and laid his hand on one of the pedestals. “We’re in the Realm of Death.”
“Nice to see they left the lamps on for us,” Aisling said as she stepped up to join him. “But wasn’t this place filled with howling death when last we were here? Spirits of the damned, loosed upon the demise of their master?”
“Yes, that’s true-” Cyrus said, and stopped. There was a faint rattle, something clicking slowly against something else, as the torchlight flickered around them as though stirred by a wind he couldn’t feel.
“What?” Aisling asked, then froze at attention, listening. “Oh, gods.”
The rattle got louder, and a howling torrent of fury burst through the door at the top of the balcony. Souls, the damned, the trapped remnants of the God of Death’s collection filled the air around them, a tornado of spirits, circling lower and lower.
“Time to move,” Cyrus said, scooping up Aisling in one arm and pulling her back to the portal. Windrider was already turned and galloping through. Cyrus followed, letting the world distort around him as he stepped inside, and a moment later found himself back in the cave, in the circular chamber, and it was still empty. “That was lovely. If you ever leave me to jump into idiocy like that again, I’ll let you die.”
“You should really save that kind of sweet nothing for pillow talk, darling.” Aisling’s ears perked up and she turned, backing away from the portal as flickers of light flashed from within it. “Can those things follow us here?”
“I daresay we’re about to find out.”
“Oh,” she said sarcastically, “is that what you
They backed away from the portal as shapes started to coalesce in the light, black shadows, and something began to emerge. A horrific screeching preceded it, as though something had taken to tormenting an animal and refused to let it go. The first shape came through the portal and a shock of horror ran through Cyrus from top to bottom; claws and a four-legged appearance became obvious first, then the rounded head and vicious teeth, followed by the black, glassy eyes that had no feeling behind them. It skittered out, one of the scourge, followed immediately by more.
“That’s-” Aisling said, her voice jerking to get the words out, “-the souls of the damned, from the Realm of Death, they turned into-is that-how is that possible?”
“They’re taking physical form.” Cyrus’s voice was a low growl, and it came from a part of his throat that wanted to scream, something he never did. “They can’t come through as spirits, so they’re taking form, and …” He turned, and saw others coming through the big entrance. “We’ll never make it out through the narrow passage.” He tightened his grip on Praelior. “Charge the big tunnel-NOW!” His last word came as a shout and he ran, sword swinging as he did so, his blade striking out as his legs pumped, chewing up the ground between him and the opening that seemed to lead out of the cavern.
The first of the scourge looked as though it was slithering toward him. He struck with his sword before it had time to react. More followed, countless, and he struck at them, too, using the speed Praelior granted him to stay a step ahead, clearing the tunnel, which although larger than the narrow passage, was only a few feet wide. They came at him a few at a time, but he moved on, driven, emotion bubbling over as he swung his sword. Daylight was ahead, and he kept on toward it-
They broke out into the sunlight and Cyrus’s eyes fought to adjust to the brightness. The sky was clouded over, but still somewhere above the sun shone, behind a cloud, and he tried not to blink from it as he sliced through three more scourge. He could smell rotting flesh, it filled his nose and the still air around him, even as the cold and the snow were obvious, the ground covered with white for miles all around. He looked down from the abutment he was on, a craggy trail of rocks, and below was a path leading to a village, teeming with the scourge, thousands of them, making the thirty or so he had cut through in the flight from the cavern look like a miniscule number by comparison.
“Come on!” he heard Aisling shout, and he turned after striking a few more down to see her already on Windrider’s back. The horse lunged forward and Cyrus jumped, catching a foot in a stirrup as Windrider passed and jerking himself onto the horse through sheer rote practice. They galloped down the hill and through the center of the town as the streets began to fill with the monsters, streaming out of buildings. As they rode by an open door, Cyrus could see bodies inside, a cloth dress that had been dull grey, stained now with blood and horror.
Windrider did not spare the speed as he ran, carrying them along the path out of town, galloping along a snowy road toward the pass they had come through only the day before. They did not meet any resistance, and the horse kept up the speed for as long as possible, until they were beyond the valley and into the pass, leaving behind everything that they had seen save for the horror which they carried with them in their minds.
Chapter 38
They found mountain springs and places for Windrider to graze after they cleared the snowy valley, and they stopped occasionally, long enough for Cyrus to rest and tend to his horse, which he did mechanically, at best. After a day’s ride wherein they had barely exchanged a word, Aisling said to Cyrus, “Let me do it,” and took care of Windrider herself before they retired for the night.
Cyrus lay down on the bedroll, the only one they had. His thoughts had been a swirling fury all day during the ride, racing so fast that he could scarcely even grasp them. He ate only a little, finding he had no appetite, and when Aisling came to join him on the bedroll, curiously, he found something he did have an appetite for, but he did that mechanically as well, though she did not seem to notice. She fell asleep immediately thereafter, and to his surprise, he did as well.
They arose early, before dawn, and were riding again minutes later, following the path south. The horse’s hoofprints left a deep impression in the thin snow that coated the ground, and Cyrus felt every one of them resonate through him. His mind was stirred, unclear, but the same thought kept bubbling to the surface over and over again.
After another day and night, another perfunctory evening spent with Aisling, who either did not notice or did not care that Cyrus was vacant and unable to look at her with his eyes open whilst they were together on the bedroll, he still found himself able to go through at least the motions there. It was a curious thing: he couldn’t seem to think straight, couldn’t manage more than a few bites of bread until he was starving, but she moaned in pleasure at his touch and enjoyed his company for as long as it lasted, but it left him even more hollow, empty inside, and lost in thought.
On the third day they arose and dressed in silence once more. She did not seem to feel any need to bring conversation out of him, but let her body speak, and he drank in the sweaty stickiness of her, and he found he didn’t care. Something primal urged him on, gave him solace with her, allowed him to put aside all the thoughts that drew him down and silenced him during the day.
On the fourth day they reached lower ground and at a high point they looked out over the greener fields, where the snow had not fallen this far south, and saw a caravan ahead.
“That’s them,” Aisling said. “They’re moving at a decent speed, about a half day’s ride ahead. We can probably catch them by nightfall tomorrow if we hurry.”
“Let’s hurry, then,” Cyrus said, the void in him now filling with something else, a gut-deep thought of satisfaction at a confrontation that loomed large ahead of him like the mountains that filled the horizon. “I’ve got some talking to do when we get there. We’ll need to keep to cover so they don’t see our approach.” Cyrus’s voice hardened. “I don’t want Terian to know we’re coming.”
They spent another night alone under the stars, Windrider keeping silent vigil for their night’s watch, while beneath the blanket on the bedroll other things occurred that sent the horse shying away into a thicket beyond their camp. They rode the next day again in silence and Cyrus tried to focus his thoughts on keeping to the path, on avoiding being seen by the column ahead. They kept to the trees as often as possible, moving openly only when there was no high ground ahead that they might be seen from. When nightfall came they took a break. Cyrus laid the bedroll on the ground. Aisling came to him, and when they were done they rolled it up again by silent accord and continued the ride, heading onward toward campfires they could see just over the horizon.
The wind was more subtle here but still carried a bite that left Cyrus’s armor icy cold. The night had come down around them like a black shroud pulled over one’s eyes, and the chill left Cyrus with a sense like ice melting
