Vars sprinted through the thundering rain. He could barely see in the failing light, the road dangerously uneven beneath his feet. He kept his eyes down, focusing on each step, but by now the path ahead was little more than suggestions of shadows. He knew the village had to be ahead, but whenever he looked up, there was only darkness. The rain had started too early for anyone to put out lights, and by now every window would be shuttered and barred.

He continued anyway, glancing back every time his foot hit a puddle, his frantic mind imagining an echoing step just behind his.

He glanced up, and for a moment he saw a flicker of light. He blinked, unsure, then he saw it again. For an instant, golden light shone from a half open shutter, four dark figures huddled around the sliver, their arms wedged into the slit, forcing it open. Vars’ heart leaped into his throat as the light flared, a torch thrust into the opening, the figures briefly properly lit even as they recoiled from the heat.

They were almost people. There were faces, hands, cobbled together from whatever detritus lay scattered about. Skins of leaves were pierced by bones of wood, branches and even tool handles projecting out the misshapen forms. The light was gone a moment later as the shutter slammed closed again, but already Vars was close enough to hear the now invisible forms as they resumed their assault.

Blissfully, the rain was loud enough to drown out whatever they screamed at those empty shutters.

For now, he continued to run into the village. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom again, he could just make out forms all through town, clawing at doors, pulling at windows. Every one of them was screaming, howling, a horrible gurgling sound mangled by throats of grass and thatch, all the worse that it was not senseless.

“She knows!” Howled one figure at Albricht’s smithy, his voice a warped mockery of the owner’s. “She’s always known! They all know! The only reason they don’t hang you from the nearest tree is they need you! Every day you buy your life with horseshoes and nails, but one day, one day they won’t need you anymore. They’ll settle with you then! It’s just a matter of time!”

Vars only realized he’d stopped when the figure whipped around to look at him. There was just enough light to see a wicked grin split that facsimile of his mentor’s face, and it lunged for him, fingers of twig and nail seizing him with surprising strength. “Vars! Just the face I wanted to see!”

All at once he tried to get away, pulling, scratching, but his fingers sank through the leaves, into the churning, living rain beneath. He felt his feet sliding at the soil as he was dragged to the door, then slammed roughly against the wood. That gravel and refuse face leaned close enough for him to see every line of savage pleasure etched in that visage.

“Look at you!” he growled at the door. “Holed up in your shop like a mouse! Won’t even come out to save your own apprentice, but then father was always right about you, wasn’t he?”

Vars glanced about frantically, trying to find anything he could to escape, but there was nothing. At once the fingers closed around his neck harder.

“Don’t believe me? Go on, boy, speak up!” It roared in a slorping chortle. “Let him hear that lovely voice.”

“Please,” he managed, hating himself for it. “Help me!”

“Damnation,” came the growl from behind the door. “He’s not part of this!”

“What part hurts more?” The usurper shot back. “That you won’t help, or that you know you’d use him just like me!”

The door flew open, and for an instant Vars was blinded. There was a snarl and he was tossed aside as the figure dove inside with a feral intensity. He slammed into the muddy road as he heard the first crashes of combat from within. He picked himself up just in time to see Albricht lay out the usurper with a meaty fist, the figure slouching and melting back as it lost its grip on its improvised bones. “Vars!” he shouted, beckoning him out of the rain.

As Vars began to move, however, the usurper threw itself against the door, slamming it shut in his face. He pulled at the latch even as the sounds of battle resumed, but it had fallen locked. He pounded on the door for a moment, only for the wood to not even so much as budge.

All at once he became aware of the sounds of banging and howling again. None of the figures had as yet turned to look at the disturbance, but he realized with a seize in his heart that any one of them could repeat the scene that had just passed. How close could he come before they would abandon their obsessive assault for a chance at a bargaining chip?

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

He took one last, bitter look at the smithy, still clattering with the sounds of battle, and retreated down the road. He avoided the houses and the raging, howling forms, even as he saw familiar silhouettes and heard familiar names. He ran towards the docks, following the crash of the surf even in darkness. It was getting so dark, he could barely make out the crash of waves against the pier as he arrived. It was madness, what he was going to try, but the sea was his only salvation now. For whatever reason, the usurpers couldn’t stand the brackish water.

By now he was moving as much by touch as by sight, groping his way along rough, slick wood. His fingers found an overturned dinghy, and he started to drag it across the shore towards the water. Out here, this close to the spraying surf, the town was abandoned. There was no shelter here, nor souls to assault. There was only the roar of the sea to his front, and the roar of the mob to his back. He pushed forward, soil turning to sand as he neared the waves. A large one raced inwards, invisible until it seized the boat and heaved it up, nearly clubbing him under the chin as it thrust up suddenly, instead heaving off his feet as he tried to keep his grip. The wave set it back on the sand as he scrambled inside, just managing to fall in as another wave picked it up, and dragged it out onto the open water.

He clutched the sides as the boat heaved and rocked, but after a moment he managed to lift himself up enough to look over the rim. Lightning flashed, and for a moment, his blood froze as he spotted a lone figure on the pier. There was only one usurper that would have dared come so close to the surf for him. If there was any doubt at all, the scream that pierced the night afterward left no doubt.

He had escaped.

There was a brief, instant moment of exultation, a wave of almost crippling relief. He slumped boneless to the bottom of the boat, and just lay there, even starting to laugh. It was only after a spray of water over the lip of the boat set him to coughing that he set himself back upright, taking stock of his situation. Already, rain was pooling in the boat and he cursed the lack of a bucket. He started trying to scoop the water out with his hands, but it did little good. While a part of him realized we was probably in almost just as much danger as when he’d started, there was something slightly more comforting about dying to drowning than to the hands of your own embittered self.

He scooped harder and harder, even as his arms began to burn, but even so he began to lose ground. The waves lapped higher at the edge by the moment, and he realized he would get swamped well before the rain sank him on its own. At last, he remembered something he’d seen once, and with a desperate heave, he flipped the boat over deliberately.

The water clutched him like an icy fist. He struggled to pull himself up towards the boat, only now considering how tired his arms had become. He burst free into a pocket of air within the overturned boat, slamming his head painfully enough that he almost lost his grip. He scrambled to pull himself more fully inside, finally managing to wedge himself awkwardly between the floor and the plank that served as a seat. Even still, his feet dangled into the cold ocean, but there was nowhere to wedge them as well. As the cold continued to seep further towards his bones. He realized he had done nothing at all to improve his situation. Worse, alone in his dark prison, he had nothing to do but think.

What would his usurper do, now that he’d escaped? What would he do, if the one person he hated most in the world had escaped? Slowly, what little drags of happiness he still held crumbled away as dark fantasies played through his brain. Would he help breach the homes of friends and acquaintances? Would he wander by as they fought for their lives, mockingly shouting every secret and judgment he’d held against them? Would he…

The bottom fell out of his stomach as he thought of Charlotte. If he couldn’t kill himself, he’d kill her. And if he couldn’t do that, he’d make sure he’d wish he had. He nearly lost his grip on the boat as a fresh wave of despair hit him.

He should have stayed and fought it. Damnation, it would have been better even if he’d stayed and died to it.

He felt his grip beginning to slip, but at this point he didn’t even care. He hadn’t won a thing. He’d run off like a wild animal just to drown himself in the sea like a dumb one. If he died, would his usurper stop? Would it simply melt into rain and leaves again, purposeless?

The thought brought him some small comfort as he finally slid into the water. He barely had the energy anymore to panic as water filled his lungs, that last desperate flash of panic barely stirring him. He was so cold, so tired. The usurper was right to hate him.

His last thought, as darkness closed in, and the glowing eyes of sea creatures passed close, was at least he might make a good meal. Pain punched through the back of his neck, and all came to an end.

----------------------------------------

The warygold couldn’t believe its luck. A lone human, hurled out to sea in a storm, in the midst of the very phenomena itself? It was a gift already wrapped and sealed. No questions would be asked, and even if they were, what would they say? That it had snatched a corpse a minute too early? No, there would be no issues with this theft.

It swam up quickly and inserted the preservation apparatus at the base of the neck with a sharp thrust. Motors whirred to life as the brain was flooded with oxygen, nutrients, and anesthetics. There might be some tissue necrosis through the rest of the body, but that was a passing concern. At a minimum the Shaper would want to remodel it anyway, so if a few organs died it made no real difference.

Humming happily to itself, the warygold set course for the edge of the world.