Philip Athans - Lies of Light

“Damn their eyes,” Hrothgar muttered.

He charged, trying not to consider what bizarre and horrendous fate the snake monster with the human face had in store for him.

One hit, he thought, slapping the tree limb against his palm as he ran. Just one.

Devorast threw another rock, and the naga started to rattle off another one of its spells. Hrothgar sent a silent thanks to Clangeddin Silverbeard that the rock not only beat the incantation from its mouth, but actually struck the creature a glancing blow. Surprised more than hurt, the thing stumbled over its words then growled in frustration. Sparks of blue and green light played in the air around its head, but that was all, and Hrothgar was there.

He swung hard and spun a full circle when the club missed its target. All his warrior’s instincts-by the Nine Hells, all his stonecutter’s instincts-told him he should have hit the thing, but it simply wasn’t where it appeared to be.

“Fool!” the naga hissed at him, then said something else in either the language of the wizards or the language of the nagas. The dwarf hoped it was the latter.

Hrothgar swung again with the tree limb, but at what appeared to him to be thin air just to the creature’s left. He felt the branch scrape something, but couldn’t see anything. The naga twitched its tail and though it appeared as if the tip of it was a full armslength from Hrothgar’s side, it slapped him hard enough to crack a rib-but that was the least of it.

The dwarf’s body spasmed and shook, and his teeth clamped down hard.

He’d lost his club and tried to find it. There it was-in Devorast’s hands.

The human swung the club hard from right to left across his body, and it hit something more or less near the naga, who reacted as though it had taken the full force of the blow. Devorast lost his grip on the club, and it went whirling past Hrothgar’s face.

“It pays!” the naga shrieked. “It pays or more of its stinking kind dies!”

Hrothgar looked up at the sound of another muttered incantation-a short one-and watched the naga slither away at such a speed….

“Look at it … go,” he huffed out.

Devorast dropped the club on the ground at his feet. Hrothgar stood, his whole body still tingling from whatever the naga had done to him.

“You hurt it bad, my friend,” the dwarf said, bending to retrieve the makeshift weapon. “But you can bet it’ll be back.”

Devorast didn’t even bother to shrug that off. He ran for the spot where the trench had collapsed. Hrothgar followed, grunting with pain the whole way. They dug as fast as they could, brought in as many men as would fit around the trench, but not one of the five diggers were pulled out alive.

5 Ches, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

THIRD QUARTER, INNARLITH

She hadn’t done any of the things she would have expected herself to do.

She had taken no one’s advice. She’d used none of her father’s-her family’s-gold. The rented flat wasn’t in the worst part of Innarlith, but it wasn’t in the best either. Deep in the Third Quarter, it was a tradesman’s flat above a vacant storefront that used to sell cheese. She hated the smell that was left behind and under any other circumstances never would have put up with it. It was the kind of building she’d have burned down just because she didn’t like it. She spent not a single silver on furniture or decorations, and even promised herself-and any disembodied spirits that might be listening in-that she would sleep on the stained mattress, sit on the flea-ridden chair, and keep her clothes in the cupboard with the rat skeleton and the hardened undergarment the previous tenant-perhaps the cheesemonger’s wife-had left behind. She didn’t bring the flamberge, and had not even a slim dagger or kitchen knife with which she might cut herself.

Phyrea sat on the floor. She had a candle, but had forgotten to bring anything with which to light it, so she sat in the dark.

She folded her arms in front of her and doubled over. Her stomach hurt almost as much as her head throbbed. She wanted to cut herself so badly she wanted to scream. But she wouldn’t let herself do either of those things.

The ghosts screamed louder and louder as the room grew darker and darker.

Cut yourself .

You long for it , came a shrieking wail. We know you crave the cold bite of steel. That thin chill of the blade passing through your own flesh, and the delicious quiver of your hand as you force it to draw your own blood .

The sword .

That blade bites the best .

Use the flamberge , they screamed at her in a chorus of disembodied howls. Let it drink you in. Let it bring you to us .

One of them said, Take me home. I don’t like it here. Take me back to Berrywilde. Berrywilde… .

It sounded like a little girl, but Phyrea could feel its soul sometimes, and it was the cold, bitter, mean spirit of a devil.

“No,” she whimpered into the deathly quiet of the merchant quarter at night. “Get out of me.”

A man screamed into her ear in inarticulate rage, but no real sound disturbed the silence. The voices didn’t speak into her ear, but rather from it.

“Tell me what you want,” she asked, though they’d told her before. She wanted a different answer.

Cut yourself .

Use the sword-the sword I gave you .

Don’t give it to him. Don’t give it to the Thayan .

Go home .

Take us back to our pretty home and stay with us there forever .

Kill for me .

Give us your life .

Spill your blood .

Phyrea shook her head.

She’d gone there-rented the flat, broken from her life in whatever ways she could-in the hope of gaining some clearer understanding. Perhaps, she’d thought, in the silence of a strange place, away from the people and the places that kept the ghosts rooted in her, she might find some answers.

Did you hope to catch us off guard? one of them-a little boy by the sound of his voice, but a monster by the cold dread that followed his words-asked. What did you hope? That we would just rot in the ground, or that we would be frightened by the stench of rotten cheese? Have you ever smelled the inside of your own moldering casket?

Phyrea shook her head.

Of course you haven’t , a woman whispered at the edge of a sob. But you will .

Phyrea opened her eyes, wondering how long she’d had them closed, and saw them gathered all around her. They loomed over her, each one drawn in the air from violet light. They existed as a glow, as a sourceless luminescence, and as voices.

Free us , a little boy with one arm demanded through stern, gritted teeth.

Free yourself , the man with the scar on his cheek said.

Phyrea shook her head, pressed her hands to her temples.

Cut yourself , a woman whispered in her ear so close it made her jump. The desperation plain in the woman’s voice made tears well up in Phyrea’s eyes. Maybe it will make it go away .

Phyrea began to sob so hard she feared her ribs would crack, and that fear only made her cry some more.

Feel that little pain , the woman-the ghost-went on. Just a little pain of the body makes all the pain of the mind go away. At least for a little while, yes? Just a little? Isn’t that good? Doesn’t that make it go away? Can’t you just make it go away?

Still crying, Phyrea nodded.

Trust us , said the man with the z-shaped scar-some long-dead relative she’d never known. We love you. Will you listen while we tell you some things you need to do?