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

Roshar just shook his head and tried not to gag. Gilliam chuckled, then led the way through an arching doorway, revealing more staircases. This had to be the way. Roshar was aware of the pain mounting with almost every step, scrubbing away at his bones—

Gilliam twirled his axe. “You may want to step aside.”

“Wha—” Roshar threw himself forward as a portcullis gate guillotined down, bolts slotting into place and dividing them from the castle’s entrance. Gilliam’s face split in a grin, tapping the broken wheel spoke, the rusty chains collapsed on the floor like a lifeless snake. He gave the humongous gate a rattle. It refused to budge.

He grinned again. “Now let’s see them try and follow us.”

“And what if we want to get out again?” asked Roshar curtly.

Gilliam just laughed.

*

Gilliam stood in front of an ordinary looking iron-bound door. “Can you feel it?”

Roshar nodded as the pain flushed through him like a river, damn near forcing him to his knees. They had to be close.

Gilliam scraped open the door. It seemed to be a medium between a library and laboratory, bursting with old tomes and manuscripts. There had to be thousands of them, black ink on faded parchment, recalling the histories and the songs and the battles and the kings. None of which mattered anymore. The desks were cluttered with dried herbs and resin, gnarled roots and metallic utensils. Drawers hung half open like tongues, more papers spilling out.

And in the middle was a woman. She was small and lithe, her hair flowing down in beautiful ebony waves. She turned around and gazed at him with brilliant blue eyes that pierced into his heart. In her hand was a small green herb. She placed in back on the bench with care. “Hello there.”

…it was the King’s doing. And his pet bitch. “Who are you?” Roshar demanded, drawing his sword as spikes of pain skewered through him.

“Kill her! Now!” Gilliam made an attempt at springing forward, axe in hand. Yet he seemed to freeze like an ant in amber, his silhouette outlined with the rippling of air.

“Don’t listen to him my dear. He’s not important.” Her voice wafted over to him in silky ribbons. He found his sword grip loosening, clattering to the ground. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Roshar nodded vigorously, turning away from Gilliam. “Yes, yes that’s right.” He found himself drawn to her, this mysterious woman with a voice like the gods. How could one possibly resist?

“Come closer, slowly now.” Roshar obeyed, hanging on every word. She padded towards him, something in her hand. A familiar voice called him from far away. What was it saying? Roshar shoved it away. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Everything would be fine.

Her body was the center of the room, center of the entire world. She smiled, subtle sunlight glistening on her hair with an indigo shimmer. She lifted her hand, showing a dagger. But that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t.

“Poor fool,” she said, her voice draping over him like honey, swathing him in syrupy bliss. “It’s too late for you. It’s too late for us all.”

She raised the dagger.

Gilliam let out an ear-splitting roar, snapping Roshar out of his trance. He remained rooted to the ground, yet managed to swing his arms. His axe went scything through the air with a whistle. The woman sprung backwards with an impossible agility, the glinting blade nearly cleaving her in half. It smashed into the table with a shower of splinters, throwing up a cloud of resin.

“ You.” A cold smile twisted on her face and she spun around, flexing her hand to fling the dagger in Gilliam’s direction. Roshar fumbled for his sword, yanking it out with a sharp scrape and without thinking thudded it into the bridge of her skull. He staggered backwards, the world swimming around him as white noise whined in his ears. He sucked in a ragged breath and looked at the woman, the sword well and truly buried in her head. She had to have been a mage some sort. A powerful one, too. Was she the cause of all this?

“That wench has a good throwing arm.” With a lead heart, Roshar noted the dagger protruding from Gilliam’s chest, wedged between his ribs. He collapsed on the stone floor, breathing hard. Roshar knew it was over for him. They both knew it. He stooped low, holding Gilliam’s coarse hand as the life poured out of him.

“You finish this, you hear?” ordered Gilliam through bloody teeth. “Find King Valloth and kill him. I didn’t come this far for nothing.” He spat weakly, tears welling in his rheumy eyes. “Leave me. I’ll see my family soon.”

Roshar nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’d seen many men die, some old, some young, all trying to put on a brave face in their final moments, trying to be heroic men. They never succeeded. Never. No matter how bold and hardened, in their final moments they all wanted their mothers. To be in the arms of their loved ones.

Roshar stayed with Gilliam, this madman who’d gone through hell with him. Roshar stayed with him until he stopped breathing.

*

There was no better place to find a King than the throne room.

It was almost anticlimactic, seeing King Valloth sitting on his rusted throne, his pathetic figure swaddled in faded robes. He’d been a notoriously obese man, his face pasty and rosy. Now he was bitterly thin, loose flesh spilling down in fleshy folds. He didn’t even look up as Roshar approached. The bodies of his vanguard were piled against the throne, a mountain of rusted mail and greatswords.

“Someone finally made it.” His voice was low and quiet, but somehow it carried an eerie force that echoed throughout the entire room. “I’m afraid you’re too late.”

“Your mage said the same thing,” said Roshar. A javelin of pain shot through him. He absorbed the impact with a shudder.

Valloth looked up, revealing a sunken face with hollow eyes the colour of festered flesh. “Is she dead?”A pause. “It should have been done years ago.”

Roshar blinked. “What?”

“It was her,” Valloth hissed, his voice grating against Roshar’s skull. “That stupid woman and her experiments. They caused all this.”

“How?”

“It got out of control,” Valloth murmured. “We just wanted to unravel the enigmas of the world. But the power was too great to contain. So many things went wrong. So much death. That ghastly poison. ” He nodded weakly towards the glass window. “It took hold of the kingdom. It created the mist. It drove men mad, turned them into the bloodthirsty soldiers you’ve fought your way through.”

Roshar stepped forward and was immediately hit by a sudden force that ripped through his stomach, almost doubling him over. He gritted his teeth and took another step, the fibers in his legs burning. “There had to be a way,” he rasped, “to stop it.”

“There was.” The King shut his eyes and lowered his voice down to a whisper. “I was greedy. I saw the power she created and I took it. I didn’t know how powerful it would become. Now it resides in me. I’m its vessel.” He hunched over with a hacking cough, putrid saliva dripping from his lips. “I could have halted it if I took my own life. But I could not perform the deed. Now I don’t have the strength to stand up.” His eyes seemed to bore into Roshar, burn through him. “It scrapes a man clean. Gives him power and tears it away, piece by piece.”

Roshar felt the sickly stuff seeping down his throat, spreading through his system. He had to hurry. “I can still do want you couldn’t.”

Valloth froze, then gave the faintest of nods. “Yes. Do it. Quickly, now.”

Roshar tightened his grasp on the sword’s hilt. “Where would you like me to strike?”