Rend the Dark Read online

  This was a simple life, a good life. A life Ferran was never meant to have. Even as a child, growing up in the orphanage, Ferran had been different. He had seen things even then. Terrible things glimpsed at a distance, but clear enough to know there was darkness loose in the world that would prey upon all that was good. And no one else could see them. It was enough to drive him to the brink of madness.

  Now as he moved through the people of Groveland Down village, purpose burned inside him with a fierce life and clarity. These people deserved to live their lives in safety and happiness, and he would gladly face the Dark so they might have that chance. So men like Hamond might have that chance.

  But as the headsman’s story came to his mind, Ferran’s mood grew darker. Someone had chosen to take the noble purpose of the Order of Talan, of Ferran’s life, and use it as a means of selfish gain and sadistic satisfaction. Gold for false hope and an illusion of safety.

  As Ferran and the warden continued through the village, Ferran caught sight of strange dangling wooden carvings suspended from the eaves of some buildings. He stopped by one and held it in his hand. It was a smoothly polished flat piece of wood, about as long as his palm. Carved into the wood were hooked shapes.

  “What is it?” the warden asked. “What have you found?”

  “This must be what the charlatan in the headsman’s tale sold to the people of this village.” They were runes, similar in size and structure to some of the runes used in the rituals of the Order, but these had an ugly, hooked design that was inconsistent with the Order’s markings.

  Ferran gritted his teeth. It was bad enough this figure had sewed such pain during his time in the village, but he also left them with a false sense of security against the true horrors of the Dark. Horrors like the one they were seeking.

  As he stood up, he saw a young girl staring at him from down the path. She stood in front of one of the stone and wood houses that lined the thoroughfares of the village. At her feet was a wooden bucket. Ferran had noticed her trailing him since they left the headsman’s home, but figured it was simply a child’s curiosity.

  Now though she had set the bucket down, abandoning whatever chore she was about, to stop and stare. Then as if deciding on something, the girl came across the street toward him. She walked up to Ferran, staring at his tattooed face.

  “My papa said you are one of the witch hunters and that I should stay away from you,” she said, with the straightforward innocence that always seemed to be the hallmark of children.

  Ferran paused momentarily and then smiled slightly at the girl. “Your father’s right. I’m an acolyte of the Order of Talan.”

  “Like in the old stories?”

  Ferran nodded. He felt the warden growing restless beside him.

  The child seemed to process the information. Then she took a step closer and whispered. “Are you here about the dark one?” she said, an edge of fear in her voice.

  The smile faded from his face. “What do you mean?” Ferran asked, kneeling down.

  “The one with the darkness on him. It covers him.” She gestured with her small hands, moving them over her heart.

  A mixture of thrill and dread crawled up his spine. “Can you tell me more about what he looks like?”

  The girl seemed to think for a moment. “Maarjo was helping my papa fix a roof one day and he fell and knocked over the barrel of pitch. It got all over him. Black and sticky and you could barely tell it was him. He looked like Maarjo did.” She frowned. “But the dark on him didn’t look sticky like the pitch. It moved. It scared me.”

  In the back of Ferran’s mind, memories came unbidden. Memories of himself as a child hiding in his bed in the orphanage as something wearing the skin of a man and dripping a viscous living darkness walked among the other sleeping orphans. “Where did you see him?” he asked, trying to keep his voice soft and gentle.

  The girl gestured past the edge of the village and into the fields and surrounding forests. “I used to go out with Papa when he would check the fields. I used to like going out and seeing the workers. But when we were coming back from the far fields, I saw him. I was frightened and told Papa but he told me to hush and quit telling tales. Then I saw him again.”

  Her words came faster now, like a rain-flooded river bursting over the edge of a dam. “I told again, but Papa got angry and told me to stop with the lies.” She looked at Ferran and there was such a familiar, haunted sadness in her eyes. “He couldn’t see it, you know? He didn’t see it the way I did. That’s why he was angry and thought I was telling tales.” She shook her head. “He didn’t know to be afraid.”

  “No, but you were afraid for him. And you kept him safe, didn’t you?” Ferran said.

  The girl nodded.

  “You did good,” Ferran said, and the girl smiled. “What about in the village? Have you ever seen anything like that here?”

  “No,” the girl said. “Grandfather made sure they would never hurt us here.”

  From above the two of them, Warden Aker spoke. “Who is your father, child?”

  “Hamond,” she said. “He is the headsman of the village.”

  Aker nodded. “Run along now and finish your chores. You should head home to your father, girl.”

  The girl walked back across the way, headed for her discarded bucket. She waved at Ferran, then the girl was gone, heading into the center of the village.

  As he stared, Ferran saw the two magistrates and Mireia approaching. It was Mireia’s expression that caught and held his attention. There was a slight frown working at the corners of her mouth and creasing the smooth perfection of her forehead. He knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.

  “I sense nothing here,” she said as the group reunited. “Nothing at all.”

  Ferran nodded. “I saw no sign here as well, but there was something else. A child. She has the sight.”

  Mireia’s eyes widened. “Here in the village?”

  “The headsman’s daughter,” Warden Aker said in a low voice.

  Ferran stared at the forest, watching the wisps of mist curl and trail around the trees at the edge. “She said she had seen a tainted one outside the village, near the woods where those bandits emerged from.”

  “Then the hunt is not yet over,” Mireia said.

  Ferran nodded and started for the woods.

  3

  His fingers shook.

  Hil did his best to still them as they walked through the darkened forest. The gray clouds had not lifted through the day, and now, at the height of the afternoon, it was no brighter than morning. With the close trees and their twisting branches overhead, even that small bit of light was obscured, filtering down to the forest floor in shadowed streams that mingled with the mist.

  Hil pressed his hand against his leg until the muscles ached, but still the shaking continued. He hoped the others had not noticed. Ferran led the way through the twisting paths of the forest. There was something about the way he looked at the ground, picking their way through the forest, that reminded Hil of the hounds his father had used to hunt back home. Hil never enjoyed hunting. He found it even less to his liking right now, when he couldn’t tell whether he was with the hunters or the prey.

  Behind Ferran was the warden. Aker was checking the ground, searching for any sign. It was said that a warden knew every tree and blade of grass in the marches under his authority. Watching the warden move through the forest, Hil could almost believe it.

  Yesterday, Hil would have thought being under the direct scrutiny of a King’s Warden would be the worst danger possible. But yesterday, he also hadn’t watched a man die without any expression of pain on his face. He hadn’t seen the body of a man burst open from within. Yesterday, he had feared for his career.

  Today, he feared for so much more.

  Riffolk came next in their line, and despite his friend’s bold words and confident posture, his hand had not strayed far from the hilt of his blade.

  Ferran stopped the group
once more. “The path is well worn. Enough feet to be the bandits we faced, as well as smooth spots worn into the brush.”

  Riffolk leaned forward to look where the witch hunter pointed. “Dragging plunder?”

  Wiping his hands on his legs, Ferran stood. “Or victims,” he said, turning back to the trail.

  Hil closed his eyes. Everything these people said, everything they talked about was the stuff of nightmares. For the thousandth time, he wished he was back at his desk. Comfortable, warm, safe. He stumbled on a downed branch and opened his eyes, forcing himself back to the harsh reality of his current situation.

  As he opened his eyes, he saw Mireia looking at him. Her long brown hair was pulled back from her face. She gave him a radiant smile. It was genuine and light and seemed utterly incongruous with the frightening madness of their current situation. “You’re doing quite well,” she said, her voice soft and gentle. “All things considered.”

  Hil stopped in his tracks. “How can you do this?” he asked, the question slipping from his lips. He could not stop shaking his head, and he felt his twitching fingers again against his thigh. “How can you live like this, surrounded by the fear and the horror?”

  There was kindness in her face as she reached out and touched his arm. Mireia held his gaze as she asked, “Do you know the tale of Aedan and Talan? How they drove the demons down into the Abyss?”

  Hil nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “Every child does.”

  Mireia continued walking, and Hil moved with her. “That Abyss, that pit, is real,” she said. “And the Ruins banished there are real as well.”

  His mouth fell open and Hil stared at her wide-eyed. “Real?” he almost choked on the word. “What if those creatures try and get out? Try to escape?”

  “They do try,” Mireia said, her voice calm. “There have been two major risings in my lifetime. Many more minor ones. They try often.” She gave him a smile. “But they never succeed. Our order has spent over a thousand years in our vigil over the Abyss. It is a prison unlike any other and it is constantly being built upon and improved.”

  She paused for a second. “There is a man, an acolyte like us, stationed down at the lowest level,” she said. “He lives a solitary life. Down in the very depths of the Abyss itself.” Mireia turned back to Hil. “And he has the single greatest responsibility in the world. He is the first person the creatures will encounter when they rise. And when they do, he knows he cannot win. His fight, as brief as it might be, serves only to warn the next station up, and so on. His duty is to die. So that others, and perhaps the rest of the world, may live.”

  “That is so terribly sad,” Hil said, shaking his head. “He is so alone with his hopeless lot, merely waiting for his death.”

  “You might think so, but it is far from the truth. I have met him, spoken to him once, when Ferran and I brought supplies down to his camp. He is warm and funny, and he lives life more fully than you or I will ever know.”

  “But how?” Hil asked. “How can he be happy living in the shadow of death constantly?” His voice grew quieter. “How can any of us?”

  Mireia looked up, seeking the weak gray light that filtered through the trees. “Because every day we live is a blessing. A blessing that has been given from all those who have come before us. A blessing earned with blood and sacrifice and love.” She looked at him, her eyes sparkling. “You asked me how I live with the horror around us. It’s because every day I think of that acolyte at the bottom of the Abyss. And every day, he thinks of us.” She patted him on the shoulder once, and then she moved on down the trail, catching up to the others.

  Hil moved long after her, Mireia’s words playing in his mind.

  ***

  Ferran halted the group and gestured ahead. As Hil moved up alongside Riffolk, he saw what had stopped them. The forest led to a moss-covered hill of stone featuring a dark cavern.

  “Ferran,” Mireia whispered. There was a strange edge to her voice that got Hil’s attention. There was not alarm in her voice, but a slight confusion. “I don’t feel any trace of the Dark,” she said. “Nothing.”

  Ferran’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled the spear from its place on his back. With his other hand, he wrapped the silver chain around his palm. He knelt at the edge of the trail, weapons in his hands, and watched the darkness of the cavern mouth. “This is where the bandits trail ends. This is where they came from.”

  Mireia had already produced her iron lantern. There was no flame in it now, but she held it before her anyway. “The bandits we fought were taken by the Dark. We could see it rolling off them. So too was whatever birthed from the body we found.” She shook her head. “If those bandits came from here, laired here, then the stain of their taint should be in the rocks of this place. Even on the very air.” She looked at the cavern, her eyes focused on it the same way that Ferran’s were. “And yet, as I said, I feel nothing.”

  Warden Aker drew his blade slowly, the sound of steel on leather like a long hiss. “Alright. Then we make sure.” With that, he moved out from the trees and approached the yawning darkness. The others followed close behind.

  Hil unsheathed his sword when Riffolk did, trying to imitate the way the other magistrate carried his weapon. He thought holding it might make him feel less uneasy, but as they stepped into the shadowed darkness of the cave, there was little that could ease his anxiety.

  As they moved past the first turn, the darkness became oppressive. It was hard for Hil to bring himself to step further. He could barely make out the shapes of the others around them. Ferran signaled a stop. Hil only caught the shape of the movement, but was grateful to not have to go further.

  A flare of light stung his eyes as a flame was kindled in a small lantern. Ferran stood illuminated in the flickering flame, the shadows making his facial tattoos more sinister looking. He closed the small door that protected the flame and handed the lantern to Riffolk. The magistrate took it, but looked in confusion at the black lantern that Mireia held in her own hands. It remained dark.

  Ferran shook his head. “Hers has another purpose. You are carrying the light. No matter what happens, you keep that held high. Do you understand?”

  “Let Hil carry it,” Riffolk said. “I’m the better swordsman.”

  Ferran looked over at Hil and then back at Riffolk. “We can’t afford for him to run and lose the light,” he said simply, then turned back toward the depths of the cave.

  Riffolk’s face grew pinched. It looked as if he would say something to the witch hunter, but Hil caught his eye and shook his head.

  “He’s right,” Hil said. “Even I’ll feel better knowing it’s you.”

  Riffolk frowned. Hil could see he wanted to say something to comfort him, but eventually, Riffolk pointed the lantern light into the tunnel ahead and moved forward.

  They moved slowly and cautiously through the cavern. After the second turn, they began to find traces that the cave had been used recently. Bits of fabric, discarded tools, and lengths of chain scattered here and there. Hil felt his fear again, heavy and dull in the pit of his stomach, like he had swallowed some of the stone of the cavern. Then as they made a final turn and looked out into a wide, open gallery, his fear blossomed into vibrant life.

  In the open space, bones littered the floor like leaves cast down from a dead tree. But that was not the true horror of the room. Suspended from the ceiling were multiple pendulous, bulbous sacks. They glistened wetly with an organic sheen, and through the semi-translucent sacks, Hil could barely make out familiar looking shapes. A person’s face pressed up against the inside of the sack, and his fear broke into a wild terror that stole the breath from his lungs and caused tears to leak from his eyes.

  “Steel and blood,” Riffolk whispered. He turned slowly and the lantern’s light moved as well, sending the dark shadows of the suspended sacks moving madly over the cavern walls.

  Amidst the horror of the find, Ferran moved to one of the walls. At his feet was a wooden board about as long as
a forearm. On the board were the same markings Hil had seen throughout the village. Ferran stared at them intently, then suddenly, he thrust his spear up through the shadowed darkness above him. A piercing shriek tore through the cold silence of the cavern and a horrific shape fell to the ground.

  Hil froze in abject horror. His mind tried to categorize the thing as some sort of giant spider, but there was too much of the human mixed in for that to be accurate. A swollen, arachnid abdomen thrust forth from between two kicking and spasming human legs, and a fanged maw and black glittering eyes jutted out from the back of a human face. It gave the impression of man and spider caught in the middle of a violent and profane birth, though it was unclear which was bringing life to which.

  The spindly legs scraped against the rock wall of the cavern as it righted itself and lashed out at Ferran. It reached out with human arms, trying to grapple with the witch hunter. The monster’s maw hissed and snapped at Ferran’s face, but he braced the spear between himself and the thing and shoved it backwards. The creature flipped over, landing heavily against the rock wall and atop the wooden board with the strange symbols, snapping the wooden icon in two.

  As the board splintered, Mireia gasped and spun around. Hil looked to her and saw her eyes were wide. She raised her dark lantern high, pointing to the shadowed recesses of the cavern ceiling and yelled out, “It’s not alone!”

  Where she was pointing, something moved in the darkness. Shining silvery threads shot toward Warden Aker from within the shadows. The warden dove to the earth, narrowly avoiding the threads.

  “Light!” Aker yelled. Riffolk raised the light high, directing it onto the ceiling above. Two more of the nightmarish creatures scuttled across the ceiling as they screamed at the light, their disjointed jaws opened wide. They leapt down, clawing at the warden and Riffolk, and all around was chaos.