood splashed across her tattooed breasts and she stumbled and fell through a rotten wood table.
The inn blurred for a second then came jolting back into focus as she scrambled to gain her feet. Shards of glass from the window had slid unnoticed into her bare feet. Her arm was numb and useless and the pain threatened to drag her into unconsciousness. Every part of her fought the urge to just lie down and surrender. She cursed her own frailty as she tried desperately to concentrate on a transformation, but her thoughts were scattered like pollen in the wind.
The inn was a haze of noise and motion; she felt the warmth on her face as Ygris unleashed his fire magic, heard the yells of Kervin as he fired his bow at charging black knights. Was that Ograk, bleeding from a dozen cuts running towards her? Green flames met golden fire, darkness met light and the night met the day. She rolled in exhaustion amongst the splinters of the table, the wood of the shattered furniture now oddly on top of her, feeling the sharp spikes of the barbed quarrel in her flesh.
The flames hit the gallons of spirits flowing like blood from the wounded bar.
Marthir’s instinct was to curl in a ball as the explosion ripped apart the side of the inn. Through her pain-wracked brain she was dimly aware of an eruption of dust and a crushing weight that slammed down around her like a giant’s foot. In a burst of adrenaline she wrenched magical power from deep within her, drawing the energy from the ancient soil, calling on the sparse earth magic for one last spell.
Then all was dark and warm.
***
In the depths of the inky blackness it began: a single thud, like a drum. Then there came a pause, perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity and then a second thump arose. The endless night was cold and vast but slowly warmth crept forth, invited in like a reluctant guest. The heat brought awareness, consciousness and a sense of being.
Her eyes flickered open, though only the irritation of the caked dust in them allowed her to discern between open and closed. The blackness around her was complete. She was overcome by an intense thirst and hunger, which ripped through her guts like a knife. Her mouth was as arid as the Pyrian dunes. She moved to explore her surroundings when in horror she realised she was trapped.
Weight pressed on her legs, a dull pain that mirrored the throb of her shoulder. The air was stale and dank, and the smell of burnt wood was all around her.
She was buried under the inn.
The hibernate spell had worked its magic. An enchantment rarely used by even the oldest druids, it slowed metabolism and functioning down to a semblance of death. Yet in this suspended state the body healed rapidly, repairing torn tissues and rent bone as industriously as ants would repair their colony.
Panic began to pulse through her as her senses returned. Marthir was entombed, probably in an air pocket, with no way out. She had no comprehension of the passage of time; she could have been here for hours or days or weeks. The panic seared one thought across her young mind: how in Nolir’s name could she get free?
The air felt abruptly thin and she began to sob in desperation. She did not want to die, not in this place. When she had been younger and visualised her end it had alternated between heroic and peaceful. In one dream she was a brave warrior, charging against insurmountable odds like a true Artorian. In the more tranquil alternate she would be lying on a bed of moss with the green haze of the woods around her. But choking on dust as the air gradually thinned? She could not imagine a more dismal end.
Tears mixed with the fine powder on her face and began to sting. Damn it, she could not die. Her life was far too bright. I burn with primordial energy, she thought, I flame like the brightest star. I am a furnace of passion and life, with too much yet to achieve, too much yet to say and with too many regrets in my short span of years.
She reached out her aura to the earth around her and with despair realised how scanty the earth force was. The place was barren; its deeper soil was leached and drained, like animals in a slaughterhouse with their flesh white and cold. Tiny tendrils wormed to the surface, enough to sustain the weeds and stunted trees that choked the city, but true nature was yet to return. If she died here would her soul permeate the ground the way it must? Or would she be trapped for eternity floating across the surface like dandelion clocks on the early spring breeze.
“It’s not fair,” she said and her throat felt as if it were cut. Goddess, she needed water or she would die of thirst before the air ran out. If I get out of this, she prayed, I will repair the torn tapestry of my past.
But how was she to manage that? She could not move and the transformation to a lion or a horse would crush her before it shifted any masonry. The answer came to her with a grip of cold dread. There was another transformation she could attempt—but it carried great danger. Was she ready for it? In the months before this mission she had practiced and honed the change, but she had only undergone the preliminary rituals, not the final. She could still recall the agony of the venom as it coursed through her shaking body. She could still remember her insides on fire as she lay exposed before the high druids, their cold eyes as impassive as the great pines that loomed above them. The taste of the warm serpent flesh was even now a rubbery memory in her mouth; the blood had run hot down her chin as she completed the Rites of Eris Fe. But the final ritual, the sealing, the joining of human and beast, was not yet performed and to transform prior to that risked losing oneself in the mind of the creature you became.
Yet what choice did she have? A guarantee of death in this dark tomb, leagues from the bosom of Nolir, versus the possibility of becoming a serpent in mind as well as body. In the end it was no choice.
Marthir focused, blocking out the pains from her legs and shoulder. She recalled the sensations of scales on her flesh. She remembered the smoothness of slithering through the leaves of the forest with her tongue flicking to catch a taste of the world. She visualised the kaleidoscope of scents, as bright in her mind as the vibrant shades of a new summer’s day as the gold of the corn meets the emerald of the hills under an azure sky.
The pressure on her legs eased as her limbs shimmered and warped. She had become the snake. The feeling of the rough stone slipping under her as she slithered across it was exquisite—like silk robes drifting from her body as she stepped into a warm bath. Her senses were magnified immensely: sight was of little use yet her sense of smell and taste guided her through the warren of crevices and cracks, the tang of fresh air tantalisingly close.
She hungered still. She hungered for fresh meat, perhaps a rodent, one that she could kill with a poison bite. She would eat it whole and enjoy the richness of its flesh melting within her gut. She hungered for a mate to seed those eggs that lay within her belly so that she may find a nest and bring forth new life. In the rear of her mind she knew there was another drive, another purpose. It was something to do with men, with friends, who unlike her had legs and arms. They were in danger. Yet if it was dangerous she would need to flee, slithering away through the dark corners of this place to seek safety for her and for the young she must yet bear.
She slowed as a pungent smell assailed her. It was the scent of burnt and decayed flesh. Was it dangerous? It would seem not, for it had been dead for a long time. She approached with caution, her tongue and nostrils evaluating the corpse. It was crushed under this mountain of rubble. A name came into her serpentine mind: Iogar. Big and stupid, not slim and smart like her.
The flow of air caressed Marthir’s scales as she slid past Iogar and she squeezed through a tiny gap following its direction. It was fresh air, imbued with a rich aroma that was moist and welcoming. The stone dust powdered her green skin as she breached the surface and emerged into the night air. Her eyes adjusted swiftly as she peered around, desperate for prey.
A dead man was next to her, half buried in the rubble. There was no flesh just dry bone. It had just rained. She drank from the puddles avidly. Now she must seek prey before making her nest.
No, Marthir thought, I must find my friends.
No, she replied, with her serpentine mind. This place is dangerous; I must find prey and then a mate.
With a supreme effort Marthir took control and battered down the instincts of the beast. In truth, a large part of her did want to flee this dead city, eat greedily and even seek the warmth of a man. But the strongest part of her consciousness knew that this saga had only just begun, and with a wrench of pain she began her change back to human.
She lay in the rubble for ten minutes, staring at the speckled sky and savouring the sensation of the night air on her tattooed skin. A patter of rain on her face reminded her of her thirst and she opened her dry mouth wide and relished the moisture as it trickled down her throat.
She rose with a groan and strode to a shattered water fountain on the perimeter of the square. It had once resembled a stone serpent, the dried up water spout being inside the snake’s open mouth. Rainwater had collected in the corner of the basin and Marthir drank slowly, mindful that quick consumption would cramp her stomach. An ebony statue of an old woman was crouched over the fountain and Marthir found herself staring at the gnarled face frozen forever at the moment of its annihilation.
Next she crept through the dark brambles that spilled from several of the ruined shops, weaving amongst the small purple flowered bushes in the square. Her deft hands sought out berries and with delight she found some sourberry, one of the few plants to bear fruit this early in the year. She picked a dozen berries carefully and, steeling herself, slowly munched them. Their piquant taste made her shudder.
She returned to the ruins of the inn to contemplate her next move, easing past the toppled statues that littered the square. A dead knight lay partly crushed by the rubble. Marthir bent and pulled off his helmet, on a whim. His head was now a grinning skull, its yellow bone pock-marked from acid.
She held up the helmet, turning it in the light drizzle as the red and silver moonlight struggled to illuminate the square before her. The workmanship was excellent; subtle curves and seamless joins. The faceplate was carved into a demonic image, breached only by two eye holes and a mouth slit. She had heard the flesh of the knights was bound to the metal. It was impossible to know for certain. When the knights died the armour was rigged to release acid that seared off their flesh leaving naught but bones inside the metal suits.
“Who are you strange warriors?” Marthir asked, thinking aloud. “You come from the darkest reaches of these wastes, for years only ever seen in passing or skulking around the peaks of the mountains. And now you plan something—but what? You ally with the undead and with sorcerers. You keep slaves to drive your abomination of a machine. Your armour and weapons are rigged with devices unlike any I have ever seen.”
As if to prove her point Marthir pressed her toes into the vambrace of the corpse’s armour. At the sound of a subtle click she pulled back her foot as four curved blades sprang from the metal.
She returned to her discussion with the knight’s helm.
“So, my vacant enemy, share your eternal wisdom with me. Every instinct tells me to slip from this dead place and return to Artoria proper. I have to report back to the Druid council—for it was they who sent me on this insane mission. Surely that is my real priority, at least according to that rarely tapped sensible part of my Artorian brain!
“But as I slid past you from this devastated drinking den I caught some scents. Faint, nearly washed clean from the stones, but none the less they still linger. They have my friends: Ygris, Ograk and dear Kervin. Each to a man would scream to leave them be. Well, Ygris wouldn’t, he’d say rescue me you lazy trollop of the trees. But the others… well, you get my point.
“But they are here because of me and the rewards promised them from the druids in the south. Well Ebfir and Iogar got their reward and then some. It’s down to me. What will your comrades do to the lads? Slavery? Sacrifice? Or something worse at the grave-tainted hands of that ghast? If I go now to the south it’s under the pretense of duty, a justification that will prove hollow when I lay safe in my cot under the mighty eaves of the Great Forest.”
Marthir stood and let the helmet drop to the ground; its clatter rang sharply in the night air. Her hair was soaked with the rain, but retained its natural spikiness. It ran in cooling rivulets down her skin. Damn this place, it had weakened her resolve and allowed despair to dent her confidence. Her friends needed her in all her untamed prowess. If they still lived she would rescue them and then flee into the mountains. At least there tracking them would be a challenge and the dark knights would be far fewer than on the two roads that ran from Erturia to the other parts of Artoria.
The lion’s courage pumped through her with every heartbeat and she let out a low snarl into the drizzle. This mission was far from over.