Untold Tales (2 page)

Morigan straightened in shock. A trickle of blood seeped from her nose.

“You all right?” Concern cracked the barbarian’s facade.

“Well enough. A slight backlash.” She dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief, and shook herself, letting the stick fall into the unnatural ground. The stick moved, first one end, and then the next, until the tip disappeared beneath the surface. The trio watched with growing unease as the ground swallowed it.

Morigan shook herself from the trance.“It’s not Bloodmagic. It’s not Blight—”

“Void,” Oenghus cursed.

“I think so,” Morigan agreed. “We should get help.”

“You two
are
the help,” Oakstone reminded the Nuthaanian woman. But just the same, the captain fingered his bow nervously, itching for a target of flesh and blood, of a land with trees and rivers.

“I’m not much help with this sort of thing,” Oenghus admitted.

The blackness spread another foot, and Morigan took a hasty step back. “I agree, Oen. I can heal people—not the land, but at this rate, it’ll reach the next stronghold in a week.”

Oenghus scanned the countryside, taking stock of the valley. This tip of land was a spike from Kambe that had driven a wedge into Nuthaan before the two empires had made peace. Northolt was aptly named. It stood guard over the borders of the Fell Wastes, Nuthaan, and Le’Entas, at the edge of Kambe’s northern most border.

“It may have already spread into Nuthaan,” Morigan added softly.

“Right, then.” Oenghus shouldered his targe and gripped his war hammer with both hands.

“Oen—” Morigan’s warning fell on deaf ears.

Oenghus summoned the Lore with a thunderous chant that shook the valley. Blue energy crackled to life around the weapon and he brought it down, slamming steel and power into the ground. The waxy shell cracked with a spray of sludge. A jagged line rippled from the hammer’s head, ripping the earth apart, lancing the wound to reveal the rot beneath.

“Oh, dear,” Morigan huffed.

A thick mass of black maggot-like creatures writhed beneath the earth, bodies bulging with their feast. These were no ordinary maggots, unless the flies that had laid them had been as large as eagles.

Oenghus wrinkled his nose. He glanced down at his boots, and quickly shook one of the creatures loose. It fell into the healthy soil and burrowed beneath the earth. Blackness began to spread from the burrow like spilt ink on parchment.

“Some kind of Voidspawn,” Gaborn spat the word from his tongue.

“Not Voidspawn, but tainted, I fear,” Morigan sighed.

“So what’s tainted these things?” asked Oenghus as if he fully expected her to know.

“It’s our job to find out,” Morigan said. She scanned the healthy earth and moved over to a grouping of boulders. Oenghus stomped over to her, eyeing the snow covered rocks.

Long time companions that they were, Oenghus sensed her line of thought. “The Void eats life, and so do maggots.”

“After a fashion,” she corrected. “And you claim you have no brains.” Morigan pointed at a large stone and Oenghus obediently hooked his hammer on his belt and bent to lift the rock. He carried it to the edge of blackness and lobbed the stone onto the ground. It landed with a sickening squelch, but held.

“That’s a lot of stepping stones, Morigan.”

“You would,” she sighed. Before Oenghus could formulate a retort, Morigan summoned the Lore, tracing an armor weave, layering stone over air and a loose bind. With a steadying breath, she stepped into the dead land.

Oenghus tensed, ready to drag her back to safety at a moment’s notice, but her theory held, and so did the earth. The Void-tainted maggots ignored her presence. Healer, berserker, and captain let out a breath of relief.

“Can you manage the weave on the whole squad?” Gaborn asked.

Morigan glanced at the twelve waiting warriors. “I’ll make do.”

“Right before you die on your feet.”

The stout Nuthaanian smiled at her towering kinsman. “The only way to die.”

Oenghus grunted in agreement.

NIGHTFALL
WAS
NEVER
far off in the north. The days were short and the sun never seemed to reach its goal, tiring and falling from the sky just shy of the heavens. A line of soldiers trudged through the bleakness, boots sticking to earth that was as black as tar.

The castle loomed closer, and Oenghus slowed, eyeing the open gates in the fading light. The castle on the hill had its arms open wide, its battlements were empty and arrow loops dark. Unease prickled the back of Oenghus’ neck. He stopped, and the line of soldiers followed suit.

Oenghus did not like standing out in the open, but there was nowhere else to go. As the captain and Morigan stopped at his side, Oenghus felt as if the castle was made of eyes.

Gaborn was half crouched, arrow notched, itching for cover as much as the next soldier. “It looks deserted,” he noted. The lean Kamberian’s pointed ears were as sharp as his eyes.

“Abandoned,” Morigan added.

“I’ll send men to scout.”

Oenghus stopped the captain with a heavy hand. “Nightfall is a tick away. No use wasting time.”

“I suppose,” the captain relented. “We’d all rather have stone at our backs when night falls than this rot.”

No one voiced the words that lingered in their thoughts. Whether spawned or tainted, creatures touched by the Void thrived in the dark. Even if the scouting party had waited until first light to cross, the taint would have spread, making a crossing in full daylight impossible.

“Whatever happens, stay out of my reach, and someone keep a bloody eye on Morigan,” Oenghus threw over his shoulder and received an answering snort.

Bones littered the road that wound up the hill. Skulls and femurs and knucklebones, all bleached beneath the chill sun, picked clean of flesh, spilling out of the gates and down the hill. Oenghus could sense the soldiers’ unease behind him. Fear rippled against his back. Fear was good. It kept warriors sharp.

“It looks as though they were fleeing,” Morigan’s hushed voice echoed in the emptiness as they passed a horse skull.

Oenghus tucked his shield in close, clenched his hammer, and marched through the gates. Stillness greeted him with a quiet shake. The courtyard and battlements were empty. More bones, more black earth, and—

“Look.” Oenghus followed the captain’s gesture. The inside of the walls and gates were scorched. “Check the gate tower,” Gaborn ordered. Four of his men broke off from the group. The soldiers climbed the stairs to the battlements and disappeared inside.

“There,” Morigan pointed, “on the temple.” The temple was more fortress than holy place, but then that was unsurprising, considering the bull’s head adorning the front. Zemoch, Guardian of Justice, was a militant god.

“The crack?” Oenghus asked.

“Aye.”

Oenghus and Morigan scanned the stone walls. There were more cracks in the stone, in the battlements, running along buildings.

“Poor upkeep?” Oenghus ventured.

“The earth has been shaking something fierce these past weeks,” Gaborn said.

“Not uncommon this far north,” Morigan noted.

A soldier appeared from the gate tower. “The oil’s all gone, sir, but there’s no bones up top. It’s as if everyone abandoned the walls.”

Oenghus scowled at the emptiness. “How long do we have on your weave, Mori?” he murmured to the woman at his side.

“The ward will fade with time and use. I don’t honestly know,” she admitted. Lines pulled at the corners of her eyes and lips. Multiple weavings had taken its toll.

Oenghus tugged on his beard and stalked to the center of the courtyard, planting his feet. He raised his hammer and slammed it against his targe. The echo thundered off stones. The Nuthaanian waited as he eyed the temple and keep, hoping that someone—something would answer his bold challenge.

Morigan walked over to the well and peered over the rim. When nothing answered his threat, Oenghus huffed with disappointment and joined her as she finished a light weave, dropping an orb into the well’s center. It illuminated stone.

“Empty,” Oenghus said in surprise.

Gaborn joined the two. “It’s fed by a natural spring, if I remember right. They built the well around it.”

Oenghus tapped a jagged line on the well’s side. “Wonder what else cracked.” He eyed the ground, grunted, and stalked towards the main keep, deciding to start there. The doors were closed, but appeared as if a saber cat had used the reinforced oak as a scratching post.

“Movement,” the captain hissed, jerking his chin towards an arrow loop high on the keep. Oenghus leaned back. Whatever had moved wasn’t there anymore. He tried the door. It was barred. Whether any human still lived inside was an entirely different matter.

Oenghus pounded his hammer against the reinforced wood. No one answered.

Gaborn stepped back and shouted into the fading light. “In the name of Emperor Soataen Jaal III, open this door!”

The scrape of bone answered.

Oenghus looked down. The bones were sinking into the earth. Horse heads, cattle, dogs and human—all jumbled together, picked clean of flesh and tendon, disappeared.

“Bollocks.” He slammed his hammer into the door again. “Open this bloody door or I’ll crack it like an egg!”

The soldiers in the courtyard froze, fear crept with the movement of the earth. In a heartbeat, they bolted, rushing towards the battlements, seeking solid stone. Oenghus turned, putting his back to the door as the ground rolled. Gaborn notched an arrow. Voices rose from within the keep. Something heavy fell, metal rasped, and a smaller door opened in the larger.

“Hurry!” a frantic voice shot out of the portal. Oenghus shoved Morigan inside as the soldiers risked the earth, racing towards the keep.

The ground burst. Bones grabbed boots, raking flesh. A man went down and a creature of bone and maggots erupted from the black earth. Oenghus swung, shattering a scapula attached to a leg like a wing, but the amalgamation reformed. Black maggot-like creatures swarmed over the shattered bones, reshaping, repairing, and came up swinging. A horse skull, attached to a mash of bones that made up the spine of the snake-like shape, dove, piercing a soldier clean through.

Gaborn loosed an arrow. It bounced harmlessly off. His order cut through the chaos. “Inside!”

The bone snake lashed and rattled at the soldiers running for the door. Oenghus stepped towards it swinging, batting away its attacks with his shield, as he crushed and ground the bones to dust. But with every blow, it reformed. There was nothing Oenghus could do for the soldiers caught in its frenzy.

All at once, the snake dove beneath the earth. The ground rippled, moving towards the keep.

“We have to close it!” the fear in the voice was catching. Glancing over his shoulder, Oenghus moved backwards, grabbed Gaborn by the collar and shoved him towards the narrow opening. When Oenghus was the last man standing, he stepped back, hunching through the wicket. A soldier of the keep threw his weight against the door, closing it as others rushed to place the bar.

The entire gate shuddered from the impact as the bone snake threw itself at the wood. Soldiers rushed to shore up the doors, adding their weight while they dragged a heavy barricade into place.

Morigan tucked an errant strand of dark hair inside her bun, restored order to her skirts, and took stock of the men who surrounded her. They were a ragged bunch of warriors, all staring, stunned, fearing the Void-cursed creatures on the other side. The men turned their fear to something tangible, surrounding the new arrivals with weapons poised, prepared to push the newcomers out as a sacrifice if needed.

Oenghus took in the half-starved men. The castle guards’ tabards were tattered and bloodstained, some of their eyes had the sheen of fever, and all of them were unkept. The door shuddered again.

“Positions!” one of the more confident men roared. “Light the oil. Shore up the second level.” Half the weary soldiers rushed up winding stairs, relaying orders with echoing shouts, while the rest remained at the uneasy standoff.

“We’re all Kamberians here. Where is your lord?” Gaborn asked with the tones of command. The captain had a face to match his voice, and his crisp blue and silver tunic of Kambe leant him an air of authority that was sorely lacking in the great hall. But rather than be reassured by his presence, the keep soldiers shifted. Their eyes darted from one to the other, and finally settled on the man who had shouted orders.

Oenghus did not like those looks, so he stepped forward, into the ring of steel, drawing their attention. “I am Oenghus Saevaldr,” he rumbled with a voice like thunder. “Wise One of the Isle, Bone Mender, Skull Crusher, the Bloody Berserker of Nuthaan and the Grimstorm of the Fell Wastes.” With every word, the ring of steel retreated a step. “You may have heard of me.” He swept his eyes over the remaining soldiers. “We have been fighting for twelve long years in the Fell Wastes, and want nothing more than to go home. I’ll warn you, I’m already in a foul mood. So you best tell me quick what the Void is going on here?”

“A Portal to the Nine Halls.”

“The Witch.”