Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

“There is no lock,” Koschei said. “And I have no rope.”

Omar grimaced. “I don’t have time for this. I should be helping Vlad stop this idiotic war.”

Koschei shrugged. “Is fine. Let me borrow your sword. I can do this.”

Omar gave the warrior a tired look. “Have you ever held a seireiken before? Do you know anything about them?”

“What’s to know? Blade is hot, don’t touch. This I know.”

Omar’s shoulders sagged. “Your mother never taught you how to contain and subdue a captive soul, did she?”

“No, why?”

Omar tightened his grip on the seireiken, wishing he had something precious to smash on the ground to express his true feelings about the situation. “Fine! Fine, I’ll stay and deal with this. Let’s just be quick about it, all right?”

Koschei smiled a hideous grin of cracked lips and broken teeth. “Whatever you say, Grigori!”

They jogged up to the graveyard gate and Omar saw that the corpse standing in their way was barely moving now, and its skin had none of the icy sparkle of the ones he had seen in Targoviste or at the north gate of Constantia.

The aether is melting after all. Just not fast enough for my taste. If only we had a chain for this gate! This is all so uncivilized!

Omar cut down the dead man and stepped inside the graveyard. It was a small place full of stone mausoleums and paved walkways, a tiny city for the wealthy dead. But most of the stone doors had been pushed open and several dozen crooked men and women stood scattered across the area, moaning softly and dragging their feet along the paths.

He rubbed his forehead to ward off the imminent headache. “All right, just grab a stone or brick or something and knock them down as fast as you can.”

“Of course.” Koschei jogged away to the left and snatched up a rock on his way to attacking his first corpse.

Omar moved more slowly. In broad daylight, the faces of the dead were far clearer and in the heat of the sun they were all in far worse states of decay. Their dried flesh hung in tatters from their cheeks and arms like shredded clothing. The immortal Aegyptian squinted and held a handkerchief over his mouth and nose as he worked his way down the paths, hacking apart the barely moving bodies at arm’s length as quickly as he could without getting bits of them on himself.

The dead people offered no struggle. They didn’t run to attack him or to escape him. They simple stood there and let him cut them down.

When he was done, Omar returned to the gate where Koschei was sitting, picking his nose. “You’re sure you got them all?”

The Rus man nodded. “Pretty sure.”

“Good enough.” Omar glanced back one more time at the quiet little necropolis of neatly built stone houses and neatly arrayed stone paths, and the dismembered corpses scattered all over them. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Wren stayed back as Tycho fired his gun again and again into the dark gap in the broken door. Every time a pale face or empty eye socket lunged into view, the little major’s revolver would bang and the rotting skull would burst apart and disappear.

“I’m almost out,” Tycho said.

There were two other soldiers beside them with rifles aimed at the doors, but neither of them had fired. Wren glanced at the young Hellans and saw their hands shaking and lips moving with silent prayers.

“We can barricade the door with the tables and things!” Wren pointed back at the office furniture in the middle of the room.

“Yes, a barricade!” Tycho fired again. “Go, go!”

Wren let go of his hand and ran back to the office area where the makeshift war room had frozen in the middle of its business as every bloodless face stared in horror at the doors slowly cracking apart from the outside.

“The tables! Get the desks, grab everything, use it to block the doors!” she shouted.

One by one, the clerks and servants blinked back to life, cast frightened nods at one another, and began lifting the tables and scrambling like drunken crabs to carry the furniture to the doors. The pale Italian slowly stood up, drew his golden rapier, and staggered after them.

“Miss Wren?” The Duchess stepped gracefully out of the way of four men with a chest of drawers. “I understood this particular crisis to be over. You subdued Baba Yaga, didn’t you?”

“I did, and this isn’t her fault,” Wren said. “Well, I mean it is, but it’s not a new problem. You see, Yaga did wake up the corpses from the graveyards for hundreds of leagues all around, that’s true, and she did twist up those poor souls pretty badly with her nightmares, but she didn’t create them, and she didn’t control them. She just woke them up, is all.”

“Ah.” Lady Nerissa nodded calmly. “So then, all of the dead souls that she woke up will continue to walk the earth on their own until something or someone stops them?”

“I’m afraid so.” Wren glanced at an over-turned chair by her foot. Part of her wanted to grab the chair and rush to help build the barricade, but the rest of her wanted to stay as far from the doors as possible.

And besides, one more chair won’t make any difference.

A young man shrieked, and the sound echoed through the dark hall, bouncing and bouncing again from every angle. Wren winced and spun about, trying to find the source of the cry, and she caught sight of a clerk on the far side of the office area pointing not at the doors where Tycho was directing the construction of the barricade but to another pair of doors at the opposite end of the room. The doors were open and three corpses stumbled through them, grunting as they clawed at the stale air.

Nine hells!

“Hey! We need that there, I mean, back there! Go, that way!” Wren waved and pointed frantically at the open doors as she tried to catch the attention of the servants still rushing to block Tycho’s doors. A half dozen of them saw her and turned to look where she was pointed, and a chorus of panicked curses and shouts erupted from their pale lips.

“Come on, there’s only three of them!” Wren grabbed the chair at her feet and rushed across the dark chamber, splashing through the cold puddles as quickly as her long black skirts would allow.

Two more corpses staggered out of the doorway. And then another.

Wren glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was following her, and her heart dropped into her belly when she saw only two young men with chairs and candlesticks jogging halfheartedly in her wake. They were at least a dozen paces behind and falling farther behind with every step she took.

Oh gods, I’m alone.

Wren splashed to a halt in the middle of a puddle and threw her chair out in front of her, perhaps in the hope that it might make the dead men and women stumble for half a second. But the six corpses shuffled forward faster and faster, parting to pass around the chair on both sides, their rotting faces hanging apart on threads of skin and strings of muscle, their filthy bones exposed around their eyes and fingers.

All six of them reached for her.

All six of them stared at her with frozen black eyes.

All six of them moaned with frozen black tongues.

“No!” Wren threw up her arms, praying that there was enough aether in the sunken chamber to form a solid wall in front of her.

The thin wisps of white vapor on the floor rushed forward and upward like a wave, but instead of rising into a barrier, it swept on through the six corpses like a hurricane. Wren watched in wide-eyed wonder as the aether wind tore at her stumbling attackers, forcing them backward with their arms raised to shield their frostbitten faces. Then one of the corpses collapsed to the floor, and Wren, with arms still raised to guide the aether, stared at the pale ghostly shape that washed out of the fallen body.