Even the Dead Suffer

Lord Yemor slumped onto a log the villains had conceived to use as a bench. Peasants. How is it that these sorts never consider stealing decent furniture? The lord wondered what price he would now pay for anything bearing a cushion. A grimace parted Yemor’s lips as he looked at the dead man sitting across from him. He had not even considered what price the corpse would demand. This undead churl will undoubtedly try to ransom me himself.

“They were waiting for us.” Yemor drank from a half-empty wineskin, then sighed. “Tell me, Izrak Laav. Is there a cure for a wretched soul?”

Seated on a crate, Izrak hunched over his longsword running a whetstone along its edges. The grinding ceased. The dead man peered over the crackling tongues of flame at Yemor. The shadows of his hollowed eyes flickered with the firelight, his lipless grin broad between his desiccated, pallid cheeks.

“Only one that I know of,” the dead man said, voice the rasp of wind over an endless sea of sand.

The lord stared at that spectral visage, leaned back and, after a moment, looked away. As if Varon’s cells were not torturous enough. This hideous creature was more than Yemor’s delicate sensibilities could withstand. I’m going to flay whoever hired this monster to rescue me. He waved his hand, laughed.

“That’s what I appreciate about you warriors of the Call. Great sense of humor. Always smiling.” He chuckled and took another pull of the wine.

Izrak lowered his gaze, resumed sharpening his blade.

Yemor held the wineskin upside-down in front of him, lips pinched, eyes squinting. He shook it. Empty. He sighed, tossed the skin to the ground and rose from his seat. The lord stretched his back as he surveyed the carnage on display in the glade. A dozen bodies littered the camp, hewn and maimed. The faces of the brigands were flaxen beneath the full moon, contorted in a fear born not entirely of the wounds they suffered, terrible though they were.

“Did you truly have to do all that?” The lord’s arm swept over the scene in a grandiose gesture.

“You did tell those wretched souls to run.”

Yemor bent with laughter.

Izrak stowed the whetstone and stood, sliding his sword into its scabbard. “It is time. Those who had the sense to flee will return with more men. We must reach the Myortvi before then.” The dull glint on the iron studs of his leather jerkin faded away as he stamped out the fire.

“Keep low and stay behind me,” Izrak said. “The moon’s light will be of no help once we are inside.”

Yemor trailed him at a cautious distance as they approached the edge of the Myortvi. “Light a torch, then.”

The foolish lord did not understand. The living never can. The Myortvi—The Dead Woods—was more than some forsaken forest in the borderlands of Enostran. It was a place of evil, of shadow. Ageless and unchanging, the dead wood gave nothing, but only took from those who would travel its tortured paths, piece by piece, until nothing remained. Izrak’s journeys carried him through the dark wood with relative frequency, and the mercenary would often wonder, as he trudged beneath its abyssal canopy, if he should not simply remain. In the end, what more could the dead wood take? Was that place not fitting for one such as him? Countless arcane horrors prowled that realm of perpetual dusk, and none suffered the light to pass within its fetid reaches. Why did she send us this way? Any sign of life would be consumed.

“No fire.”

“Then how are we supposed to see, Izrak? We’ll be lost for sure.” Yemor stopped, placed his pudgy hands on his hips. “Well?”

Izrak continued a few paces, then halted. Standing deathly still, he faced away from the lord as his fingers closed around a frayed pouch on his belt. Lost … For over three centuries, you have held me in your grasp. Why will you not show me the way? Why do you keep me blind? After a moment, he shifted his dead gaze upon the quivering lord. The mercenary’s eyes were black pits, features ephemeral in the silver light of the moon.

“The darkness holds no secrets from me.”

Lord Yemor quickened his pace, shuffling behind the mercenary as he moved on. “Easy for you … What does a corpse have to fear?”

“I fear many things.”

Yemor snorted. “But how could you be afraid? You’re already dead.”

Izrak stopped before a mangled tree at the wood’s edge, warped, twisted beyond recognition, its blackened bark peeling away in curling strips. Just like me. He ran his pale, skeletal fingers over the shriveled bark. “Even the dead can suffer.” A flutter of wings drew his attention skyward; a murder of crows, concealed within night’s black shroud, flitted by overhead from the direction of the brigand’s campsite, their midnight meal disturbed by unwelcome intruders. Perhaps I have lingered here for too long … A hollow sigh passed from the mercenary as he drew his sword, its nicked, razor edges gleaming in the moonlight. “Come, my lord. Varon’s men will not be far behind.”

“Must we go through these wretched woods? Surely there must be another way.” Yemor retreated a step, staring at the gnarled, barren branches reaching into the night—fingers of the damned clawing out of some ancient hell.

The mercenary glanced left, then right. “There are. Three of them.” Izrak adjusted his worn-leather skullcap. “We can go around, two leagues to the north, three to the south. Or we could make it easy for Varon, and simply go back.”

Trembling beneath his thick, sable furs, Lord Yemor peered back down the serpentine path. He breathed in deep, released it. “The woods, then.”

“So be it. Hold onto my belt. Do not let go.”

Yemor reached a shaking, hesitant hand toward the mercenary.

Izrak grunted. “Fear not. There are worse terrors in these woods than I.”

A screeching howl pierced the dread silence of the night. Answering calls echoed throughout the dark wood.

“What was that?” Yemor said, grasping the mercenary’s belt.

Izrak looked over his shoulder, his maw drawn in its eternal grin of rotted, yellow teeth. “Guuls.”

The darkness was suffocating. Although, it may simply have been the rancid stench of the corpse shambling ahead as the lord trailed behind. All around, branches rattled in the fell wind, twigs snapped, and owls sang in unseen congregation—a solemn dirge for the passing of two lost souls. Yemor pinched the bridge of his nose, finger and thumb coming away slick with sweat. How can he see in this? A dull pain throbbed at the backs of his eyes, the strain of peering into the preternatural black of the woods plaguing the lord with a headache. How much longer must I suffer this place? This corpse?

“Are we almost out?”

“Quiet,” the dead man said. His frame went rigid beneath his jerkin and mail coat. He stopped.

The lord stumbled into him, like walking into a stone wall. Yemor grunted. “What is it?”

Izrak gave no reply.

Useless though it was, Yemor flicked his gaze from side to side. He scowled, furrowed his brow. The owls’ song had fallen away. The winds ceased, the woods, still. His skin broke out with gooseflesh. Suddenly, a scratching—claws dragging over wood—tore through the silence. Shivering, the lord snapped his head in the direction of the horrid sound. A branch cracked. Yemor yelped, slapped a hand over his mouth.

A keening wail shattered the turgid air. Rapid footfalls charged in from the right, the attendant wail growing louder. Yemor flinched as the noise drew closer. The air whistled on the edge of a blade—the wail cut off in an instant. Foul blood spattered over the lord’s cheek. His nails bit into bloodless palms as his grip tightened on the dead man’s belt.

The Myortvi erupted in a storm of ripping claws and ravenous cries. “Run.” Izrak took off.

Stumbling after the mercenary, clinging desperately to his belt, Yemor’s stout legs struggled in a terrified frenzy to keep pace. Horror closed in on all sides as clicking fangs and blood-curdling shrieks haunted each step. But every time the monsters came near, they were consumed by the whip and whistle of Izrak’s sword as it sang its song of death.

And yet, the number of the wretched guuls seemed to increase. Sweat, now mixed with blood, poured over Yemor’s brow, his ragged breaths coming in wheezing gasps. The dead man stopped, and the lord crashed into him. Yemor’s stiff fingers slipped from Izrak’s belt as he was sent sprawling across the ground.

“Damn you, hell-spawn.” Heart hammering in his chest, he threw out his hands in a flailing attempt to retake hold of his macabre guardian. Yemor’s fingers found cold flesh. “Izrak?”

Claws gripped the lord’s shoulders, pinning him to the ground as a hot breath washed over his face in rank waves. Yemor shriveled and whimpered, a feral snarl the only reply. The creature’s obscured face hung over his own. Yemor’s fingers sank into the cold mud as jagged fangs brushed against his neck.

“Izrak …” he said, throat choked with fear and disgust. That monster abandoned me, left me to die. “Help me!”

A whistling slice fell from above, ending in a dull smack of steel on flesh. The snarling ended in a whine. Hot blood sprayed the lord’s face as the monster’s body slumped against his, then rolled away.

A hand closed around the collar of Yemor’s tunic, pulling the lord to his feet in one fluid motion. “On your … feet,” the dead man rasped.

Yemor ran a hand over his face, wiping away the blood, his body quaking as his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

“Need to … run …”

“Just get me out of here!” The lord felt Izrak’s hand tighten on his collar before pulling him closer. The dead man’s hand trembled. Yemor’s skin crawled. He heard the grinding clatter of teeth just above his head. His stomach twisted as the lord tried to back away, but the dead man held him fast. “Unhand me, corpse.” Frigid fingers closed around his throat.

Branches split as a mass of screeching fury collided with the dead man. Yemor heard the hollow thud of Izrak’s sword hitting the mud as his hand was torn away from the lord’s throat. “Izrak!” Yemor staggered back, hearing claws rake over chainmail amid the guuls’ wails and snapping jaws. He turned, about to run, when a very human roar exploded from the shadows. The lord froze as terror turned his blood to ice.

The bloody squelch of tearing flesh and the ripping crack of breaking bones assailed the lord’s senses. Just get me out of here … The howling of the guuls turned to fearful whines before being stifled one by one. Don’t let them take me …Yemor closed his eyes, hearing teeth sinking into meat as he covered his ears. Not like this …

After a time, Yemor opened his eyes, and held his hands out in front of him. All was quiet in the dead wood once more. The lord stumbled forward a step. “Izrak? Are you there? What the hell happened to you?”

A pair of yellow orbs, dim embers smoldering in the shadows, materialized several paces away. Mud squelched beneath heavy boots as the orbs rose slowly to the height of a tall man. The embers burned out. Disembodied steps approached the lord. Yemor heard the rattle of mail, then the clack of a sword falling into its scabbard. A fell presence lingered in front of him, its dead chill prickling his flesh.

“Come, my lord. We are near the end.” Izrak’s rasp seethed from the black.

“What about the guuls?” Yemor said. “Surely there are more of them. We won’t make it.”

“They will trouble us no longer.”

“How do you know?”

“They are afraid.”

Flickering torchlight and the nervous chatter of Lord Yemor’s retinue greeted them as Izrak led the nobleman out of the Myortvi. A carriage sat on the rough trail, surrounded by two-dozen mounted men-at-arms. As the mercenary and his charge approached, a figure emerged from the carriage, hooded and cloaked in black. Always with me. The mercenary’s pace slowed, fingers closing around his age-worn pouch.

“So, it was you who hired this corpse to rescue me.” Yemor strode forward as Izrak stopped a few paces away. “Lady Olesia.”

At this, the lady lowered her hood. Olesia’s raven hair shimmered in the firelight, bound at the crown with a silver circlet, a rich amethyst at its center glittering upon her porcelain brow. Her ashen eyes were storms, roiling clouds streaked with flecks of violet lightning. The corners of her mauve lips curled upward as she closed her eyes and bowed.

Lord Yemor chuckled. “And what was the promised payment?”

Lady Olesia leaned in, whispered in his ear.

The lord snorted. “Is that all?” Yemor laughed as he moved past Olesia towards the carriage. “Very well.” He climbed inside. “And to think, I would’ve given him a castle, but I suppose a tomb is more fitting for a corpse.” The lord sneered, slamming the carriage door shut.

Izrak held Olesia’s gaze as she stepped closer to him. The lady stared into the empty pits of his eyes, a smile creeping into her lips. What does she see there? A moment passed. The lady drew a tattered, browned scroll from the folds of her sleeve, and held it out to him.

Izrak took the scroll. “The location. It is inside?”

The lady nodded, then held out a small leather purse. Izrak tilted his head. Olesia stepped forward, took his hand and placed the purse on his palm. The mercenary stared into Olesia’s eyes as his fingers closed around it. “Thank you.” Her hand held his for a heartbeat, for two. She let go.

Olesia pulled her hood over her head and turned away. She climbed into the carriage, and the lord’s retinue departed. Several of the men-at-arms cast glances back at the mercenary as they rode along the trail.

Izrak watched for a time as the cavalcade faded into the gloom on the horizon. Olesia … The moon hung low over the foothills rolling in the west, its pale light giving way to the crimson of encroaching dawn. In another time, perhaps … His fingers played along the woven surface of the pouch at his hip, the Record of Kosh clutched in the other hand. At last, I will find you. The mercenary placed the scroll in his satchel. He turned and trudged along the Myortvi towards the jagged peaks rising in the north, the Crown of Yaros. And my suffering will finally come to an end.