79

(Murmux)

The Night Court

Murmux dropped and rolled, managing to extinguish the flames before he was too badly hurt. The moss hissed and shrivelled. Desperately, he patted himself down, smothering every spark before the flame could spread and eat him alive. Even so, the bronze tips of his hair were singed, and the flesh of his torso was left raw and red. He stood in the swirling mists, his breath slowing, his heartbeat a dry rustle against the cage of his ribs. The cool air stung his burned skin as he forced himself to breath. The discomfort was a welcome distraction from the slower, more insidious pain of his compulsion.

Waiting, he clenched his teeth, pitting pain against pain. Tendrils of agony dug deeper into his brain as the minutes crawled by. Slowly, slowly. Digging his toes into the moss he gritted his teeth, clasping his head in his hands and suppressing the urge to scream. A sound bubbled out of him, half-sob, half-laugh. He could only defy a direct command for so long, no matter that it had been issued days previously. Find the gate, he needed to find the gate. The need thundered through his veins. He stood unmoving, his tattoos crawling. They bit at him, hounding him, driving him, adding a layer of pain to his already tormented body. When he was unable to bear it any longer he set off like an arrow.

Across the fell, he went, searching for any sign of Candle's passing. The action brought instant relief. Her trail was not difficult to follow. Candle's unusual half-human, half-dragon scent hung in the still mist-laden air, intertwined with Zephi's more familiar odour of necromancer and cake. Silently he urged them away, even as he searched, leaving no detail unnoticed. Here and there he found a footprint squeezed into the moss. Under a bush was a depression where they must have taken their rest. Then he lost the trail.

He smiled. She had had the sense to take to the air. That meant that she was free, that she had escaped. His smile slipped as he considered the ramifications. As he stood, trying to decide on his next course of action the swirling mists lifted, as suddenly as they had arrived. Starlight flooded the mountainside, so bright he cast a shadow across the furry bumps of the moss. He contemplated the dark silhouette of the mountain before him, where the light of the stars had leeched the colour from the cliff face. The various ledges and rocks were outlined in frosty light while ravines and crags were thrown into deep shadow.

Someone landed behind him with a thud, making him jump. Bones and moss scattered as lightning scorched a hole through to the earth beneath.

"Hello, brother," Murmux said.

Ronove glowered at him. His face still looked like a pile of mashed auroch droppings but it was an improvement on his normal chiselled visage. Murmux admired the bruising and decided it was unlikely Ronove would forgive him anytime soon. No matter that they had been told to make the fight look realistic – in the moment they had both been trying to kill each other, and they both knew it.

"Well?" said Ronove, his voice dripping with contempt. "Did you find it? I assume you are standing about, wasting time because the half-breed is dead and the gate lies just beyond her corpse?"

Murmux resisted the urge to punch his brother in what was left of his face.

"I lost the trail," he said, lightly, as if it cost him nothing.

"Dear me," said Ronove, examining one long talon. "She will be displeased." Cocking his head on one side, he listened, as if expecting to hear Candle's fleeing footsteps. Or the more ominous approach of their queen. "We better start searching."

"The watchers didn't see where she went?"

"Confounded by the mist."

Murmux's lips curled upwards, but his smugness was interrupted by a fork of lightning that crackled across the sky. The mountainside was momentarily illuminated in white light and the metallic ting of magic rippled through the air. Three more of his degenerate brothers landed on the moss. They smelt like mouldy straw and old blood. Murmux hated them all. He hated the way they looked, hated their servile, sniffling faces and most of all he hated that fact that they shared his blood.

"She comes," they said, and he felt his innards twist.

Just like that, he was back. Back to the horror and the darkness and the oppression. Back to the company of arseholes, addicts and slaves. Away from the nest for a few days and he had forgotten the dread, like some naive fool. Freedom, even fake freedom was addictive. It had put ideas in his head. He had found himself dreaming.

If only his freedom could be bought by a simple dagger thrust to a demon's ribs. But the queen was no simple demon, to be banished by bravery and a scrap of well-aimed iron. Freedom was an infantile dream, and he was growing soft even to contemplate it. Bah. Candle should have done everyone a favour and let him die on the roof.

Borlowen, the Bitch-Queen of the Wælmist, and Speaker for the rotting, fetid carcass that was the Night Court made her way through the fell, seated atop the skeletal remains of a mammoth rock-wolf. It was unusual for her to leave the seat of her power, and a mark of just how incredibly fucked he was. Murmux tried to arrange his face into a neutral expression as she drifted across the landscape, trailing bored attendants.

The Queen did everything slowly. Every gesture was graceful – dream-like as if she was half asleep, as if she had all the time in the world. Perhaps she did. She rode side-saddle, the pale chiffon of her skirts billowing behind her. Dressed for battle, she had traded her usual velvet for something more nebulous, something that allowed for more ease of movement. Across her shoulders was a white fur pelt, for the Queen was always cold, even in the warm of the Night. The great branches of her silver horns gleamed under the soft starlight. Each horn was hung about with dozens of rune-covered bones. They clattered with each movement of her head.

Borlowen came to a halt and Murmux bowed low, his nose almost sweeping the moss.

"You have news, Murmux?"

He straightened. The Queen's eyes were black pits of nothingness so wide they reflected the aurora. Her tone was gently inquisitive, one red eyebrow softly arched. Briefly, he contemplated lunging for her neck. Or spitting in her face just so she would wrench his head from his shoulders and end it all. But then, death was no barrier to servitude. Not where Borlowen was concerned.

"The trail grows cold, Your Majesty. But I search."

For a moment a wrinkle marred the perfection of her snow-white brow and the lightning birds cowered. Murmux waited for the command to come, the words that would end his life. But they remained unspoken. Instead, the Queen looked around with cool practicality. She pursed her lips into a puckered raspberry bow, considering.

"You traced the half-breed this far?" He nodded.

"She must have taken to the sky."

The Queen watched him with a lazy smile.

"Tell me everything you know about the location of the gate," she said, then held up one finger as he opened his mouth. "Everything you know, and everything you suspect."

He clamped his jaw shut, but it was no good.

"It is close by," he said. The words forced their way out of his mouth without input from his brain. "Very close, I'm sure of it. I was right behind her, and then suddenly the mist lifted. I think she brought down the clouds with her magic, and then they disappeared when the connection was broken. When she left the Night Nation. I looked around and I think the location is most likely in that mountain." He pointed, his body moving without any regard for his pride or feelings, eager to please his mistress. His blood boiled with hatred.

"Thank you, Murmux," she said, dreamily, lifting the pits of her eyes to the ridge. "Helpful as always. Anything else you might have forgotten?"

"There is a pile of wight ash over there," he said. Borlowen raised one delicate, scarlet eyebrow.

"Bring me whatever is left," she commanded, and he ran to obey. Scooping up the ash and the few bone fragments, he ran back, holding them up and over his head for her to inspect. "Hmm," she said, plucking out a single charred fragment. She rolled it between finger and thumb. "This will do, nicely." She snapped her fingers. "Bleed for me."

Murmux sliced open his arm with his remaining dagger. Wincing, he let the blood drip onto the bone. The Queen blew on it, her breath soft and coaxing. Then she tossed the fragment to the ground, where it blossomed into a shade. Rising, first in a cloud of smoke and then growing substance the spirit of the wight reassembled itself into a filthy pile of meat and bones. Its eyes glowed blue, pinpricks of hollow malice.

"Which way did she go?" The Queen asked lazily. "The one who destroyed you."

It let out a grumbling moan.

"Tell me," she said, a hint of disapproval in her voice. The wight recoiled, staggering backwards. When it had regained its balance it pointed, the ragged flesh gesturing towards a ridge in the cliff face about halfway up the nearby mountain. The Queen snapped her fingers again. The wight disintegrated, sinking back into the ground.

"Well," said the Queen, her voice hard. "What are you fools waiting for? Go."

The lightning birds went, squawking and fighting, falling over themselves to get airborne. Murmux took off with the rest but quickly fell behind, despite his best efforts. Half of his feathers were burned off and the skin between his shoulder blades chafed as he flapped in miserable obedience.

The hidden cave was where Murmux had suspected, secreted behind a rocky outcrop and camouflaged by sweet, flowering vines. It was unremarkable from the outside, and no surprise it had remained hidden, all these years. Inside was a dark chamber, empty except for some lost spirits and the excited crowing of his bird-brained brothers. Candle's scent hung in the air, and he breathed in. She had been here very recently. Inhaling, he followed the lingering mix of frost and brine and wondered, briefly, if he would ever see her again. He hoped not, for her sake.

The gate was off to one side, a nondescript pool of water, the surface still and serene. It was almost identical to the gate to the Dawn Kingdom beneath Fhord Dhall, although perhaps a little smaller. The runes were dark and dull. The whole thing was unremarkable – just a spring in the rocks. Such a trifle to fight over, such an oddity, this bridge between worlds, such a terrible weapon in the wrong hands. He shuddered. And now the Queen knew where to find it. Or she would momentarily.

The flock flew back to their queen, alight with the news of discovery.

"We have the gate," said Ronove.

"And the half-breed?"

"Gone, but the gate is unguarded."

"Excellent," said the Queen, her scarlet lips blooming into a bloody smile. She turned away with a swish of her skirts. "Let us go and spread the good news with our allies across the isthmus."