Lament (Scars of the Sundering Book 2) (21 page)

“I’ll wear the small beige one.
Can you wrap the others for me?” She presented several talons to the merchant.
It was the last of her portion of the funds Pancras left them.

As the merchant folded and
packaged the robes, Delilah donned the small beige one and cinched the belt at
her waist. She turned to Kale. “Do you still have any of the money Pancras
left? That was the last of mine.”

Kale reached into his pouch and
passed her a handful of gold crowns and silver talons. “This won’t last
forever.”

“I know.” Delilah dropped the
money into her pouch. “You might have to find work.”

“We’ll figure something out.
We’re going to look for a place more permanent to live other than that inn.”
Kali took Kale’s arm as the three draks left the shop. “Someplace down here in
the undercity will surely be less expensive.”

“Good. Fine.” Delilah hugged her
brother with one arm, while struggling to keep hold of her packages. “I need to
be going.” She moved to hug Kali, but stopped short and offered a weak wave
instead.

“Don’t you want us to come with
you to the Arcane University?” Kale followed his sister.

“No, they won’t let you in
anyway. I have to go!” Delilah broke into a run. She didn’t see any point in
Kale accompanying her, except maybe to carry her packages. Although, now that
the ale had taken effect, she felt antisocial.

She dodged the minotaurs and
draks going about their business in the undercity. The hem of her robe caught
between her legs and she stumbled, flinging her packages down the walkway. She
stood and collected them, thankful none of them tumbled off the walkway into
the chasm.

Delilah strode with more care the
rest of the way to the Arcane University. When she arrived, she let out a sigh
of relief as she noticed the archmage’s carriage had not yet returned. Delilah
entered the student barracks and sought out Katka.

“I have something for you.” She
handed the human girl one of the packages. “No, wait, I don’t think that’s the
right one.” Delilah examined the remaining two packages. They were all
unmarked, though one was smaller and lighter. “Oh, well, it’s one of these two.
I guess both of them.”

Katka smiled and took the
packages. “But why? Have you been drinking? You’re slurring your words.”

“I might have stopped off for a
few since the archmage sent me off by myself.”

“Hey, are you wearing new robes?”

Delilah nodded. “Got me a new one
and a new grey one for when I’m a novice. Got you one of each, too, though I
had to guess at the size.”

Katka squealed and tore into the
packages. She held the robe up. It was a bit long, but seemed to be the correct
size otherwise. “This is wonderful, but why? What’s the occasion?”

Delilah flopped onto her bed.
“Just happy to be alive, I guess. The archmage made that freak storm. He killed
a bunch of giants with it who were approaching the city.”

“The archmage did that?” Katka
sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her new robe. “He killed giants with bad
weather? Such power—”

“Yeah, just to make a point, I
think.” Delilah stared at the ceiling. Her fervent hope was for the archmage to
be thoroughly engaged with other tasks and not pester her before her next
trial. She wanted nothing to do with him.

Chapter 12

As much as Pancras hoped the fort
toward which they rode would provide good shelter for the evening, it was
obvious, as they approached, it would not. Tattered flags flying the Etrunian
crest and the hammer and anvil of Adranus flapped in the wind. Even at a
distance, Pancras recognized the blackened wood and shattered stone that told a
tale of woe, a tale worsened by the desiccated and rotten bodies staked to the
dirt alongside the road.

Gisella called for everyone to
halt. “I feel I must investigate this. It’s possible whatever happened here has
long since passed, but I must know.”

“Bah!” Edric fought to control
Yaffa. The pony snorted and whinnied in protest of being forced to stop
downwind of the odor of death. “You said yourself these are Etrunian lands. I
don’t see you wearing their colors.”

“I don’t expect you to
understand. Nevertheless, I am going.” She spurred Moonsilver and rode toward
the fort.

“I’m going with her. You can stay
here if you like.” Pancras did not wait for Edric’s response before putting the
spurs to Stormheart and following after her. He heard Qaliah argue briefly with
Edric before following with Comet.

Dread crept upon Pancras. The
closer they approached the fort, the more acutely he felt it. The way the
bodies had been staked out, and now, piles of bones flanking the battered
gates, engendered apprehension he would recognize the culprits. The wind
carried on it the sickly sweet stench of decaying flesh.

Gisella stopped Moonsilver by a
hitching post just outside the gates. She secured him and grabbed her spear.
She waited for Pancras and Qaliah. To his surprise, Edric lagged not far
behind, though he still complained as he dismounted Yaffa.

“Look.” Gisella pointed to faded
markings on the walls of the gatehouse. Pancras examined them as anxiety
engulfed chest. The markings were made with dried blood and appeared to depict
crudely rendered skulls—the symbol of Aita.

“Death cultists did this.”
Pancras couldn’t be certain, of course, until he found the culprits, but he
felt confident enough to make the pronouncement. Death cults dedicated to Aita
cropped up from time to time. The priesthood denounced them. Death came
naturally to all, and the church’s official position was that the Princess of
the Underworld didn’t need help from mortals. Death cultists disagreed and
believed they served the goddess of death best by killing as many people as
possible.

“What would death cultists want
with an Etrunian fort?” Qaliah drew a thin, short-bladed sword as they walked
through the gatehouse.

“Did you see the other flag?
There was a priest of Adranus here.” Edric referred to the flag flying the
hammer and anvil. It was not uncommon for small settlements that featured a
priest-operated forge to fly a banner of some sort proclaiming allegiance to
the god of smiths and craftsmen.

Pancras removed his rod from his
belt. Since he stopped wearing his focus on the tips of his horns, animating
the dead in his sleep ceased to be a problem. “Death cultists kill
indiscriminately, without reason.”

They stepped into the fort’s
courtyard. Several burned-out buildings stood on the perimeter, but save a
murder of crows pecking at the bodies strewn throughout, there appeared to be
no sign of life.

“We should stay together.”
Gisella took point and led them toward the smithy. “It’s unlikely anyone is
still here, but we’ll be stronger together.”

A body partially hung from the
forge’s hearth, the upper half fully within the firebox, while the rest
dangled. What clothes remained were blackened, burnt beyond recognition. The
upper half was little more than charred bones, while the bottom half was
partially eaten and rotten. Above the body and affixed to the bricks of the
hearth, the symbol of Adranus was smeared with blood.

“Maris take ‘em.” Edric spat on
the floor. “They desecrated the forge.”

Pancras moved closer to the body.
The man had been dead for weeks. “I hate death cultists.” The last time he
heard rumors of a death cult was shortly after he left Muncifer as a youth,
years before he even took up residence in Drak-Anor.

“They’re all gone by now, right?”
Qaliah kicked the corpse’s legs. “This guy’s been dead a while. Why would they
stick around?”

Gisella inspected some of the
broken and half-forged weapons scattered about the smithy. “They might stick
around to lure in unsuspecting travelers, but you’re right, this place seems
abandoned. Still, we should make sure.”

Edric picked up an axe head,
rusted by the elements. “What’s the point? We can’t do anything for these poor
bastards.” He shook his head and dropped the axe.

“If the cult is still here, we
can give them justice.” Gisella motioned for them to follow.

“And if they aren’t”—Pancras
glanced over his shoulder at Edric as he stepped past—“perhaps we can put their
spirits to rest.”

Two major buildings comprised the
majority of the area they needed to search. A cursory inspection of the stables
revealed what the odor suggested. All the horses were slaughtered and left to
rot. Thick clouds of flies swarmed the carcasses like miniature storms.

They followed Gisella into the
two-story building adjacent to the stables that contained the living quarters.
The entry doors were little more than burnt remains clinging to the remnants of
rusty hinges. Bodies littered the rooms within. Guards and death cultists
alike, frozen in a grim diorama of death, lay where they were slain, fodder for
scavengers and carrion-eaters.

“At least they put up a fight.”
Qaliah rolled one of the cultists over with her foot. The man, still clad in a
woolen kilt, his body painted bone white. The paint was cracked and flaking,
marred by his wounds and the toll of time and decay.

By all indicators, the soldiers
of the fort did indeed defend themselves. All the cultists suffered multiple
wounds from spears, swords, and maces. Every dead soldier was surrounded by
multiple cultists. In every room of the living quarters the story was the same.
Handfuls of guards held out against dozens of cultists, overwhelmed by the
sheer numbers of their suicidal opponents.

Not suicidal
, Pancras
reminded himself.
They just don’t care whether they live or die.
Their
recklessness was what made such men so dangerous. He concentrated on his rod to
gather the magical energy he hoped he would not need. Something about the fort
and its fate did not sit right with him. He suppressed a shudder as magical
energy coursed through him. At the edge of his memory, he felt shadowy claws.
When he tried to concentrate on them, they disappeared.

Besides rats and maggots, they
found nothing alive in the living quarters. Gisella stopped in the courtyard
for fresh air.

“There’s no point in going in the
main keep.” Edric sheathed his sword. “Everything in there is as dead as
everything else has been.”

Gisella glared at him. “Then stay
out here. I’m going into the keep. Watch the horses.” Without waiting for his
reply, she grabbed her spear and entered the keep. Pancras noticed the charred
remains of a ballista behind the crenellations on top of the building,
indicating there was a way to access the roof, as well. Qaliah followed the
Golden Slayer, leaving the minotaur with Edric.

“There’s something more here,
Edric. We need to find out what.” Pancras didn’t like Gisella’s righteous
curiosity, but he acknowledged it was the right thing to do.

“Bah! You’re as bad as she is.”
Edric threw up his hands and stormed away. Pancras shook his head and followed
behind Qaliah.

Gisella and Qaliah stood before a
crude altar erected in front of the main room’s hearth. Flesh hung off the
bones used in its construction. Pancras swore and kicked it, scattering the
bones. “They defiled the forge shrine of Adranus and replaced it with this
crude, hastily erected mockery. Aita take them all.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
Gisella scattered the remaining bits of the altar with the butt of her spear.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Still, she
would not approve.” Pancras examined the room. Doorways flanking the hearth led
to other rooms on the ground floor. Stairs on either side led alternately up
and down.

“You sound like a priest of
Aita.” Qaliah climbed onto the hearth and looked up the chimney before tapping
the bricks inside with her sword. “What do they call them? Bonelords?”

More than just priests of Aita,
bonelords were wandering agents of Aita herself. They sought out and destroyed
those who did evil in Aita’s name, as well as assisted those who suffered in
crossing over to find release in death’s embrace. Pancras encountered one once
when he was a practicing necromancer. He and the bonelord didn’t see eye to eye
at first, but in the end, they parted allies.

“I’m not, but I have worshipped
Aita most of my life.”

“Worshiped, but seldom prayed?”
Gisella smacked Pancras on the shoulder as she passed him. “We’ll check out the
lower level first and then work our way up.”

All the torches and lanterns in
the keep long since exhausted their fuel. Their descent to the lower level was
pitch black. Pancras held up his rod. “
Fos.
”

His magical torch was sufficient
to light their way. The stairs, extending deep under the keep, angled toward
the courtyard. The odor of moldy, rotten food greeted them. The stores of the
fort, unneeded by the dead.

“My sense of smell is never going
to be the same.” Qaliah wrinkled her nose at the olfactory assault. The odor of
death reminded Pancras why, when he was a necromancer, he worked only with
skeletons. The fleshless dead had no odor. The rotting dead, on the other hand,
possessed an acrid odor, tinged with just enough sweetness to turn the stomach.

In addition to maintaining food
stores, the keep also contained the armory. Several dead soldiers were strewn
in pieces about the armory, torn limb from limb by their assailants. Pancras
stooped to examine one. The remaining flesh was ragged, and the joints were
exposed on the limbs.

“If humans did this, something
granted them unnatural strength.” He stood and dusted off his robe.

“What else could have done this?”
Qaliah sheathed her sword and helped herself to a crossbow from the weapons
rack. She cocked the weapon and nocked a bolt before looping a quiver around
her shoulder. She hefted the crossbow. “If whatever did this is still around, I
don’t want it getting close.”

A clatter in the distance caused
Pancras’s heart to skip a beat. He spun, breath catching in his throat. In the
darkness beyond which his light illuminated, there was nothing.

He jumped as Gisella placed a
hand on his arm. “It came from upstairs.”

“Edric.” Pancras nodded and let
out his breath.

“Are you always this jumpy? I
thought you were this great wizard.” Qaliah followed Gisella as they left the
armory.

“I’m extremely uneasy in this
place. Besides, being a great wizard doesn’t mean I like danger and adventure.
Quite the contrary, in fact.”

Gisella waved him forward. “You’d
better come up there with me. I need your light, remember?”

Pancras gritted his teeth and
walked ahead of her.
I wish one of the draks were here right now. They’d be
joking about all this.

* * *

Gisella’s eyes scanned ahead of
Pancras as the minotaur climbed the steps to the ground floor. She wasn’t
entirely comfortable having a loaded crossbow at her back. She doubted Qaliah
was an experienced fighter, though she loaded the crossbow as if she knew what
to do.

There was no sign of the dwarf in
the keep’s main room. Gisella peeked outside, and her heart sank as she saw him
standing by his horse. She gripped her spear and gestured toward the left
doorway. “That wasn’t Edric we heard. Be on your guard.”

She remembered how tense Pancras
was when she touched his arm in the armory. Even now, she saw his hand shaking
as he held the rod aloft to provide them with light. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Let’s complete our
task here.”

Pancras did not sound fine, but
it was not Gisella’s place to question his courage. They entered the keep’s
bakery. Ashes in the ovens told of baking interrupted, as if the slain bakers
lying across their work tables were not enough. As Qaliah passed her to examine
the larder, Gisella hear the scrap of a boot on the floor behind her.

A scream of primal rage gave her
no time to react as a painted man rushed at them. She leveled her spear, but he
leapt to the side, raising an axe and slashing at Qaliah. The fiendling fired
her crossbow, sinking the bolt deep into the man’s shoulder.

He snarled and slashed the air as
she backpedaled, dropping the crossbow and drawing her sword.

Gisella thrust, but the man
grabbed the haft of her spear and threw his weight against it, pulling her
around the table. She saw a flash of green from Pancras’s direction and an
emerald ray struck the cultist in the chest.