David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“Breaking into the Stronghold? You must have balls the size of cantaloupes, boy. Did someone fill your head with wild stories of Karak’s treasure stored in its depths? I’ve had my fair share of fools and blasphemers, but I think you might be the first treasure seeker to stumble down the pit without them knowing it.”

Haern grinned despite himself.

“Always happy to be a first,” he said, grabbing a bone and flinging it at the dark of the ceiling. Instead of continuing on, he heard an immediate clack.

Ten feet up, maybe eight, he thought, feeling a glimmer of hope. The shadows were there to hide the size. Perhaps if Boris could boost him, or he could use his cloak and swords to form some sort of grappling hook …

“But treasure is not why I’m here,” Haern said, grabbing a few more bones, small pieces that looked like parts to a finger, and methodically walking in a circle from where he thought he’d landed, throwing them straight up to hear the clack of the bone hitting hard stone above, followed by another as it landed.

“Then why are you here?” Boris asked. He watched Haern work, clearly curious but saying nothing about it.

“I sought an audience with a priest,” Haern said, scooping up more bones. “A man named Luther who was supposedly imprisoned here.”

“Luther?” asked Boris, and the recognition was enough to bring Haern’s attention back his way. The gray-skinned man worked his jaw as if chewing something in his mouth, and the slopping noise he made was stomach-turning.

“You know him?” Haern asked.

“I do,” Boris said. “He’s the first of Karak’s order to come down to speak with me in over a century. An intelligent man, perhaps too intelligent for his own good. It’s going to cost him his life.”

Well, thought Haern, at least there was a silver lining to his fun little drop. Perhaps he could learn a bit more about Luther and what he was hoping to accomplish in Veldaren. Tossing a few more bones into the air, all three hitting stone, he returned once more to the light of Boris’s ethereal torch.

“What did he want from you?” Haern asked.

“I knew the prophet,” Boris said. “Not well, but I was there when he was alive. Before he changed his name and became the thing with many faces he is now. Luther wanted to know what he was like, what he wanted, what he’d be willing to sacrifice…” Boris laughed. “And so I told him. A man who would imprison me for centuries, all for stealing a stupid book? He’d sacrifice everything, do anything, to achieve what he wanted. And no matter how loyal you think those pieces of shit upstairs are, Velixar makes them look like fair-weather faithful.”

Haern saw Boris had begun to breathe heavily, and both his hands were trembling.

“Is something the matter?” Haern asked, taking a step backward. With another round of creaks and groans, Boris rose to his feet. His sword remained sheathed at his side, but Haern did not wait to draw his own blades and settle into a comfortable combat stance.

“I’m sorry, Haern,” said Boris. “I’ve waited as long as I can.”

“The bones,” Haern said. “All the victims. You’re their executioner, aren’t you? Why, if you hate Karak so much?”

“There’s no way for you to understand,” said Boris, and he sounded sad. “You see, Velixar was a cruel one, and he was clever. Very clever. He knew what it’d be like to be down here alone, to crave company. I’d give so much for you to remain with me, Haern. I’d love to hear you speak of the outer world, of nations, your family, your friends. I yearn for stories like a drowning man craves land, but it never matters. Velixar did not just leave me imprisoned here. He filled me with a need.”

Boris took a step closer.

“A need to feed,” he said. “To taste blood upon my tongue. To tear flesh apart with my bare hands. I’ve fought it, Haern, but you are one of many, and I have long learned how useless it is to try.”

Another step.

“The paladins send me company,” he said. “Send me men and women who hate Karak as much as I do, who could ease my burden even if only for a few days, yet all I can do … what I must do … is kill any hope I have of escaping my solitude.”

“Stay back,” Haern warned, “unless you wish to test your claim at being unable to find death.”

Boris smiled so wide, it stretched ear to rotten ear.

“I will feed,” he said, and he licked his lips, his tongue like a dry sponge, and it left no moisture upon his cracked skin. “Many have tried, Haern. They always die, and as I feed, I cry their names so they may be remembered among the bones.”

His mouth dropped open, thin lips pulling back to reveal chipped teeth stained by the blood of the dead. From his throat came a screech, animalistic in its sound and intelligence, and Haern felt his skin crawl. Weapons ready, he braced himself as Boris charged, sword still sheathed. Against a normal foe, Haern would have thought it an easy victory, but the bones all around him provided ample warning. The man raced toward him like a bull eager to ram its target, the popping of his bones and clanking of his feet on the stone only heightening the horror of his mindless shriek.

Just before reaching him, Boris spread his arms as if to embrace him in a hug, and Haern leaped to one side, twisting his body in the air so he could lash out with his left hand. The sword sliced along the side of Boris’s neck, severing what should have been his jugular vein. But when Haern landed and he looked, he saw no blood, just a dry tear in the side of gray flesh. Boris turned, and the only visible life in him was the amused twinkle in his eyes.

“I don’t bleed,” Boris screamed, flinging himself at Haern again. Haern jumped back, slashing Boris’s throat and face. More cuts, doing nothing.

“I don’t sleep.”

Haern found himself running out of room, the gray man faster than he had any right to be. There was no hesitation to his moves, nor the slightest fear of harm coming to himself. Nearly trapped against the wall, he waited for another lunge from Boris, then dropped to a roll, slicing out in hopes of taking out the tendons in Boris’s legs. Instead of leaving him hampered, though, Haern’s swords caught on the thick banded plates protecting him, unable to penetrate further.

In mid-roll, Haern could only try to kick out fast enough to avoid Boris as he dropped atop him.

“I don’t breathe.”

Haern felt Boris’s hand catch his ankle, putting an end to his roll. He slammed onto his stomach, one of his swords slipping from his grip as his face struck the stone floor. Meanwhile, Boris tugged and tugged, his mouth open, his tongue hanging down like a dead gray worm as he pulled Haern’s leg closer.

“All I know to do,” he said, “is eat.”

With nothing else to do, nothing else to try, Haern took his sword, twisting to a sitting position, and plunged it straight into that gaping maw. It punched through the back of his throat and out the other side, lodging in tight. Haern released it when it was sunk all the way in, leaving Boris snapping his teeth down on the metal of the hilt. As the ancient man hacked and coughed, his head shaking violently as he tried to expel the blade, Haern repeatedly kicked the hand holding him. Fingers snapped one by one, and the moment he was loose, he rolled away before Boris could attempt to grab again.

Now free, he reached for his other sword and stalked back toward Boris.

“I’m sorry, Boris,” he said. “But I have a priest to find.”

He slammed the blade with all his strength against the man’s throat until it hit bone. The power of it knocked him to his back, and Haern struck again and again, as if he were a lumberjack trying to fell a tree. At last he heard a crack, and at that, he reached down, pinned Boris with his knees, and then twisted the head until there was a second, far louder crack.