“Isn’t it entombed with the exarch and his undead army?” Goron said.
“That shouldn’t be a problem for a brute like you should it?” Morwen teased.
“I guess not,” Goron grumbled and looked to Yeston. “Could I have one for the road?” Yeston took a final drink and tossed him the bottle. It was empty.
“Could you put somebody in charge of the hospital before you go please, Morwen?” Yeston asked.
Morwen hung her head. “There’s no point. All my patients died in the night.”
Yeston sighed. “Godspeed, the castle’s survival depends on you.”
“They won’t make it,” Yeston said to himself as Morwen closed the door behind her. If the forest doesn’t kill them, they’ll kill one another. Still, he’d tried. He crossed to the window overlooking the sea. His wife and child were out there. All the castle’s dead were, thrown into the black waters since they’d lost the graveyard to the wights. He’d find them again. He climbed up on the ledge. The edges crumbled and he fell into space.
Morwen looked back at Wichsault with pride and sadness. The castle was impressive. Several crenelated towers loomed above the one-hundred-foot-high walls of ancient stone. Built on bedrock, the thick outer walls stretched for a mile, overlooking both sea and forest.
She should have stood in grandeur for a thousand more years, but in the morning’s early light, Morwen could see how the dark rot had hurt her. Much of the stone was blackened and crumbling, and sections of the walls and towers were reduced to rubble.
A wave of nostalgia engulfed her. She would protect the only home she had ever known, the stone of her birth, and vowed to do whatever she could to preserve it—so long as something was in it for her too.
Morwen was as prepared as she could be for the journey ahead. She carried a month’s rations in a pack on her back and as much again for Szat, more than the castle could spare. She wore a black robe with a dagger tucked into her belt. The hem was too long and dragged in the dust, but she owned and wore only robes.
Caroc, in contrast, was dressed to travel. He wore weathered leather armour with a cloak thrown over the top. A bow was slung over his shoulder and a falcata swung from his hip. Goron wore similar armour, but his cuirass and helm were made of steel. The breastplate was battle worn, but it gleamed in the sunlight. Goron often sought his reflection in its burnished metal, flicking his hair and smiling at himself. Strapped to his back was a large battle axe.
“What’s our closest destination?” Morwen asked Caroc when they’d walked a mile from the castle in a northerly direction. He was several yards in front of her, and she had to shout to be heard above the scuff of feet on the dirt road.
He hadn’t spoken yet and was sullen—wrestling some personal demons she suspected—it was all very self-indulgent. He’d seen some people die, so get over it and be thankful it wasn’t you was her advice. Goron strode at her heels. She could smell his sweat. It was as if he were leaking beer.
“Mournburn,” Caroc said. Mournburn lay several miles from Wichsault. The village had been abandoned a few years before her birth. On a clear day, she could see its overgrown fields and dilapidated buildings from her bedroom window. How simple life would be living as a girl in that village rather than the castle.
“Is it true they abandoned the village because of a few bugs?”
Caroc nodded.
“There are plants we can crush and steep to produce sprays for that kind of thing,” Morwen said. It was madness to abandon Wichsault’s main source of food and go to all the trouble of growing crops on every square foot of ground in the castle because of a bug infestation.
“Have you ever seen a chomite?” Caroc asked.
“Can’t say I have.”
“A seven-foot, armoured killing machine with razor-sharp mandibles that could cut a man in two, and there are thousands of them.”
There was a loud curse behind her. Morwen glanced over her shoulder and saw Goron ensnared in a bramble bush growing beside the road. She suspected he’d been too mesmerized by his reflection and stumbled into the tangle of spikes.
“That shouldn’t be growing there,” he yelled. Delighted at his misfortune, Morwen laughed and earnt a barrage of foul expletives accompanied by an angry glare.
Goron struggled free and executed immediate vengeance by hacking at the bush with his axe until it was matchwood. Szat humoured the warrior by setting the remains alight with a fireball. Satisfied, Goron then busied himself pulling out dozens of thorns from his unprotected arms and face.
The seemingly never-ending dusty road soon wore Morwen down. She was used to only short walks around the castle. The backpack and the fat demon on her shoulder weren’t helping either.
The way led through a copse of ash trees. The road was almost indiscernible under its blanket of rotting vegetation. Caroc scanned for an ambush.
Morwen massaged the knots in her aching back and turned her head to eyeball Szat. “Have you ever thought about walking, you fat lump? It might agree with you.”
“Have you ever thought about smiling and being happy?” Szat said.
“No, because if you’re miserable all the time, there are never any nasty surprises. I always expect the worst, and usually I’m not disappointed.” It was the philosophy she lived by.
At midmorning they stopped for lunch under a willow tree by the river. Caroc didn’t eat; instead, he kept watch on the distant line of trees that marked the edge of the forest. Morwen took off her sandals, totally impractical for
