Chapter 65

A Torch In the Darkness

Wind hissed over the soft, powdery snow at the edge of the clearing. Frost fingers pricked up and down Rachel’s spine and she whirled, eyes intent on the spaces beneath the heavily wooded boughs. Her breath came short and sharp. Why? There was nothing there. Densely packed trees groaned under the weight of their ice. Was that the noise she had heard? Had there even been a noise?

The darkness stared back at her, innocent and empty.

Everyone on the building site stopped work and stared at her. Everyone, except for the wights, who did not seem to have human concerns. Or instincts. They carried on hammering and sawing, and they would until their foreman told them to stop.

“What is it?” asked Theo under his breath. The gangly adventurer put down the bucket of pitch he had been mixing, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

Rachel shook her head, eyes still searching the treeline. Her hand clenched so hard she thought her knuckles might burst through her skin.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. I just thought I heard… something.”

“Probably an animal,” said Theo.

“Could be,” she said with a shrug, her cheeks pink, and turned back to her work. Slowly, everyone went back to hers, and she could be alone with her embarrassment.

As the company’s sole fire mage, it was her job to dry out the vast piles of timber. An unglamourous task, and odious. She glared at the rough-hewn planks. Building in the snow came with many challenges, not that they had a choice.

“Calficio,” she said, pointing with her staff.

The logs hissed. Trapped condensation rose in a cloud, vanishing into the frosty air. Rachel sighed and rubbed a sore spot at the back of her neck. And to think - she could have been a paladin! A sun paladin, even. But then, the strict discipline of the clerical orders had never appealed to her. The Bright One was nice enough, as gods went: virtuous, shiny and so on. Good hymns. He was an all-round decent deity, but not for Rachel four stone walls and a cloister. Not for Rachel sword practice at dawn, and neatly organised drawers. No, her fires needed to run wild, as she had explained to him frequently during private prayers.

Adventuring was the way to go. Exploring the wilds of Einheath, fighting, living, singing, amassing a private fortune fit to rival that of any noble. Freedom from all responsibility except the Guild and her own desires. That had been the plan. It had been going well.

The wood hissed and cracked. Too much heat. She lessened the flow.

Of course, now her fortune was in the bank at Fairhaven, safely guarded by a murderous lich king. Rachel ground her teeth. The rest was hidden in a secret panel in the pantry of her city townhouse. Hopefully, there it would stay, until she returned. Gods, she hoped that was possible. Life in the wilds of Downing Forest was not what she had signed up for.

Instantly, she felt ungrateful. She was one of the lucky ones. One of the survivors. She looked around at the bedraggled company, all of them working away, brows furrowed, concentrating on the task of rebuilding their lives. Most of them she didn’t know, at least not yet. Only Theo, an old friend from the Guild, and occasional lover.

Darren, the big man slogging through ankle deep slush had been a cook at a tavern she frequented. August, the slight woman next to him, had been a barmaid there. She thought they were married, but she wasn’t sure. All of them had had lives back in the city. Just a random assortment of people brought together by war. All of them alive. All of them lucky, despite their grief.

Lucky.

She snorted. On the other hand, if she had taken holy vows, she would have been slaughtered just like the rest of the clerics. It was funny how life turned out. Perhaps drying out building materials in the middle of the snowy woods wasn’t too bad after all. A tear prickled at the corner of her eye and she blinked it away. She should send her mother a letter. Let her know she had survived.

Rachel lugged over another pile of damp wood and swore softly, as a splinter stuck in her thumb. Blood pooled into an angry red bead. She sucked at it, the tiny wound hot and metallic on her tongue.

Her shoulders twitched, and she resisted the urge to stare at the trees once more. Who wouldn’t be twitchy, after the month they had had? Resolutely, she turned her back on the forest and set to work on another stack of wood.

They were making good progress with the settlement. They had erected most of a palisade, a watch tower, a cattle pen, and one long house. The speed of construction was mostly thanks to the unrelenting labour of the undead. They never slowed, never stopped. Nothing got in their way, not rain nor snow, not hunger or sleep. They just kept working.

Their presence was unnatural… but Rachel was nothing if not practical. Gods, without the Lady Lich they would all be chunks of ice.

They could have stayed at the castle but… the idea of living in a wrathful, ghost infested castle ruled by a lich was immensely unappealing. Regardless of how safe it supposedly was. She could still hear it, when the wind gusted from the west. They were far enough away that the screams of the ghost that haunted were a distant murmur, but close enough to shelter within its spectral walls if trouble came calling. At least, that was the theory.

August dropped her hammer with a loud bang. Rachel jumped, suppressing a high-pitched squeal.

Get a grip, she told herself, sternly.

As she hauled over yet another set of wood the sheep in the nearby pen started to fuss. She looked up, watching them as they shuffled their feet, pushing at the fence and baa-ing in alarm. She didn’t really know much about animals. In the distance a flock of birds took to the air.

The talisman round Rachel’s neck flared so hot it burned her through her shirt. That she did know and this time she didn’t hesitate.

“Get in the tower,” she shouted. “Everyone! Now!”

The wights obeyed her without pause. The humans, however, turned in surprise. Some of them dropped their tools and started scrambling for the half-finished tower. The rest just gawped at her like idiots.

Behind them, the deep forest treetops bowed and bucked, like a great force was moving through them at speed.

“Are you feeling jittery?” asked Theo in a kind voice, setting down his pitch-soaked ladle. “I told you it’s probably just-”

“Move!” Rachel roared, her hands sparking red in frustration.

Her fires flared, casting their frightened faces in ghastly, orange light. Theo went. They all went, and only just in time.

Undead exploded out of the forest.

Rachel caught an impression of sickly faces, blood smeared bodies, eyes wide with madness. Dead humans running towards her. Not dead like the wights she knew. These undead were feral monsters. The flesh was melting from their bones, pustules and welts puckering the foetid green of their skin.

Before she could blink they were swarming the palisade. The rickety, half- finished palisade.

Rachel shot a single, searing hot fireball into the crowd, then leapt for the tower.

Eager hands grabbed her wrists, hauling her up. For a sickening moment she swung, kicking her legs, her ankles exposed as rotting hands reached for her. But then she was pulled up to safety. She landed on the first platform on all fours, gulping in great lungfuls of air. It was so cold it hurt her lungs.

Most of the company had scrambled as high as they could, and the tower teetered, top-heavy and groaning under their combined weight. Bright One let it hold.

Steadying herself, Rachel turned and stared down.

A sea of snapping, snarling, undead faces were all staring up at her. Dead flesh hung in chunks from exposed bones. Rags barely covered gaunt limbs. Their eyes were distended. Filled with rage, madness and pus.

“Who are you?” she cried, not expecting an answer. There were only growls and snarls in return.

“They aren’t ours,” said the draugr foreman, crouched next to Theo and Darren. He was staring down at the creatures below with as much consternation as the humans. Only the wights seemed unperturbed. Docile, as usual. Thank the Bright One they were docile.

“What do you mean?” asked Theo.

“These are not… bound to the Lady,” said the draugr. “If they are wights. I have never seen-”

His words were lost in screams as the tower rocked and swayed.

They were crawling up the beams. Rotting limbs and skeletal fingers grasping at the wooden frame.

“Gods help us!”

“There! There! Behind you!”

Rachel leaned over the platform as far as she dared, cracking her staff down on the skull of the nearest creature. It fell back into the clawing, scrambling mass. Besides her, Theo, Darren, August and the wights whacked and pushed, striking the creatures with whatever implements they could find. Only Theo and Rachel were properly armed.

“Igni!” she shouted.

The fireball careened into the mass, searing the flesh off all those it touched. She lifted her staff to send another, mindful of her aim. If the fire landed too close to the barrels of pitch, she risked setting the tower alight from the ground up.

Next to her a wight lost his footing.

In an instant he was tugged from the platform by many hands. Rachel watched in horror as he disappeared into the wild mob below. He did not resurface.

More came. Nothing seemed to stop them. Crushed bones, torn flesh, no injury bothered them. A rotting hand grasped the pole closest to her, and she kicked it away, leaving a thick smear of putrid flesh on the wood. Her stomach roiled, but there was no time. Swallowing the bile she shoved another back. And another. Faster, they were coming faster, climbing up over each other’s backs.

Next to her, August wielded a hammer with a fury born of desperation, ignoring her husband’s pleas to climb to the next level. Darren was using a plank, which was effective but Rachel could see the big man was tiring. Theo had his sword but not the room to use it to full effect.

Two undead crawled onto the platform, lurching for them with outstretched arms.

Theo caught the first with a powerful kick to the stomach. It soared out into the night air and dropped like a stone. Theo’s shout of victory turned to a cry of pain as another sank its teeth into his extended leg. Bringing his sword hilt down hard, the rotting flesh gave way. The remains of the dead body staggered back, leaving its jaw clenched around Theo’s calf muscle. It toppled backwards off the platform.

Theo wrenched the jaw free with a cry of pain and hurled it after.

“Are you alright?” Rachel yelled. Her breath was coming in short, sharp pants.

“It will hurt later,” Theo said, with a tight grin that didn’t reach his eyes. His forehead bright with sweat. “Behind you!”

They fought in the darkness; Rachel’s flames the only light. Back-to-back, they held the tower, helping each other when they could but the dead did not tire. Rachel watched them closely.

“We have to behead them,” she shouted. “Or burn them! Otherwise they just get right back-”

A body fell from the platform. A human body, falling with an all too human scream.

“Darren!” shrieked August. Rachel dashed to the edge.

The cook’s eyes stared up at her, white and frightened, a hand outstretched as he was pulled into the crush. Brutal hands grabbed him, the undead fought amongst themselves for their prey. Darren screamed as they tore him limb from limb. Sinew and flesh spouted a crimson fount over rotting faces. Red-stained teeth glinted in the stuttering light of Rachels’s staff. August was sobbing.

“What hap-”

Another wight went over the edge. But how? There was-

Something heavy collided with her back.

Rachel fell against the flimsy rail, flailing to catch her balance. The platform shifted. The people above were shouting and screaming, but she couldn’t hear the words in the chaos. A clawed hand reached for her ankle and she whacked at it desperately.

A high-pitched shriek joined the cacophony of fear. Rachel turned to see Theo’s hands closing around August’s throat. Her friend’s eyes were oddly distended. His sword clattered to the planks, forgotten.

“Theo, what are you-”

Theo opened his mouth, a strange expression on his face. Then he sank his teeth into the thrashing woman’s shoulder and ripped his teeth away. Staring up at Rachel he spat a chunk of bloody flesh onto the planks. August kicked and screamed as Rachel tried to pull him off.

Theo rushed at her with a snarl, his lips pulled back to reveal blood-stained gums.

“Theo-”

She cracked him a bruising blow across the torso, pushing him back, pleading with him, tears coursing down her cheeks. August stopped screaming. The small woman’s mouth opened wide. Really, really wide, until a gaping cavity loomed in the side of her head. The sound she uttered was not human.

The tower shook and Rachel’s fires winked out, plunging them into darkness.

A body crashed into her, and she pulled herself up and away, clambering over the flimsy railing. The platform turned into a seething, uncontrolled mass. People were fighting. She couldn’t tell who was friend and who was foe. A body dropped with an ear-splitting shriek. Another. Another. The undead were on the first level, and she desperately scrambled up to the next. She whirled her staff, cracking bones and pushing people back.

Up here was no better. Screams and cries, the sound of tearing flesh. Growls. Another wight tumbled into the crowd, to be torn to shreds by the feral undead.

“Igni!” she screamed, her voice hoarse. “Igni!”

Looking at it made it worse.

The fire gave her time to haul herself onto the lip of the roof. Weeping, she crawled, clinging to the rough tiles, to the splintery wood she had helped dry out only days before.

Something was crawling after her. Someone. Theo.

Or the creature that used to be Theo.

Her old friend wailed and grabbed at her, his mouth a crimson slash, a gaping wound across his once handsome face.

She kicked him away with her boot, sobbing. He fell, rolling down the steep incline. He grabbed at the edge, but the force of her kick sent him pinwheeling through the air. Theo landed far below a sickening crunch.

Rachel gulped, clinging to the peak with one torn up hand.

When did her hand get cut up? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She could hear the undead, feasting below. Was she the last one? Soon they would be on her. Or the tower would topple. She would have no chance in the mud. Her hand slipped and she sobbed, scratching her raw palm on the jagged edges.

Her eyes alighted on the barrels of pitch far below. Just visible between the clamouring bodies.

With reckless abandon Rachel swung out over empty air, her staff clenched in one bloody hand. She aimed.

“Igni!”

The night exploded into orange fire.