Not all is grim; a friend in need
The slope to madness is long indeed.
“Wakey, wakey!”
He awoke with a start, and a shock of pain which screamed at him, disappointingly, that he was still alive. Gasping and blinking water out of his eyes, Flint tried to focus.
The first thing that materialised, unfortunately, was the face of yet another Bladeshifter.
But it was still not Eltorian Nightwalker.
It wasn't his sister, either.
Gods! Flint thought, gritting his teeth. A terrible burning sensation bloomed throughout his entire body, as though the flames still licked at him. Am I in some kind of hell? Is every damned Bladeshifter gonna have a go at killin' me? What'd I do to deserve this?!
A huge, hairy hand reached out and grabbed him by the collar. Pulling him up into a sitting position, it shoved him roughly against something... soft.
And then, improbably, handed him a cup of cold tea.
Flint took it in bewilderment.
“Gah!” a deep, rough voice said. “Got a bit burned up, eh?”
Flint looked up into the grinning, red-bearded, slightly alarming face of Bloodmoon Grim.
He tried to speak, but his voice came out instead in a hacking cough that made his head swirl with pain.
“Steady, there!” the big man said, righting Flint on the pillows. “Drink yer damned tea, before yer spills it!”
Flint obeyed with a trembling hand, swallowing reluctantly, but the tea was sweet, and surprisingly cool and soothing as it slid down his scorched throat. As he did so, he noticed that his hand was bandaged; only the tips of the fingers protruded, and those were an alarming shade of red.
Looking down at himself, he saw that his other hand was similarly bound, and his clothes were not his own. He wore a loose beige tunic and brown cotton trousers, reminding him of the clothes he had worn when younger, working on the farm. Lifting a hand, he gingerly touched his face. Something sticky came off on his fingers, and there appeared to be a poultice of some sort growing from the side of his face, like a parasite.
“Fixed yer up,” Grim explained, gesturing to Flint. “Me folks were healers. Good'uns, too! Learnt a few tricks!” He took a gulp of his own tea. “But ya ain't so pretty, now.”
Swallowing another mouthful, Flint found his voice. “Never,” he rasped, “never was pretty.”
“Then yer won't notice the difference!” Grim let out a boom of laughter. “But yer might wanna stay outta the sun!” Reaching behind him, the Bladeshifter produced a familiar piece of floppy headwear, which he shoved onto Flint's head.
Flint took the hat off and stared at it. A large portion of the brim was burned away, and an even larger part was blackened.
But it was still, unmistakably, his hat.
He settled it back on his head, smiling a little.
“Saved this little buddy for ya, too!” Grim patted the Justifier, which sat on the table beside him.
The giant crossbow was slightly scorched, and would need a new string, but otherwise looked remarkably intact.
Flint felt a strange sense of unreality. He was sure he had died in the flames, had felt them reaching for him with bright, terrible fingers. How could he possibly be sitting here, drinking tea? Had Grim rescued him at the last moment? Why??
He looked around himself, dazed. He was in a small, quaint-looking kitchen, of a farm cottage. The walls were made of the same white stone as the buildings of Forthwhite, so he supposed that he
He looked around himself, dazed. He was in a small, quaint-looking kitchen, of a farm cottage. The walls were made of the same white stone as the buildings of Forthwhite, so he supposed that he was still close to the town. Shelves and cabinets held cooking implements, food, and other miscellaneous knick knacks, and a colourful woven rug covered the floor. He was propped up on a couch beside a window of diamond-paned glass. Two other windows on the other side of the room, behind Grim, let in slanting streams of sunlight. There was a lazy, deep hue to the light, like late afternoon.
Flint shook his head. “Why?” he whispered hoarsely. “Why'd you… save me?”
Grim reached across and slapped Flint hard on the back. It was a good thing that Flint had drunk most of his tea. “Cause you're me drinkin' buddy!” the huge man replied cheerfully. “Do I need a better reason'n that?”
If Flint was renowned for anything within the Bladeshifters, it wasn't his crossbow skills. It was the fact he'd been the only one stupid enough to have a drink with Bloodmoon Grim.
It had started off as a joke, of course. The others had forced him into a drinking contest, when he'd first joined, seeking to make a fool of the newcomer. They succeeded. Flint had wanted to show them up, so he had stubbornly continued to take up Grim's offer, wherever they were, whenever he asked. Flint had ended up unconscious on the floor, every time, but eventually earned some respect from the Bladeshifters.
And gained a friend in Grim, it seemed.
Flint looked at him dubiously. “How'd you even know... I was there? Darkstar said... you all left.”
“Ha!” Grim slapped his knee. “We did! Re-grouped out east, on the plains. When Nightwalker turned up, he threw a hissy fit when he saw how many of us were missin'. Only six of us left. Was even more foul when he saw that Darkstar weren't amongst us. She's one of 'is favourites.
“Started cursin' and callin' us all cowards, accusin' us of leavin' the others behind.” Grim rolled his black eyes. “Like he didn't run like the rest'o us when the Dragon showed up!”
He snorted. “So I told 'im not to get his girly knickers bunched up his arse: I'd go back an' look for Darkstar. Even though she an' the rest were prob'ly et by the Dragon!
“Anyway. Got back to the town to see the girl draggin' your sorry backside across the grass, all by her little self. Stood there watchin', I did, at the bottom of the hill. Amused. Wondered what the hell she was doin'.
“Saw her haul you inter the barn, so I strolled on over an' waited outside. Took awhile. Sun was up by the time I heard talkin'.
“Ha!” Grim slapped his knee again. “Never knew she was yer sister!” He guffawed loudly.
Flint scowled. “Makes two of us,” he mumbled, and broke out into another fit of hacking coughs.
Grim regained control of himself before Flint did, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. “Then she came outta the barn and scurried away, like a wee mouse. Started to follow her, then saw that the barn was on fire.”
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Grim shrugged. “So I shoved me way in there and cut the pole down with me axe and dragged yer half-burnt arse outta there!”
He chuckled again, his strange black eyes glinting as though he'd never had so much fun in his life.
Flint stared at him, feeling sure – not for the first time – that Bloodmoon Grim was more than slightly mad.
But then, he considered, all of the Bladeshifters were. It was sort of a requirement.
“Darkstar,” Flint coughed. “She said… that the Bladeshifters… don't care about nothin'...”
Grim snorted. “Bollocks. Everyone cares 'bout sommin'. Even if they dunno what it is!”
Yeah, Flint thought gloomily, staring down at his bandaged hands. Darkstar cares a lot about herself…
“That reminds me!” Grim went on. “Haven't even raided the taverns, yet!”
Flint eyed him.
“Yer don't think I came all the way back 'ere just for that little witch, eh?” The Bladeshifter grinned through his thick crimson beard. “Think'o all that beer, goin' ter waste!”
Flint frowned. “Grim,” he said, “there's a freakin' Dragon out there!”
Grim's already large eyes went even wider. “Ho!” he exclaimed. “HO! It's better than that!” He rose to his feet, filling most of the room. “Come look! Come look!”
Flint didn't have much of a choice about it. Grim grabbed him by his collar again and set him on his feet. Flint stumbled, gasping in pain, grabbing the edge of the table for support, but the big Bladeshifter was already moving out of the room, ducking to fit through the doorway.
Grimacing, Flint pulled his crossbow off the table and limped after.
“C'mon!” Grim urged as Flint made his slow, painful way down the short, shadowy corridor to the main door. He felt ominously sick. If Grim was excited about something, it couldn't be good.
Is he gonna show me Darkstar's burnt and half-eaten corpse, he thought morbidly, or what?
“C'mon!” Grim beckoned him impatiently, stepping outside.
Flint hobbled after him, across the threshold and onto the dry grass of the yard. The sun was low in the west, almost obscuring the faint, distant outline of the Barlakks, but its warmth and orange glow was an uncomfortable reminder of his experience in the barn, making his burned skin itch and sting with greater intensity. He stopped beside Grim, who was standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at the town.
He lifted his head, looking up as well.
And all the blood in his body seemed to leave in a rush.
On top of the hill was the most horrifying thing that Flint had ever seen.
A black shadow had claimed the summit of Forthwhite, spreading outwards as though staining the very air. It was hard to tell what it was, exactly, but it writhed. Huge, black tentacles curled languidly amidst roiling smoke. The trees were gone. The fire was gone. The Guard House was gone. The uppermost buildings were gone. The shadow seemed to seep inexorably downwards through the town, tendrils of oily smoke probing, searching…
But within the inky blackness was something. A hint of decaying scales. A glimpse of a skeletal wing.
The outline of an enormous, horned head, teeth like swords, eyes gaping pits of nothing…
“G-grim,” Flint stammered. “We need to get the hell outta here.” He swallowed thickly against his ravaged throat. “N-now.”
“An' leave all the beer?” Grim scoffed. “Nah!”
Flint found himself backing away, as though his feet had a mind of their own. An image of Arzath ripping the black dagger out of Requar's chest flashed horribly through his mind: black tendrils whipping out of it, piercing the sorcerer's hands, and his subsequent, wretched decline into a wraith; Requar's body lying on the bed, tentacles bursting out of his chest as though a monster were growing within him; Flint shooting him with the Justifier over and over again…
Flint's head spun. He felt as though he was about to vomit.
“Grim,” he said weakly, “we gotta go. That thing is...” He couldn't bring himself to say the words, and knew that the Bladeshifter wouldn't understand them even if he did.
But his mind screamed them.
It's a TRIGONIC DRAGON!
“Impressive, eh?” But his grin faded when he saw Flint's expression. “Aww,” he said, disappointed. “You gonna run away, too?”
Flint shook his head. “C-can't stay,” he replied. “No beer is worth this...” He took a deep breath, and found himself coughing violently again.
Grim scowled. “You ain't never refused a drink before...”
“Got to,” Flint wheezed. “Got to, this time...”
Grim looked angry. Flint almost thought the man was going to attack him. He glowered, his long red beard fiery in the light of the setting sun, his black hair like a charred mess of brambles framing his scarred face, the horror on the hill an abominable backdrop behind him.
Then his face fell, like a Dragon dropping from the sky. “Ah, bah!” he said, waving a hand. “Take Whitey, then!”
Flint looked around, and found there was a horse behind him. He wasn't sure if it was Grim's horse, or one he'd stolen, or one he'd simply given a name to, but Flint didn't care.
It was a horse, and it was going to get him the hell away from this town.
As far away as he could get.
He turned and hobbled as fast as he could towards it.
Despite its name, the horse was black, with grey patches, and a splash of white across its nose. It was sturdy and strong-looking, with shaggy forelocks; a working animal, not built for speed, but it hardly mattered.
Flint slung his Justifier on his back, buckling it securely, along with his quiver. Then he mounted, taking up the reins.
He hesitated. “Grim!” he called. “You ain't comin'?”
The big Bladeshifter watched him, and waved a hand again. “Nah! Off with ye!” Then a wide grin crossed his face. “More booze fer me, then!” He laughed.
Mad, Flint thought. Totally mad.
“Uh,” he said. “Thanks, Grim. See yer round.”
Bloodmoon Grim raised a large hand. “See ya, Flint!” he replied.
Spurring the horse into a gallop, Flint left the farm, not daring to look back.
* * *
Red dust swirled through the camp, like lost ghosts searching for a way off the Isle. A strong breeze gusted in from the sea, rattling the debris, banging wooden beams against each other, and setting tents flapping and fluttering like torn wings. Something newly red and wet trailed across a piece of canvas. Words were sprawled there, billowing in the wind as though straining to free themselves, large and stark:
KILL YOU DREIKAN.
Behind the words, in a corner inside the tent, with the glow of the dying sun lighting up the restless wall, silhouetting her message to the General, Carmine shivered.
She sat with her knees pressed against her chest, arms wrapped around them and her chin resting on her sleeve. She bit her lip hard, trying to stop it from quivering. Her crimson hair fell about her face in tangled, filthy strands, across eyes sore and itchy from lack of sleep. Her head felt light and achey, her stomach tight and hollow.
And her hands, clenched into fists, were stained red.
It was the paint she had mixed up from red dirt and seawater, but sometimes, she truly believed it was blood, and found herself screaming. Then she was forced to run and hide in panic, in case Dreikan had heard her.
But she heard him screaming too, occasionally.
She was sure that he suffered the same nightmares, the same delusions, the same paranoia. The same lust to kill. Sometimes, she caught him talking to himself, having nonsensical conversations with people who did not exist, or with her, when he was more lucid. Sometimes, he would laugh suddenly, alarmingly close by, causing Carmine to choke on her own breath.
At first, he had kept to the command tent, ignoring her efforts to rile him up – or pretending to. But lately, he ventured out more often, stalking the camp, mostly at night, perhaps in order to catch her sleeping.
But so far, she had eluded him.
She had graffitied the entire camp – including the command tent – with slogans, on every surface she could find: taunting him, mocking him, insulting, threatening. Any words she could think of to jab at his consciousness. Now and then a rainshower passed over, and she was forced to painstakingly redo all her work.
She played other tricks on him, too. Scavenging food and water from around the camp, she had piled it all into one tent in the middle of the camp, then left a note for Dreikan telling him that it was poisoned.
It wasn't: but he had no way of knowing that.
She'd kept a careful eye on the tent to see what he would do, but she'd seen him go in there only once, and then back out again.
He hadn't been near it since.
Carmine had also discovered the decapitated body of the fishermen washed up against the docks, along with the wreckage of his fishing boat.
At some point, Dreikan would have returned to his command tent to find a nice bloated head as a present, sitting on the table.
Any opportunity to remind Dreikan that she was still there.
Still alive.
And still wanted to kill him.
Of course, the General tried to use her own tactics against her, shooting out verbal barbs of his own as he wandered idly about the camp, pretending he was not in search of her. But this only served to prove to Carmine that her plan was working; the more hateful his remarks, the more he revealed his own weakness.
Dreikan sought to crush her with blunt force, emotional or physical, but Carmine was slowly undoing him, strand by strand, day by day.
It was easier than she had anticipated, but she supposed that Dreikan's sanity had already slipped off a precipice some time ago: perhaps even before the attack on the Dragon.
But she wasn't immune. Though she steadfastly hardened her insides with a cold layer until they were as impenetrable as the black armour she wore under her long coat, she knew that with every strike against Dreikan, a little of herself chipped off and fell away as well...
And things occasionally wormed their way up through those cracks: Fear. Blind anger. Horror. Grief. All threatened to pull her down the slick, dark slope after Dreikan.
She felt that she was already close to the edge.
But she wasn't done with him, yet.
The glow on the side of the tent had faded. The air inside was musty and warm, but pierced through with a cold draught that smelled of the sea and the stench of decay. Shifting position, Carmine took up something pale that lay on the floor beside her, and stared at it.
It was a crude thing that she had fashioned out of shredded pillowcases stitched together. It wouldn't fool any sane person.
Gripping it tightly, she crawled out of her hiding spot behind a broken table, and stood at the half-collapsed entrance to the tent.
Then she carefully set the wig on her head.
Tonight, in the darkness, I am a ghost.