Published at 29th of December 2023 11:04 am

Chapter 37

This chapter is updated by NovelFree.ml

Chella’s Story

Keres had left a brittle feeling in her wake. The carriage creaked like an old man’s joints and every place she had touched lay rough, discoloured, dry enough to suck the moisture from skin.

‘She’ll find her way back to the Dead King.’ Chella turned away from the road, Kai kept close at her shoulder.

The lichkin would follow fractures and fault-lines, places where the veils hung threadbare between the world and death’s dry dominion. She would travel in coffins, shadow the sick, drift with plague spores, and in time she would enter the Dead King’s court, wrapped again in unquiet spirits, snatched up on her journey.

‘We should be moving, delegate.’ Captain Axtis of the Gilden Guard had marshalled his troops a mile down the road whilst the necromancers tended to Keres’ needs. Although the guard remained ignorant of the lichkin its presence unsettled them, sapping morale. Axtis seemed keen to move on, to leave Gottering to the dead.

‘Let us do that.’ Chella hauled herself back into the carriage. ‘Be as quick as you like, driver.’

They lurched into motion even before Kai shut the door behind him. He caught the side of the bench to stop the fall carrying him into Chella’s lap, and held himself for a moment, twelve inches separating their swaying bodies. Her pulse beat fierce in the veins of her wrists.

Swift hands. For a moment Chella savoured the thought of such entanglement. Kai found his balance and his seat at the same time she pushed him away – a mutual decision. She closed her hands, nails sharp in her palms, and put her head back against the rest. What would I want with a pretty blond thing like him in any case? Unseasoned meat.

‘We will be in Honth soon?’ Kai asked.

‘Yes.’ He knew that. The living just liked to chatter – they would spend long enough silent in the grave. The same need twisted her lips, wanting her to add more. She pressed them tight.

‘Then along the Danoob,’ Kai said. ‘Have you ever seen it, Chella?’

‘No.’

‘They say if you’re in love the waters look blue.’

Before Jorg she had never travelled, never strayed from Gelleth, just that short journey from Jonholt to the mountain. A scant few miles in three lifetimes, but oh the things she had seen on that trip.

The span of three lives spent digging into death, unravelling mysteries, stepping away from life in all its mess and clutter and squabbles. And here she sat, rattling her way toward the heart of empire, sick with being alive, stomach roiling at the jolting motion and at the thought of what lay ahead. Not until the Dead King announced her as his representative and pressed five voting seals into her hands had she ever doubted his genius. Now she knew it for insanity.

At the town of Wendmere Captain Axtis halted the column for lunch. The guard set their five times fifty warhorses, their pack animals, and the steeds of the column-followers to grazing in the meadows, careless of who farmed them or what need the grass was set against. The ragged tail of followers still straggled in as Kai and Chella seated themselves beside the hearth in Wendmere’s finest inn. Chella noted the armourers’ wagons rolling by, the carts of the farriers, the troop’s leather workers, the seamstresses’ tiny wagon. Kai paid more attention to the whores, an ever-changing population trailing the guard, girls on mules, girls in open buggies and gigs, more in Onsa’s wheel-house. Each band with some cut-faced rogue to guard and guide and chivvy and negotiate. Chella could almost see the chains of hunger and misery that towed them behind the golden men of Vyene.

Guards brought in goblets and platters in their velvet-lined cases from the goods train, each piece set with the imperial eagle. Only the Gilden Guard themselves could be trusted to serve their wards, to serve the Hundred or their representatives. Chella found herself wondering if these gleaming warriors could handle their swords as well as they handled the silver cutlery being set before her.

‘What do you think of the empire’s elite, Kai? You served in an army, did you not?’

Kai lowered his goblet from wine-darkened lips. He frowned at the man standing to attention ready to refill it. ‘Who says the guard are “elite”? Every petty noble’s third son who’s too dumb to make it in the clergy gets shipped off to Vyene where each grows fat on bribes as an over-valued “watchman”, and each fourth year they get to go on a little trip to collect the Hundred. Pretty armour doesn’t make a warrior.’

To their credit, the men around them hid their offence well.

‘I guess the truth lies somewhere between,’ Chella said. ‘I hear they train hard, these men of Vyene. They are, perhaps, as well-forged as a weapon can be without fire.’

She looked out, through the distortion of the small and puddle-paned windows, across the rooftops, to distant smoke. Their true protection stalked out there somewhere, Thantos, more cautious than his sister and more deadly.

Keres had been skinned, though! A chill crept over Chella, despite the fire, despite the wine. If the lichkin could have told them what happened – her mind would be at better ease. A trouble named is a trouble tamed.

Captain Axtis came in, stamping against the cold and brushing rain off the shoulders of his cloak.

‘Tell me, Captain,’ Chella said. ‘When were the guard last called on to defend the Gilden Gates, when did they last take to the battlefield?’

‘Sixtieth year of the Interregnum, Madam Delegate.’ Without hesitation. ‘The battle of Crassis Plains, against the Holy Roman army of the false emperor Manzal.’

A generation ago. ‘Were you even born then, Axtis?’

‘I was two years of age, Madam Delegate.’

And showing grey hairs under that helm today. Chella wondered how they would stand against the dead of her master’s army, the quick and the slow, with the ghouls and the lichkin.

‘I came to say we should be moving on if you’re set upon a full escort the whole way to Vyene.’

‘Oh we are, Captain.’ Chella set down her goblet and stood. It would serve Axtis very well to put her and Kai upon one of those golden barges. To let the Danoob carry his problems away, to discharge his responsibilities to the river, and if the barge should sink with all hands, a small price to pay to keep Congression beyond the Dead King’s reach for another four years.

The carriage rolled on amidst the guard column, past woods and fields, town and cottage. Chella found herself watching the scenery, enjoying the warmth of rare sunshine between the rains, breathing in the scents of the countryside, the stink of farms. When the cry of ‘Honth’ shook her from her thoughts she bit her tongue to let the pain sharpen her. Life casts more spells than any necromancer and they can be twice as deadly in their softness.

‘How far?’ she called out to the driver.

‘A mile, two maybe.’

They creaked on for a few more minutes before rolling to a halt.

‘We can’t be there yet.’ Kai opened the door. Hedgerows, cattle lowing beyond. A surge of horse and gold-armoured bodies, and Axtis dismounted before them.

‘Lady Chella, another delegate—’

‘Get out of the way.’ A louder voice overriding the captain’s. ‘You can’t stop me – I’m on a peace mission.’

Axtis slammed the carriage door in Kai’s face.

‘You have no authority here, sir!’ Axtis used the shout he reserved for his men. ‘I suggest you return to the forward column.’

The sound of someone jumping from their horse. ‘I’m on a diplomatic visit, Captain. Your job is to facilitate such intercourse. If we delegates come to blows you may intervene.’

The carriage door rattled, a hand on the handle. Kai blocked the grille, staring down at the scene outside.

‘This has to be the representatives from the Drowned Isles, no? Who else would be following from the west?’ A loud sniff. ‘Doesn’t smell like the Dead King – who’ve you got in here, Captain?’

Kai opened the door. And backed away, half-pushed, half of his own accord, as Jorg Ancrath, clad in the blacks and reds of a road tunic, clambered in.

‘Chella!’ The boy turned one of his dangerous smiles on her, ignoring Kai.

‘Jorg.’

He sat on the bench opposite them, legs stretched out, boots muddy on the floor, at perfect ease. He flicked the long black tangles of his hair back across his shoulders, watching her with dark eyes, amusement touching the sharp angles of his face, the ugly burn a reminder of his extremes.

‘Two of you?’ Again that sharp grin. ‘Is that all the living that can be mustered from the Drowned Isles? And Chella, you’re no Brettan. I would have heard it in your voice.’

‘The Jorg?’ Kai turned her way.

‘A Jorg, certainly.’ Jorg leaned in, elbows on his knees. Outside, the guard clustered. ‘And it does seem I’m the object of unhealthy fascination in certain quarters. Isn’t that so, Chella?’ He let his hand fall to rest on the black skirts over her thigh. ‘I am of course married now, dear heart, so you must put romance from your mind.’

‘The Dead King—’ Kai began.

‘The Dead King loves me too, I think,’ Jorg said, fingers closing on her flesh. ‘He has watched me for years. Sent his minions to raid my brother’s tomb.’ He turned to face Kai, very quick. ‘Do you know why?’

‘I—’

Jorg turned back, fixing Chella with his stare. ‘He doesn’t know. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘How frustrating for you.’ Jorg released her and leaned back on the bench. Her leg burned where his fingers had been. ‘Shall we carry on? My column is just ahead waiting to cross the Rhyme at the Honth bridge.’

Kai stamped for the carriage to proceed. ‘From what I’ve heard, I am surprised that you would choose to ride in the Lady Chella’s company, King Jorg.’

‘She’s been telling tales, has she?’ Jorg leaned forward again, with the air of a conspirator. ‘Truth be told— Wait, I don’t even know your name. I know you’re a man of the Isles, I have one of your country men in my carriage, a Merssy man, Gomst they call him. I’m pleased to see the Dead King has sent at least as many Brettans to Congression as I have. But your name?’

‘He’s Kai Summerson,’ Chella said, anxious to gain some control. ‘So why are you riding with us, Jorg?’

‘Can’t I just enjoy your company? Might I not be pining for my lady of the mire?’ Jorg cast a lascivious eye along the length of her. Despite herself Chella felt the blood rise in her cheeks. Ancrath noticed immediately and grinned all the wider. ‘You look … different, Chella. Older?’

She kept her lips sealed. They jolted another hundred yards before he spoke.

‘In truth? I could think of no easy way to kill you all. And so to keep my son safe from you I need to watch you. Closely. If that should prove impossible I would of course have to resort to killing you the hard way.’

‘Son?’ Chella found it hard to imagine, and imagination was something that had returned in strength when the necromancy faded from her. ‘You have a son?’

Jorg nodded. ‘Even so. Another William, to make his grandfather proud. Though I don’t know if Olidan of Ancrath lived long enough to be a grandfather?’

‘If he’s dead I know nothing of it.’ Time was she felt each death as ripples in a pond, and the King of Ancrath would have made quite a splash – now though, she might have new eyes for the living world, but she lay deaf to the deadlands. Jorg’s fault, of course. She said it to herself again, hoping to believe it. Jorg’s fault.

Jorg frowned, just for a moment, replacing it with the smile he wore in place of armour. ‘No matter.’

‘I’ve no designs on your son, Jorg,’ Chella said. It surprised her to find that she didn’t.

‘And you, Kai Summerson? Are you a child killer?’ Jorg asked.

‘No.’ A sharp reply, the offence written on his face. It seemed laughable that a necromancer should rail against such a suggestion, but then she remembered Kai had killed no one since she took him. When you learn the dark arts amid the corpse-hordes of the Isles murder is no longer a pre-requisite.

‘Me, I have taken the lives of children, Kai. Baby boy, small girl, it means little. The lives of men even less. Do not cross me.’ Careless words scattered like broken glass for the Brettan to pick a path through. Chella came to Kai’s aid before he cut himself.

‘Does your son make you happy, Jorg?’ The question felt important. Jorg Ancrath with a baby boy. Chella tried to picture him with the infant in his arms.

Jorg flashed a dark look her way. He bowed his head, shielded by the hair that swept about his face, and for the longest time she thought he would not reply.

‘There are no happy endings for such as us, Chella. No redemption. Not with our sins. Any joy is borrowed – laughter shared on the road, and left behind.’ He turned to Kai. ‘I have killed children, Kai Summerson. In such company you will too.’ Something familiar lay in his voice, in the framing of his words. She could almost taste it.

Returning his gaze to Chella Jorg watched her face awhile, sorrow in his own. ‘We have both walked black paths, lady. Don’t think that mine leads back into the light. Of all those that tried to guide me, of my father, of the whispers from the thorn bush, of Corion’s evil council, the darkest voice was ever mine.’

And in a moment of recognition Chella knew who the Dead King was.

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