“I doubt it, boy,” Harald said. “And three of our horses are gone.”
“What about Trowfell Keep to the south?” Brand suggested.
Harald was silent for a while. “The Trowfells do have an army, if a small one. But the House Trowfell is not well respected. Besides… I am not so eager to leave my court.”
“Then let’s wait until morning,” Brand said, “and we’ll decide then.”
There was scratching on the door. “Let me in!” a voice screamed from outside. “Let me in. Please!”
Captain Erik moved to open it.
“Take another step and I will cut off your head.” Harald’s voice was stern.
The captain turned around, grimacing, obviously struggling with the command. “I obey you alone, Your Honor,” he finally breathed as the sounds of screaming and tearing flesh echoed through the hall.
Harald’s face was expressionless as the man was torn apart outside the castle door. Lady Kenna’s eyes were narrow and a hint of a smile was on her lips.
The sounds of battle continued an hour afterward, and then the winds grew so strong that the only audible sound outside was howling. Brand retreated to his bed early that night; no one was in the mood for song, and neither was he in a fit state of mind to play for them. He wrapped himself in covers as the air—even inside the well-heated castle—dropped in temperature. Soon, wrapped in the thick furs of his bed, his breath crystallized into white fog.
Harald was at his door. “Sir Brand,” he said, “You have a big day tomorrow. You are housecarl, and you will walk alongside me into the town that the strangers have savaged. The entire Guard is coming with us.”
Brand nodded. “It will be my honor,” he said. Yet something else struck Brand as odd. “It seems you aren’t bothered by the peoples’ deaths.”
“I lied to you,” Harald said, his breath also turning to white fog. “I said the earl’s first job is to be liked. The earl’s first priority is to himself. Many of the people may die, but if their leader dies—me—then it is all for naught; the swine cannot live without a swineherd.”
“They can,” Brand said, “but they turn into savage boars.”
Harald nodded. “And the people also.”
“Go through every longhouse,” Captain Erik instructed the next morning, wearing his gold-colored armor and carrying a torch in his hand. “Peer into every dark room. Break into every airtight larder, every closet and crate and pot—everything the light does not touch. Thrust your torch within and if one of the darklings is in them, then savagely cut him to ribbons.”
With those words of instruction, Brand, the whole Guard, and Stenn and Harald Riverhall, left through the castle gates—walking past the shredded corpse of the watchman at the gate—and entered a frigid, wintry, and thoroughly silent scene. The snow reached up to Brand’s waist; the castle walk had not been shoveled. They waded through the snow together, feeling it moisten their breeches. It took them several minutes of struggle before they reached the first few longhouses of Andarr’s Port. Or what remained of Andarr’s Port.
Crimson splotched the snow in front of them. In the stain, buried halfway in the snow, was the mutilated body of a grown man, his arms and limbs gone from his body. Obviously he had tried to flee to the castle, but failed. A darkling had caught him; a savage, hungry beast that had torn off his limbs and took them away to gnaw.
“Do not take anything you see in the houses,” said Lord Harald. “It all is the property of the court. That includes Stenn, Sir Brand, and me. The Guard is the protecting force of the city, and of the throne; they shall not be greedy, or their hands shall be prevented from stealing again.”
Brand had never been part of any court, nor had he ever had the title “sir.” It would take some getting used to; he still felt much lesser in stature than even the members of the River Guard. But Harald had taken an interest in him, and made him an honorary member of the court. The reasons for it were beyond Brand’s understanding, and it was a lightning-flash of luck; but sometimes he wondered what his father would say if he were still alive. He had been resentful toward the noble warrior houses; even hateful toward them. And what would he think of calling his son Sir Brand? He would probably refuse to address him in that way at all.
First of the buildings he checked was The Cathouse. Harald, curiously, came with him; but he was a notorious user of this filthy den. The door was locked—and with good reason—so Brand tried to kick down the door. He failed, and had to watch in embarrassment as Harald kicked it down for him.
Blood spattered the walls in The Cathouse. The body of a blonde whore lay there, her chest open and bloody. The savagery was difficult to take in.
“Kateryn, love,” Harald said. “What a buttocks the world has lost.”
Brand looked at Harald. “Surely there is something else about her that you can celebrate.”
“Perhaps. But I’ve only seen her in body; never talked with her,” Harald said.
Brand would not disrespect the dead; not common whores, either, who had hard lives serving the gutter of mankind. While Harald poked through a dark room, he made for Volina’s chamber and saw that the door was shut and locked.
Brand knocked. “Hello? Volina?”
“Don’t come near me, you sick, twisted monsters!” screamed the voice of Volina, obviously hysterical with fear and self-preservation. “I’ve killed three of you and I swear, I will cut your head off and stick it on a wooden stake if I must have to.”
“It’s Brand.”
“Who?”
“You know. I paid for your services last afternoon.”
“What do you talk about?” Volina said. She was wheezing and obviously in tears. “I have served many clients and cannot remember a single one.”
“Maybe if you open the door, you’ll remember.”
“Why should I trust you?” Volina said. “What if you’re one of them? I do not know if you are one of them!”
“I am human,” Brand said. “Those darklings were not.”
“Dark-links?” Volina said. “Is that what you call them?” She paused. “In my country, we call them the dead walkers… people brought back to life by a bad wizard-man, but not really back to life because they do not think, only eat.”
“Open the door, Volina.”
The peephole in the door opened, revealing Volina’s chestnut eyes. A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal Volina. Her humble gray dress was torn up and shredded, as if in a struggle. Dried blood was caked over her body. “I remember you,” she said, hands trembling. “You are a good man…” She fell onto him and began weeping. “You talked to me like I were a person, not just a whore.”
Brand patted her back. “There, there,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“These are not like the dead walkers of my country,” she said, occasionally choking on her tears. “In my country, the undead do not enter the huts… they only eat the fools who leave that safety, or if they make angry the bad wizard-men that created them. These… these dark-links… they have no respect. They enter, an’ they bash down the doors of the huts.” She paused and wiped her tears with her ragged sleeve. “One thing, I think, they have in common; the dead walkers of my country and these dark-links hate fire, and they can’t stand light. It blinds them, and it hurts them. They hide at day—always together, clustered together, ’cause there is strength in their numbers.”
“Where do they hide?” Brand said.
“In dark places,” Volina said, “as dark as they can find it.”
Harald appeared, walking out of a door and up to them. “I have found nothing. The darklings aren’t hiding here.”
“Volina here says that they all hide together, in dark places—as dark a place as they can find,” Brand said. He stepped away from her and grabbed her shaking hand. “Is there any pitch-black place in town?”
Harald shoved his sword back into the scabbard. “I do not ordinarily take advice from common whores,” he said, “but if Violina—”
br /> “Volina,” she growled.
“—knows of the darklings, then I do know such of a place. The port has a church to a god—a very strange god, which no upland Badelgarder has heard of, but dear to the portsmen’s hearts—and there are no windows. The worshipers sing and pray in total darkness.”
“What god is it?” Brand asked.
“Umbra, Lord of Hidden Places,” Harald said. “He is an import from the south, and an uncommon god even there. However, he has acquired quite a sizeable following here; though I—more a connoisseur of southern things than most Badelgard nobles—do not wholly approve of his worship.”
“Do southern gods often find their way here?”
“Sometimes,” Harald said, “but Umbra was brought by my dear wife. She is a devout worshipper of Umbra and built his church.”
As they left, Volina knelt beside the body of the blonde whore that lay in the hall, and cried. “Oh, my sweet Gerta, I will miss you.”
Harald gathered his nephew, as well as Captain Erik and the rest of his Guard; and together, with Volina, they made for the Church of Umbra. It was on the edge of the city, toward Riverhall Forest and overlooking the grey sea. It was not built in the common style of Badelgard houses: Rather than short and long, it was square and tall. Southern script—which Brand could not read—was written above the door. Indeed, there were no windows to let in the sun’s light.
“The Guard shall enter first,” said Harald.
“And me, too!” Stenn said.
“No,” Harald said. “You are a Riverhall, and the only legitimate heir to the throne.”
If there will be a throne when this is all finished, Brand thought to himself.
Two gold-armored guards entered the door, and within thirty seconds of their entering there was the sound of claws against metal. They rushed out.
One said, “There are hundreds of them in there, Your Honor, packed tight as dirt.”
“We must burn it,” Harald said.
A few members of the River Guard gasped; doubtlessly worshipers of Umbra.
“My wife will be sad to see it gone,” Harald said. “And, if he is not already dead, so will the high priest. That strange man always frightened me, though.” He pointed to the thatch roof. “Toss your torches upon it, Guardsmen. Let it burn, and let the darklings roast inside.”
They obeyed and the savage beasts that lived within screamed, as shrill and high-pitched as whining tea kettles. They watched it burn until the screaming stopped, until all the darklings had burned to ash. Relief surged through Brand.
When they reached the open portcullis of the castle, Volina knelt before Harald and knit her fingers together. Tears streamed down her face and down her shapely neck, mixing with the caked blood of her lower body. “Let me come with you, milord. Let me come with you, I beg!” she said.
“The darklings are all dead,” Harald said. “You will be safe.”
“And what if they come back? There are rumors of other evils. A client from yesterday told me about them!”
“Violina,” Harald started, sounding slightly condescending.
“Volina!” she shrieked
“…you are not the kind of woman that stays in noble halls.”
“Harald!” Brand snapped, overtaken with fury. “She has done so much for us. She may be a whore—even a common one—and she might not be the kind of guest you’d like in our halls. But by Vana, and by all the gods, and the Green Dragon, she’s helped us. If there is any goodness in your heart, let her stay with us.”
Harald stared at Brand for a few seconds.
“Don’t let him talk to you like that, uncle!” Stenn said.
“No, Stenn,” Harald said. “He is right. We shall listen to the housecarl. The girl stays, if it is what Sir Brand wishes.”
Stenn grumbled.
“Thank you!” Volina shouted. “Thank you! You are the goodest earl in Badelgard!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lady Alysse already knew about the burning of the church before they told her. “I have had a premonition of Umbra. The Lord of Hidden Places told me that his holy place has been defiled!” she said, standing up from her throne in her billowing green gown. “Then I walked out into the glass porch, and I saw smoke wafting into the air. What have you done, husband? What have you done?” Twin tears ran down her fair cheeks.
“I have done what is necessary, my lady,” Harald said calmly, apparently unbothered by his wife’s hysteria. “The darklings were hiding in the Church of Umbra; and therefore, the only solution was to set it aflame.”
“For twelve years I’ve been wed to you,” Alysse said, wiping the tears with her gold-dyed sleeve. “After my father, the bloody Duke of Voraigne, sent me off to this port. I build Umbra a holy church, and you defile it. You burn it! The last token of my origins, of the religion of my father and mother!”
“I am sorry,” Harald said. “It was either let my fair lady die, or let the church of Umbra burn.”
“I wish I had burned inside of it,” Alysse said coldly. “Twelve years! Twelve years without love.” She ran off, away from the throne room, and vanished out of sight.
The servants looked at Harald, unsure what to do.
“Cook the evening meal,” answered the Lord Baron. “Make spiced lamb—her favorite—and bring her as many bottles of wine as she will drink. Do the best you can to make her feel at home.”
Brand led Volina to a small guest room right outside the throne.
“Will you have me now?” she asked, lying on the bed.
“No,” Brand said, “but—”
“I am in no state to be had,” Volina said.
“Rest, then,” Brand said. “You’ll need it.”
She pulled the covers about her.
“Are you feeling all right?” Brand asked.
“No, but I’ll manage. I always do.”
“Will you turn into one of them?” Brand confessed the thing that had been on his mind.
“In my country, those bitten and scratched by the dead walkers do not turn into them,” Volina said.
Brand breathed a sigh of relief; yet whether the girl was telling the truth, or saving her own hide, was uncertain.
That night, they had a meal fit for the world’s most decadent glutton. They had spiced lamb—like Harald ordered—and also fried boar-rinds, baked potatoes smothered in cream, endless strips of bacon, and the richest honey-cakes Brand had ever tasted. With it they had bottles of wine—a drink Brand only had a few times before, because grapes did not grow in Badelgard—and the traditional mead.
Lady Alysse returned from her brooding and the dinner seemed to have only slightly lessened her animosity toward her husband.
“Where is Volina?” Harald said.
“She is sleeping,” Brand said. “The wounds have made her tired.”
Harald popped a boar-rind in his mouth and washed it down with wine. “Play us a song. You are housecarl, but you are a skald yet.”
Brand retrieved his lute from his room. He stood before the half-drunk Riverhalls and played a song of frolic and light.
There is a house on a heavenly mountain
Bread like grass; mead in a fountain
Fight all day, feast all night
Altgard, home of honor and might
Brand bowed and they cheered wildly.
The night dragged on, but one by one, sleep took the Riverhalls. Lady Kenna and the girls went to bed first. Brand, Lady Alysse, Lord Harald, and Stenn remained awake. Eventually, long after dark, Brand bade them goodbye and went to his bedroom.
He was thinking of Hilda when Alysse appeared at his bedroom door. She was in her nightclothes, in a small dress that revealed a large portion of her breasts and almost all of her legs. Her forest-green eyes burned with desire. “My lord Brand,” Alysse said. “You refused me once. But I won’t let you refuse me again.”
“My lady.” Brand coughed. “I can’t do this. I can’t betray Harald.”
She sat down by h
is bed. “My husband does not care. Why don’t you understand that?” She stood back up and pulled her nightclothes over her head, revealing her fully unclothed form. She turned and shut the door, revealing her buttocks.
As lust flared up in Brand, he tried to look away. “My lady, please!”
“Do you find me ugly?”
“Not at all! You’re a beautiful woman!”
“My husband doesn’t love me,” said Alysse. She began to cry. “I suppose no men do; not Harald and not you.”
“I find you beautiful,” Brand said, “but—”
“Then have me.”
“I—” Brand started as Alysse walked over to him with a graceful yet seductive gait. He could not resist her any longer. The animal inside him was awakening. “Okay.”
After they made love, Alysse very reluctantly left his side. Brand didn’t want Harald to be suspicious, despite her protests that His Honor would not care.
Brand had not shut his eyes for a quarter hour when a loud commotion in the hall stirred him from his rest: someone, or something, was growling like a beast in the throne room. Had a wolf broken in somehow? That seemed unlikely.
“Back, demon!” shrieked the voice of Stenn. “Back! Now!”
Brand grabbed his sword and rushed out of his bedroom.
Stenn was in the throne room holding out his sword-blade defensively. Volina was circling around him like a hungry wolf, her sleek movements resembling those of some predatory animal. Sharp black claws had grown out of her fingers, replacing her fingernails. Her teeth were bared. Out of her throat came a low growling sound. Her eyes—black and soulless as a fly’s—gleamed with hunger in the dim torchlight.
Brand had made a terrible mistake. Quickly, he joined Stenn’s side, holding his sword with decidedly less skill than the young Riverhall. Volina let out a sharp, wolfish bark.
“The sickness has taken you,” Brand said. “You once were a good woman, but now—”
“She once was a common whore!” Stenn said sharply. “And now she’s a darkling, but she’s still just a whore!”
Stenn let out a sharp cry and charged at her, slashing down with his sword. Volina sidestepped, quick as a mountain cat, and tackled him to the floor, scratching with her claws and biting with her teeth. She tackled Stenn to the ground.