“Eamon told us that he would meet us here. He reckoned we might find some leftover food and weapons here. We can use this place as a refuge until we’re well rested and reunited with Eamon and his guard,” said Tristan. They had travelled nearly twenty miles on foot today, which was ten miles fewer than the past seven days. It had been two weeks since Darwin and the Takers had robbed them and Eamon had taken his guard to pursue them.
“We’re staying here?” asked Loren, astonished.
“We don’t exactly have much of a choice,” replied Kenton, who had healed miraculously after receiving the medicine from Darwin. His scars still glowed with a mixture of white light and black ooze. The stench was the worst part. It had even kept the group up most nights, unable to drown the smell with even a fire. But Kenton claimed he was fine, and had never felt stronger (although Tristan knew this wasn’t true. He heard Kenton clutching his rib in the night and groaning under the pain.)
“What happened to Elaria?” asked Asherin. They were standing just outside the crumbled city walls, mouths agape at the destruction before them. The shadows of Elaria had begun to lengthen as the sun began to dip below the crumbling towers and broken archways.
“My best guess? A battle occurred here, and recently too. I couldn’t say who won, although considering that the whole city is burned down it seems as though nobody came out the other side as the clear victor,” said Loren.
“We’ll likely learn more once we get inside. Come on,” said Tristan.
----
Shiv had not been told how to kill them, or why he was to kill them. And he did not ask. It was becoming more and more common for work to come to him, rather than the other way around. The past year had been productive for him and his reputation now preceded him. Most still did not even know his name, and he preferred to keep it that way. King Tarren’s messenger hadn’t used his name, and had likely been told not to. But the messenger knew where to find him and what to look for. Head to Oliver’s Tavern and look for the man in a dark purple cloak who sits alone by the back window. There’ll be cobwebs and broken glass near his seat. No one cleans up that area of the tavern. No one goes near it, except to refill his tankard or offer him a new pipe. Shiv smirked to himself, imagining that these were the words the messenger had likely been told.
The messenger had arrived around midday, the scroll quivering in the grasp of his bony fingers and worry lines etched all over his troublesome face--which had reminded Shiv oddly of a mouse.
“Who sends you?” Shiv had asked. His voice was cold and icy.
“K-k-king Tarren, if it please you.”
“Mhm.” Shiv snatched the scroll out of the messenger’s hands. It described a travelling group of approximately twelve to fifteen people. Their leader was wanted dead or alive--didn’t matter. Shiv’s brow raised when he got to the bottom of the scroll. There was a bonus written in fine ink: 50,000 gold bonus if the leader is brought alive to Castle Stormhold. Shiv rolled up the paper and tucked it in his cloak pocket.
“That’s it? Do you need anything--”
“Leave,” said Shiv. The messenger backed away hurriedly, snagging his foot on a stool and scampering to the ground. He yanked the door open and hurried away, mounting his horse and charging away before he was fully settled in the saddle.
Shiv finished smoking his pipe and then slowly gathered up his belongings from his busted old seat at the back corner of Oliver’s Tavern. He gave a curt nod to the barkeep, who returned a solemn wave. A visible exhale could be seen from the patrons inside the tavern, who felt they could all enjoy themselves a bit more loosely now that Shiv was gone.
Shiv muttered to himself as he leapt up onto his white and black spotted horse, “let us hope they are still in Elaria--else that messenger won’t make it back the next time he comes to see me.” Shiv smiled to himself. The best company he’d ever known was himself. Everyone else could go to hell.
The stench of death hung thick in the air as Shiv moved silently through the deserted streets of Elaria. The blackened ruins were a grim testament to the violence that had transpired. Corpses littered the ground, their lifeless eyes staring sightlessly up at the night sky. Siv’s boots crunched on the rubble underfoot, but the sound was barely perceptible, drowned out by the eerie creaking of the burned-out buildings. The assassin’s sharp gaze scanned the shadows, alert for any sign of movement. He didn’t need much. He’d tracked down an assassin working for a different king many years ago and had snuffed him out on scent alone. A faint scuff of a boot heel, the rustle of cloth - that was all Siv needed to hunt down the group through the blighted city.
Shiv had had a cat once. Pounce was its name. Shiv smiled at the thought of his black and white cat. It reminded him of his horse that he rode now. A great cat, he thought. The cat had taught him a lot about the art of graceful movement. The assassin dismounted, tying up his horse and laying down some hay and water for it. He slipped between crumbling structures now just like his old cat, Pounce. He worked carefully to avoid bloated bodies that lay scattered in the streets. The reek of rotting flesh stung his nostrils. He gagged. It was inaudible. A gloved hand covered his mouth as he leaned over beside a broken pole (and there was no telling what it used to be prior to the city’s destruction). The assassin straightened up again, his focus unwavering amidst the rancid smells that swirled around him. His prey were close. The prize was not far. He could feel it, like a prickling sensation at the back of the neck that set the heart racing. Pausing in the shadow of a collapsed archway, Siv listened intently. Wind whistled through the city, then died. Shiv waited. He waited some more. That was the name of the game - waiting.
There, drifting on the still night air, he could hear voices. Faint but distinct. The assassin’s lips curled curled in a humorless smile. The prey had been located. Quietly, Shiv drew the obsidian dagger from its sheath, the razor-sharp edge glinting in the moonlight.
----
Tristan shivered. His hand went to his hip and found an empty scabbard. Drakiler and Myroniad were gone. “I feel like we’re being watched,” said Tristan as they wandered cautiously through the city.
Loren had a hand covering her nose and tears were slowly crawling down the sides of her face. “The smell…I…can’t…stand it…”
Kenton wore a look of disdain, one hand instinctively covering his scar. Only one of the four cuts he had received had healy fully and without the white glow and black edges. Asherin pushed by him, unaffected by the smells or the haunted look of the ruins. “Keep moving. The smell won’t kill us. Let’s do what we came to do and be done with this place.” Asherin looked at Tristan. “What? Are you with me or not?”
Tristan snorted in derision and followed Asherin. Kenton and Loren dragged behind.
“My scars…they’re stinging,” said Kenton. He grimaced, rubbing at the scar on his leg. No one had wanted to stop to check on Kenton for fear that someone was trailing them. Although Tristan had verbalized it, none of the others wanted to admit it.
The Rot was heavy and thick within the ruined city of Elaria. The air was ripe with its decay. Although Tristan and his group couldn’t feel, couldn’t tell it was scraping down their throats and clinging to their lungs, it was. It was worse here than it was in the Whispering Woods, and their memories were all the worse. They were without one of their members that they had started their journey with, and yet no one had remembered. No one had seen Nothelm’s horse neigh in derision and dash off into the distant forest and shrub. No one had heard Nothelm’s yelp as he was thrashed from the saddle and tossed carelessly like a ragdoll. The Rot was here, and Basidin would have his way with the land. Windem was first, and all the other nations and kingdoms would follow suit. Somewhere far away, beneath the depths of Castle Rarington, now known as Stormhold, Basidin’s defiling presence was smiling in some odd way that only his form was capable of, for he was no human - no being that even represented life. He was darkness and shadow.
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The ancient stones of Elaria rose before them like giant towers, twisting and sprawling in the dark sky. The moon shone brightly this night and the stars twinkled overhead. Crumbling spires and collapsed arches cast long and ominous shadows across the cursed city. A gruesome battle had taken place here. Mutilated bodies became less recognizable the farther the group ventured inward to the heart of Elaria.
Tristan felt a persistent ache, a nagging sense that something - or someone - was missing from their group. He couldn’t place who it was or when he’d lost them. He just knew that they had. As he came to think of it, he couldn’t even remembered how long they’d been journeying, or how long they’d been in Elaria. It had been night for hours now, or was it days? Was it weeks? Tristan felt his breath become shallow. Paranoia was setting in. Was this city made of magic? Was none of this real? He then considered the possibility that he was dreaming. But no, this was all so real. He pinched his arm. Hard. Nothing happened. This was real. He turned to Loren, whose face was somehow cheerful despite the awful feelings of dread that was washing over him. Asherin appeared more distressed, which somehow made Tristan feel better. It can’t just be me.
As the four companions pressed on, their empty hands clenching at their sides, an unsettling silence hung heavy in the air. It was too quiet. The wind stirred, but that was all. Loren’s keen eyes scanned their surroundings, alert for any signs of danger but was met with none. She had found a small dagger that was chipped on its edge. She had slipped it into her belt and kept her right hand close to it in case she might make use of it. Beside her, Asherin walked with a tense posture, her broad shoulders back and straight. She had been scowling far more than she already did (which was quite impressive, Tristan thought) ever since Darwin and the Takers had taken their weapons. Asherin felt naked without hers. And Kenton, the seasoned warrior and right-hand-man to the imperious Dalko Rivien, kept his shoulders squared as best he could, his three glowing, oozing scars a testament to the perils that had already faced.
Something rustled in the shadows, a furtive movement just at the edge of their vision. Tristan whirled quick as lightning, his heart pounding, but saw nothing except the crumbling remains of a once-grand structure. The sense of being watched prickled at the back of his neck.
“Someone is lurking here,” said Asherin. Tristan nodded, lowering into more of a crouch than a walk.
“It’s just those ancient halls,” replied Loren. “Spirits abound in this dark, forsaken place. This is the home for the dead, not for the living.”
As they ventured deeper, the oppressive silence began to weigh on them again. The uncertainty gnawed at Tristan’s mind. Where’s Nothelm? He nearly jumped, as if a voice had came out of nowhere and whispered those words to him. He looked around, half expecting Loren, Asherin, and Kenton to have heard it too. They didn’t. The name stirred a flicker of familiarity, but he couldn’t grasp the memory. Had he been with them before? Had he been lost, somehow, in the Whispering…Whispering Forest? Whispering Wood? Which was it? He couldn’t remember now. The unanswered questions nagged at him, weighed him down like some anchor tethered to his ankle and pulled him deeper and deeper under the waters of the ocean. He was drowning, losing himself. Tristan. Tristan Blackthorn is my name. He took two deep breaths. He still knew who he was, and that was important.
The group continued to scan the ruins, desperate to find discarded weapons that might aid in their protection. So far, all the corpses seemed to have swallowed their weapons.
“Does anyone else find it odd that these corpses don’t have their weapons by them? Who would have taken the time to collect them?” asked Loren. Asherin huffed audibly. Loren exchanged a glance. “What? You don’t wonder?”
“Unless there’s an answer to that question standing right in front of us, why even ask the question?” replied Asherin. Loren frowned. She had never liked Asherin and that interaction had only confirmed her dislike.
Loren’s eyes narrowed as she spotted the hilt of a dagger much like the one she had already found protruding from beneath a fallen stone. Asherin pushed in front of her, reaching down to retrieve it. She grasped the worn leather grip, admiring the blade which was in surprisingly good shape. “Finders keepers,” said Asherin. Loren pursed her lips. Her face flushed red.
Kenton’s gaze swept across the crumbling structures. But the only blades he found were rusted and unreliable. He grabbed a sword, a look of cheer spread across his face but only lasted a second when half of the sword’s long blade snapped in half and clattered noisily onto the cobblestone. Tristan instinctively shushed the group, a finger covering his lips. Their armaments were sorely lacking, which served as an unsettling reminder of their vulnerability here. It didn’t help that they felt like they were being watched.
A soft scrape of stone on stone set them all on edge, the lack of weapons heightening their sense of danger. Tristan scanned the gloom, searching for the source.
“Could just be the crumbling structures,” said Asherin.
“Or something more sinister,” replied Asherin.
Tristan held up his hand for silence, listening to the wind. It stirred restlessly then died. “Probably just the wind. Knocked over the stone, that’s all.”
The air felt thick with unseen peril. Although Tristan wanted to believe his own words, he knew a menacing presence cloaked in secrecy was just lurking out there, watching and waiting.
As the party scoured the ruins for any usable weapons, a figure emerged from the shadows, seemingly out of thin air. Loren shrieked, her and Asherin both withdrawing their daggers and holding them out threateningly. Tristan and Kenton both stood on guard, prepared to attack who they believed had been tracking them all this time. The figure revealed herself and the group relaxed instantly. It was a pleasant-looking lady, with an oddly attractive aura about her that drew the weary travelers in. Tristan was reminded of his old, warm cabin and the smell of tasty stew simmering above the fire, or even roasted venison on the spit. Loren smiled, feeling intoxicated by this warm presence which contrasted so starkly with this dreadful, forsaken city of ruins.
“Greetings, weary ones,” she said, her voice soft and melodic. “I couldn’t help but notice your plight. Please, come and sit by my fire. I could use the company.” Tristan glanced at the others, unsure, but the promise of warmth and respite was too enticing to resist. “Come on,” she encouraged them, “I’ve got food to share as well. You all look like a hungry lot.” She smiled warmly and Tristan felt oddly attracted to this woman. He studied her face, which isn't a face he would associate with beauty. But even still, it beckoned him in and he couldn’t resist the lure.
They approached the flickering flames, where the women gestured for them to make themselves comfortable. “I am Alara, once the city sorceress of Elaria,” she explained, gazing into the dancing flames. The flames alternated between hues of blue, orange, and purple. The lady began to speak in long eloquent sentences, feeling no need for introductions or explanations as to how they had suddenly found themselves enjoying a (seemingly random) fire in the middle of this miserable city.
“Before the great battle that ravaged these ruins, I tended to the city’s needs with my magic. Sometimes with my touch…my body.” The lady smiled, peeking around the confused faces of the group. “Oh yes, I was here to please the city’s council in whatever way fit their needs and purposes. I was the city’s best kept secret.” Kenton shifted uncomfortably, his glowing scars oozing that strange black substance. The lady eyed it warily. “And now, I find myself quite alone. No bed to warm, no men to please, and most notably -- no magic to weave. My spells have fallen by the wayside, and only the dead enjoy my presence now. I’ve been…left behind,” said the lady, her words trailing off slowly.
“The battle…what happened here?” Kenton rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the stillness. Alara’s expression darkened. “King Tarren’s primary weapon is a disease that he calls The Rot. It affects the mind, killing plants and livestock, with inconsistent and devastating effects on the humans it touches.” Alara eyed Kenton’s scars. Kenton covered the scar on his leg with his hand, wishing she would remove her gaze.
Loren’s brow furrowed as she listened intently. “The Rot? I’ve heard whispers of it, but the details have been scarce, even from our own camp back home.” Tristan scowled at her, wishing for Loren not to mention that they had a camp. She didn’t know where this witch’s allegiances lied. Loren continued, heeding Tristan’s dark scowl, “What exactly does it do?”
“It does exactly what you are seeing now,” replied Alara. “Ravages the land, leaving famine and strife in its wake. The Rot steals memories, corrupts the mind…causes those it touches to forget the most important things. The Rot dwells greatly here in this city…its particles loom in the air like small little bugs.”
Asherin leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Forgotten memories? What do you mean?” The sorceress met her gaze, her eyes shining with a veiled sorrow. “I…I’m afraid I’ve forgotten much. There was someone else, I think, who was dear to me. The ruler of this city. But the Rot has stolen that memory, and I fear I may never recover it. I do not remember where I come from…I only recall a shuddering cold and gusting wind. Snow and ice…rocks. Lots of rocks. But that memory has been sealed along with much else. I am chained to this city, cursed by its dark magic.”
Tristan felt a chill run down his spine at her words. “Someone you’ve forgotten? How is that possible? And how does one forget where they were born? Where they are from?”
Alara shook her head slowly. “The Rot is an insidious disease, affecting both the body and the mind. It has taken so much from me - my home, my purpose, and even my most precious memories.” Alara’s gaze was cast low. She stared at a few stray embers that had floated harmlessly away and landed on a cold, blue stone. “But I remember extraneous details - random bits of information that may be of aid to travelling strangers such as yourselves.” Alara straightened up, smiling brightly. Tristan noticed her hair was a beautiful snow-white color. Somehow, it made her look younger. He frowned. Had it always been white, or did it just turn white when he wasn’t looking? He suddenly wasn’t sure if her eyes had been blue when they first saw her.
The group exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of her words settling over them. Tristan couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for the lonely woman. Whatever had happened in Elaria, it was clear the effects of the mysterious Rot were far worse and far more devastating than they had initially thought.