A Lord of Death

The rest had gone out to see the second night of the festival, leaving Sorore and a volunteer Niche to sit in their rooms in the Kieren house. They’d collectively once more made the excuse that Sorore’s stomach simply didn’t agree with the new cuisine as much as her tongue had. That brought enough sympathy from their hosts for them not to ask any uncomfortable questions about her.

 

Truth be told, Sorore was in the middle of a crisis. Even the tour around the city and its admittedly quite impressive sights had not distracted her from the morning’s incident. Leonard had been there, Leonard had threatened their life, and he had only relented via his madness. It all made no sense to her - Leonard must’ve been acting on the behalf of someone else.

 

But Sorore knew that he acted, and would likely only ever act, on behalf of the church. Their teaching went too deep to be corrupted or purged. The idea that church dogma could be overcome with simple insanity was a distinctly upsetting one. So perhaps he had been misled, fooled or misdirected into targeting them for some indistinct reason.

 

That also rang hollow - even in her limited personal experience, Sorore had come to understand Leonard. He was cautious, logical, and thorough. Such a target would make for a poorly manipulated creature, so that might not be it either.

 

Sorore willed the minutes away, trying to come up with an explanation that excused the words that had come from their fellow Bequeathed. The truth, which she was unwilling to face and increasingly aware that she must, was simple: Leonard had been ordered after their lives for an equally indistinct reason.

 

The implications of that truth was so terrible that Sorore wanted to bury herself in the sheets and simply cry until there was nothing left. What would that mean for her, for her faith? Was what she’d put her trust in such an easily defeated thing?

 

But that would’ve been undignified, so instead she simply slumped against the balcony railing, watching the sky go from blue to red to darkness. A couple times Niche had attempted to make conversation with her, but the dialogue refused to go beyond simple pleasantries. Sorore instead had plenty of time to herself, although that might be exactly what she didn’t need at this point.

 

It was not long until midnight when she received a visitor - Ivers, carrying a simple set of baked bread and cheese. All of a sudden, hunger surged where there had only been lethargy, and she gratefully accepted the simple fare. He sat next to her in silence as she ate, Niche watching on quietly from the hall.

 

“You seem rather bereft,” Ivers said soon after she finished, “I would like to know what’s bothering you.”

 

“That’s really nice,” she said, dapping at her lips with a provided cloth, “but why do you care?”

 

The man’s eyes widened in surprise at her brusqueness, and Sorore realised that might come off as offensive.

 

“I thought we were friends?” he said, “was I wrong?”

 

“No, no, we are,” she said hurriedly, “it’s just, I don’t know you all that well.”

 

“Does one need to know someone ‘all that well’ to care for them?”

 

“I always…” she said, “I always thought so.”

 

Ivers shrugged at the comment, and for a moment she was terrified that she’d hurt the sweet boy.

 

“Well, perhaps I’m exceptional,” he said with a smile.

 

“Oh, you are,” she said, then immediately regretted it as a flush crept up her neck.

 

“Thank you. I was going to ask you a favour, actually,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 

“Oh?”

 

She was grateful for the sudden change of subject.

 

“Well, I needed- er, wanted… I want you to come with me to visit my friend. In the Hall,” he said, his face darkening almost impermeable with blood.

 

Sorore thought about spending more hours by herself on the balcony, wondering whether she’d done something to deserve a death sentence.

 

Sometimes the answer, she thought, was simply to not think about it.

 

Within a half-hour, they were gliding their way to the northern outflow and to the lonely temple island. The place was littered with the various Occluded boats, just as they had been yesterday. The broad stairs up to the entrance were relatively empty, much to her surprise. Even the torches had been snuffed, except for two small braziers near the entrance. She supposed they didn’t need it much for the lighting of all the small paper lanterns around the isle.

 

When they entered the main hall, they were greeted by a priest, who bowed to each of them in turn.

 

“How is Oswald?” he whispered, eyeing the various beds with patients in varying levels of consciousness on them.

 

The priest blanched, trying not to keep a gaze with the young man.

 

“I’m afraid… I’m afraid he died. Early this morning,” said the priest, “the body has been removed to the crypt.”

 

Ivers said nothing, only set off towards the stairwell leading to the stone base of the building. Sorore tried to go after him, only to find herself being outpaced, and finally, ground to a halt when Niche put a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Let him see,” he said simply, “you can comfort him after.”

 

Sorore remembered Niche telling her that he himself had lost siblings, and she heeded his advice, although it pained her to do so. She waited for several minutes for Ivers to reemerge from the dark stairwell, but no sign of him came. A familiar form sauntered over to them, though fortunately, Claralelle was not covered in blood this time.

 

“Hello!” she said, a little too loudly, drawing glares from some of the attending priests, “Oh! Sorry.”

 

“Hello,” Niche said flatly.

 

“Why are you here? Is it for the boy that was poisoned? Oh. Right, he ‘wasn’t’ poisoned.”

 

“He was poisoned?” Niche said, turning with a confused expression, “I thought his wound was infected.”

 

“Oh yes, it was. We treated that, and then he was poisoned,” she said with that curious flat expression.

 

“You mean he was murdered?” hissed Sorore, turning towards the freakish woman.

 

“Probably. Hard to accidentally murder someone using that method. No doubt some are capable of it, though. Why do you ask?” she said, sounding completely unphased by the gravity of her remarks.

 

“Who’s murdering what?” said Ivers, having emerged from the stairwell, stared at the trio.

 

“Someone definitely didn’t poison the boy,” said Clarallel, “or at least that’s what Efrain told me to say.”

 

Ivers looked like he was about to fall over, and Sorore noticed the redness at the corners of his eyes. At Clarallel’s prompting, they narrowed as he stepped close to her.

 

“What do you mean by that?” he said, “did someone poison my friend?”

 

“Oh, definitely not,” shrugged Claralell, “but if you asked me whether I found him lethally dosed with toxin I would say definitely yes.”

 

Ivers let out a sound that was half-growl, half roar of anger. To his credit, he seemed to have enough control of his emotions to keep it at a low volume. Still though, it was attracting attention, which Niche appeared to have enough of.

 

“Alright,” he sighed, “this is going to be a whole conversation. Do you have a more private place where we can talk about it?”

 

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, “definitely.”

 

A minute or two later, they found themselves within a patient room, the very same that the recently alive friend of Ivers had occupied.

 

“Don’t worry about him,” Clara said, pointing to a sleeping body covered by a sheet, “completely comatose, barely even breathing. He won’t hear anything.”

 

“What’s he in for?” said Niche, eyebrows rising in concern.

 

“Got a hand wound scrounging around some old ruin. You should’ve seen him come it - covered in soot from head to toe! Must’ve got infected, but with what strain I'm not entirely sure of yet. It’s rather odd.”

 

As if keeping in time with her, the body twitched violently, making the party jump.

 

“Oh yes,” Claralelle said, looking back at it, “it also does that from time to time. It gets much less shocking the next time it happens.”

 

They carefully took their seats as far away from the patient as possible.

 

“What do you mean he was poisoned?” began Ivers, “explain that one to us. You said he wasn’t poisoned the last time we were here.”

 

“I did, and he wasn’t,” said the girl, looking up towards the ceiling as if she saw something different, “we took off the arm, he got a bit better, then suddenly got worse. Then he died. I examined the body afterwards, the diaphragm was as tight as steel, complete paralysis. Not much can do that short of poison.”’

 

“Those dogs,” Ivers muttered darkly, “they came back to finish the job. What happened afterwards?”

 

“Well, his parents came in, they wept. They said a lot of things I didn’t really understand, lots of mean things about an ‘Eisen’ or something. I think it’s one of the families here.”

 

Ivers was staring at the woman, presumably by the implied disrespect.

 

“The priests took him downstairs, I took a swim. There was a woman in black who looked strange at me.” Clara said, smiling brightly, “then they moved this man up here, and asked me to take a look at him. I did. You came. We’re here.”

 

“How… succinct,” Niche said dryly, still eyeing the motionless body.

 

“So the dogs…” Iver couldn’t finish the thoughts, tears pricking the corner of his eyes, “why? Why would they come back to kill him? I thought you said it was a mistake. Some unlucky fate.”

 

“The infection was. I think,” she said, “the poisoning? Probably not.”

 

“Probably not,” Niche said.

 

Sorore shivered, though she was not sure if it was the chill wind or the discussions of murder.

 

“Well, there’s that!” said Clara, once more clapping her hands, and making them jump, “anything else?”

 

“I’d think we’d better go,” said Niche, “if you’re willing.”

 

Sorore and Ivers agreed with him, and Claralelle did as well, although she seemed to have no specific reason for doing so. They wound their ways back down the stairs and into the main hall, making for the entrance.

 

“So, what are you going to do?” Sorore said quietly to Ivers.

 

“I… I don’t know. Something must be done. This… poisoning should stir the Eisen and Poutash to action if nothing else. Nobles being murdered like this hasn’t happened for decades. Most of all that coward hiding in the city…”

 

His eyes hardened as his hand slipped to the dagger in the folds of his robe.

 

“I’ll find him myself if I have to.”

 

Sorore nodded, keeping her eyes to the ground and the carpeted and painted wood that comprised it. They were mere steps from the entrance when the final left-over from their campaign south appeared. A cat, licking her paws and sitting by the doors, looked up at them.

 

“Back so soon?” came the disembodied older woman’s voice, “I assume you know that boy is dead.”

 

Niche stiffened, but he forcibly kept his hand from his sword.

 

“What do you know of it?” said Ivers, looking noticeably uncomfortable at the imposition into his thoughts.

 

“Know of it?” chuckled Innialyisia, “not much. I usually traffic in what happens after death, not what causes it. The guard however was very vigilant. I know everyone who was by the body.”

 

“Yup,” nodded Clarallele, “only a handful. It was me, the priests, Efrain, you, and I think his… sister.”

 

Sorore stopped in her tracks, thinking about the statement for a second as things began to click together.

 

“Wait, you were the only ones by the body?” she said, looking at both the cat and the woman.

 

“At any one time,” the cat said, sharing a look with Clara as if to confirm the truth of the statement.

 

“So when did he have time to be poisoned?” said Sorore, her brow furrowing.

 

Clara opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. Innie looked back and forth from her to Sorore. Without saying anything else, Sorore turned and ran for the stairs. By the time they’d caught up to her, she was ransacking the room they’d just been in, looking for any clue or piece out of the ordinary that could help answer her query. The other just stood in the doorway, looking on as she moved furniture and mats this way and that.

 

“Uh, my lady,” said Niche, “What exactly are we looking for?”

 

“Think!” she said breathlessly, “something had to deliver the poison.”

 

“It could’ve been in his food?” offered Niche.

 

“He wasn’t taking food,” Clara said, “maybe his water, but that’s ported from the main city by the barrel.They’d have to poison the entire thing, others would’ve gotten sick. Plus there was a needle mark in the side of his neck.”

 

Niche brought his head back, brow furrowed in a far more contemplative expression.

 

“Think. I need to think,” said Sorore, standing up in the midst of the chaos she’d made, “Clara!”

Claralelle jumped to attention at the sharpness of her voice. Even the cat was now watching curiously, her gently glowing fur adding the softest orange cast to the room.

 

“Where was he, how was he… he…” she snapped her fingers, trying to remember the word, “orientated! That’s what I meant.”

 

Claralelle showed her, and Sorore went to work digging up the mats as best he could. It could’ve been one of the priests perhaps, but maybe not, maybe there was a poisoned needle or nail concealed in the floor. There wasn’t. They would’ve had to stick the poor boy in the neck when one of his caretakers would’ve been watching. Unless the poisoners were the caretakers.

 

“Did the priests have any reason to kill him?”

 

“No!” said Ivers, “they were founded in part to things like this. They’re all commoners, sworn to simple life. Bribery would be punished with death. I’ve never heard of a priest turning on one of his own charges.”

 

That was comforting, but her experience with Leonard had indicated that the holy weren’t always totally honest, oaths or no. She shoved the unwelcome thought aside, taking any chance to believe in the innocence of the priests. She looked up - the ceiling seemed solid wood and crossbeams, with little places to hide or conceal oneself.

 

So that left the walls.

 

“Clara,” she said, “show me again. Lie down for me, in the way he was. Which side of his neck was wounded?”

 

They did so, finding that it was his left side, pointing to one of the outer paper-framed doors. Sorore moved the mechanism back and forth searching every panel to find… there! Sorore sat back and smiled, pointing at one of the bottom most screens, where a small hole had been punched through at the level of Clara’s neck.

 

“Found it,” she said.

 

The others of the group confirmed her discovery.

 

“So what?” said Innie, “some person quite literally stooped low and jabbed a long, thin spear into the man’s neck? Without me noticing?”

 

“Not a spear,” Sorore said, shaking her head, trying to imagine what kind of weapon would have done it. It was getting hard to think about how cold everything was. She chuckled at the idea of such a tiny hole comprising the temperature of the room this much.

 

“A dart?” said Niche, causing the entire room to turn to him, “What? There are some that use such weapons. I’ve heard of Neith legions having a store inside their shield, so that they can hide behind them and throw the darts like arrows when cornered. But those are far too large for this.”

He waved at the small hole, not much larger than an insect.

 

“So a tiny dart was used, what does that tell us?” Innie said, sounding bored with the subject, “that anyone of a number of people could’ve passed by and somehow launched it at the young man?”

 

“Anyone who walked past that guard,” said Ivers slowly, “we need to find him. Question him!”

 

“We should go get Efrain,” said Claralelle, “he was most interested in the boy. Also, does anyone else feel that cold? I thought it was supposed to be warm here.”

 

Niche frowned and nodded, Ivers joined him as he looked out through the open door.

 

“It’s probably just a ocean wind,” Sorore said, “after all, we’ve had the door open this whole time, and it is night so-”

 

She stopped dead in the sentence, as she felt the first tendrils of fear go through her. Every single member of the party turned to look at the patient, who was entirely still.

 

What wasn’t was the first fingers of fog, wafting off him.

 

The blanket over him was ripped away with an inhuman shriek, and something flashed out. Somehow, in the span of moments, Niche turned a full circle, knocking Sorore, Ivers, and Clara to the floor while his other hand drew a flash of glittering steel. When Sorore managed to raise her head, she found Niche, knife locked with bony claws and barely holding his ground.

 

“Run!” he roared.

 

“Clara! Get the children out of here! Paladin! Out of the way!” came the old woman’s voice.

 

Claralelle darted towards Sorore and scooped her up. Sorore caught a glimpse of the thing that had once been human. The body shape was simply wrong - two legs, on the tips of their toes, and a mass that had once been its upper body. Its head and right arm had been fused and funnelled towards its now massive left, which drew back for another strike.

 

Sorore, one one last bolt of horror, recognized the face of the man who’d she stumbled into in the main hall who’d tried to speak. Then she was plummeting, still being carried by Clarallele, the balcony and walls of the hall of the dead lifting up behind her. An explosion of red and yellow flame was the last thing she saw before she hit the dark waters below.