SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Gilliam snorted wine out of his nostrils. He was still chuckling as he scraped it away. “You’re going to march up to the castle and interrogate the King?” He shook his head in bewilderment. Roshar stood there, silent. The smile wilted. “You’re serious.”

“Got any better ideas?” Over the hills a wolf let loose a deathly howl. “We’ll all be dead soon enough.”

“Aye, true.” Gilliam seemed to be thinking. “Oh well. Might as well go down fighting.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to die here.” Gilliam flung the bottle away and scooped up the bearded axe leaning against the door. “Who wants to live forever, eh? Besides, you need someone to watch over you, right?”

Roshar bit his lip. He couldn’t very well say no. And whatever happened, he didn’t want to die alone.

*

The town went downhill from that point. Carts and bloodied weapons littered the streets, the flagstones painted with sickly green moss. Glass crunched underfoot. And everywhere he looked there were cudgeled bodies, all rotting and stinking, shriveling to a leathery brown. The sight made his skin crawl and his veins prickle.

Gilliam almost seemed to enjoy his discomfort, clapping him on the back like an older brother. Roshar forced himself not to recoil. “You get used it to after a while.” He stepped over a stack of shattered shields, lovingly emblazoned with House motifs. “It does get lonely. The dead don’t say much.”

Roshar was beginning to realize that Gilliam wasn’t quite sane.

“This way.” The man beckoned to what looked like the remains of a forge. The smelter hadn’t been heated up in some time now. Roshar followed him inside the house, still uncertain.

It was a somber sight, seeing all the weapons collecting dust and slowly starting to rot. Slits of grey light poured in through the windows, drawing pale lines across the flagstones. Roshar ran his fingers along the rows of swords, shards of rust peeling away at his touch.

“Here.” Gilliam threaded his way through to the back of the shop, fingers finding a hidden door in a small crevice. He flung it open, dust stirring in the watery gloom.

“You might want to get one of those.” Gilliam pointed to several torches hanging on the wall, tips swathed in bandages. Roshar fetched two of them, soaking them in a basin of black oil.

“How do you propose we light them?” asked Roshar.

Gilliam didn’t answer. He clenched his fists and murmured quietly, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His palms snapped open and the torches blazed to life, chasing the darkness away.

Roshar looked at Gilliam. “You’re a fire mage, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Gilliam scooped up a torch for himself, the light playing sinister shapes across his face. “I was taking lessons. I was damn good at it, too. Then my master saw fit to die and that was it.” He beckoned towards the back room. Roshar noticed a gaping hole in the floor. “You coming or not?”

Gilliam hopped into it, landing with a thud. Roshar cursed and followed him down.

*

Roshar kept up with Gilliam’s pace, maintaining a slow jog through the passageway. It was threateningly claustrophobic in here. The light peeled blackness away from the walls as they advanced.

“How do you know about this?” Roshar asked.

Gilliam chuckled. “Used it often myself back in the day. Paid the princess a visit now and then. When she learned of her arranged marriage they became less frequent.” He shrugged. “I expect she’s dead now.”

“You think the King’s dead as well?” Roshar brushed filthy cobwebs out of his face. He noticed that the trail was slowly inclining. He was also starting to have that prickly feeling in his system, like the one in Gaeon’s hut when he brought out the arrows. It was only mild, but it pulsed through him nonetheless. He squashed it down the best he could.

“Dunno. You heard what the soldier said. We’ll go from there.” The man barked out a brittle laugh. “What do we have to lose?”

After what seemed like hours, days, months, years, Gilliam halted. The dancing flames exposed a wall with a rickety ladder leading upwards. “We’re here.” Gilliam clamped a hand over his torch, gutting it out. He didn’t seem to be in the slightest pain. He placed one foot on the lowest rung and started to climb with slow rhythm. The thing didn’t look safe, bound together with string and twine, but it was the best thing they had. Roshar followed him up, the tortured wood groaning beneath his feet.

“Stop.” Roshar froze, his fingers wrapped around a rung. Gilliam seemed to be pushing against something hard above them, swearing and grunting from the effort. At last it seemed to give away and he shoved the hatch open. Light poured in, sweet, and delicious. Roshar clambered up the last few rungs and hoisted himself out of the hole. He found himself what seemed to be a large storage room, steel rimmed kegs of mead, sour wine and dark ale stacked along the walls. They’d been chopped into splinters, the colours gushing out and bleeding out on the floor. Light eased through a glass-stained window.

“All that fine drink, all gone to waste.” Gilliam nudged an empty barrel with his foot. “Aha. No wonder I couldn’t lift the hatch.” He pointed to the shrunken corpse curled up on the ground. “Out of all the places to die…”

Roshar peeked through the window. They were high up, probably on one of the castle’s top floors. He could see the yards, towers and steeples, but the distance was obscured by the mist, thick, hazy and impenetrable as always.

“Oh,” he murmured to himself. This was not good.

“What is it now?” Gilliam demanded.

“Look.” Roshar pointed downwards. Marching in the streets, in the courtyards, on the flat roofs, on the battlements, were countless guards, all armed and armored. There didn’t seem to be an objective, any order, rank or discipline. Ballistae sat useless and gibbets still held ancient skeletons in their bellies. They plodded around, sitting about and leaning against the walls.

“Good thing we didn’t come that way.” Gilliam sauntered towards the door. “You coming?”

“Can’t you feel that?” The sensation was back, and it wasn’t just uncomfortable this time. His mouth felt dry and his intestines seemed to be trying to tie themselves into bows. It was working its way under his veins, turning his blood to gravel.

Gilliam gave a low chortle. “Course I can. Means we’re getting close.” He swung the door open and made a mocking bow. “After you.”

*

The scent of death hung heavily in the air. The hallways were smeared with grime, bodies pinned to the walls with iron arrows. What was once ornate furniture had been splintered into countless wooden fragments. Paintings had been stripped down and shredded, vases smashed, old plates of armor and bloodied gold coins scattered about the floor. Roshar had never seen so much gold! And there was no one to use it, no one to spend it.

“Ah.” Several soldiers were sprinting down the hall, rusty armor clanking as they moved, brandishing halberds and falchions. Gilliam stood there, his fists clenched, perfectly still with his eyes fastened shut.

“What the hell are you doing?” Roshar yelled.

No answer. Then Gilliam’s eyes flipped open and beamed a crimson red. He stepped forward and clapped his hands together with a boom. A fire sprouted up in the middle of the soldiers, engulfing them in a roaring, scorching cocoon. Tapestries on the walls were eaten away in seconds. Men reeled away, burning and screaming and tumbling.

It didn’t take long before they were all a smouldering pile of bodies, ropey coils of smoke spiraling to the blackened roof. Gilliam turned around, sweat gushing out of his pores. He nodded towards the sizzling bodies. “Hungry?”