Baard had never been so many leagues away from Icecreek or spent so many hours on horseback. He rode Whitecap along with Elya, and although the sturdy horse could have carried them all the way to Blizzardshore, Baard often dismounted and walked, his legs apart so his sore inner thighs wouldn’t graze against each other.
Elya and Ruah rode sidesaddle and didn’t seem to suffer any discomfort. Hareth never complained either, and Baard’s admiration for him grew. He was brave and tough, and he looked like a real warrior on the back of his black stallion. Besides, he had already seen the world beyond Icecreek. Whenever Baard glanced at the sword dangling from Hareth’s belt, he believed that Diara could be saved. He was ashamed of riding an old, slow horse behind his blind sister, with an ax rather than a sword hanging at his belt. But he was determined to help Hareth as much as he could when they caught up with the soldiers.
Throughout the journey, Baard replayed the scene on Tinker’s Meadow. He berated himself for not protecting Diara, although there was nothing he could have done against three mounted soldiers even if he had been armed. Although he had a powerful swing that cut deep into an oak trunk, he doubted a soldier would stay still and wait to be hit as a trunk would. Thank the Sleeping Goddess for Hareth! He wondered whether his brave friend could conquer a Daemorc. But he hoped he would never have to find out.
Halfway to Blizzardshore, they stopped for a late lunch of bread and cheese. Ruah put an ointment on Baard’s wound, changed his bandages, and gave him a potion, which not only eased the headache but also brought relief to his irritated thighs. Only the throb in his heart remained. Whenever he thought of Diara in the hands of the soldiers, he felt as if a gauntleted fist had slammed into his stomach.
The Blizzardshore Road was wide enough for a cart, and its gray paving stones gleamed in sunlight around midday. But as shadows grew over the path in the afternoon, Ruah and Hareth began to fidget while peering over their mounts’ heads. Hareth jumped at the slightest sound, and Baard wondered whether it was because he was mentally preparing for the battle with the soldiers.
They mostly rode in silence, each with their thoughts. At times, terrible growling rolled from the woods. The horses always shied, and the riders hunched and stared around, but Baard saw nothing but hares, squirrels, wild boars, deer, and birds. Fierran often disappeared among the trees. Blood dripped from his mouth when he returned.
The woods were as deep and lush as around Icecreek, even though he had imagined them different. The temperature didn’t seem to increase, although people said it was hot in the south, but then, this was not the real south at all. In fact, they were still in the north of the realm. Esgardia was halfway down the western coast, and they would have to sail for days to reach Southern Cities.
The cliffs were as high and steep as back home, but in the late afternoon, the road started to slope, and the sea got closer.
“Not very long now,” Ruah said. “About a mile or two.”
Hareth’s sigh of relief was stronger than the hum of the sea. Baard didn’t wonder about it, though, for he was also relieved. The images of the Daemorc lifting him off the ground flashed through his mind as often as the images of the soldier bringing his mace down on his head. Besides, he was in the saddle, and his thighs seemed to be skinned; his bottom had gone asleep while his back was fully awake and aching. Whitecap’s every step shot pain up to his skull. The potion must have worn off.
Ruah kept peering ahead, as if she longed to see the first houses of Blizzardshore. A woman appeared about a hundred paces ahead, clad in a black gown, a blue cloak flapping around her ankles in the breeze. She seemed to have materialized from the woods. Having stumbled through a shaded patch, she stood in a sunny stretch of the path and faced them.
Ruah exclaimed, “That’s Garmonea!”
Fierran crashed from the woods and hurried to the old woman.
Afraid that the wolf would attack her, Baard shouted, “Fierran, no!”
Fierran kept running, though, and Baard cringed when the wolf reached her. To his surprise, Fierran hopped around her like an excited puppy and nuzzled her hand to be patted. Baard found himself gawking at the scene with his mouth wide open. Nobody but Ruah and Elya—and Al’Anark—could ever touch Fierran, not even he or Mother.
“What’s happening, Baard?” Elya asked, her voice brimming with concern. “Where is Fierran?”
“He’s with an old woman who has just come out of the woods. And he’s letting her pet him!”
Elya nodded, looking relieved.
Ruah trotted toward Garmonea and dismounted. The two women embraced so tightly that they seemed to be related. Was Ruah Garmonea’s daughter? Baard remembered his mother, and sadness clenched his heart.
“Who is that woman?” Elya asked.
“She must be great friends with Ruah, or even a relative, because they are hugging,” Baard replied. “Fierran is hopping around them as if he had gone mad. I think she’s the town’s soothsayer; she seemed to be expecting us.”
Elya nodded, showing little surprise. Ruah had the Might, and she could probably connect to those whose powers were similar. Could she communicate with Garmonea as if their minds were two swift, invisible messengers? And, if Garmonea was truly a soothsayer, had she divined what happened to Diara?
Dying for news, Baard clucked at Whitecap to walk faster. He glanced at Hareth, who stared at the woman with mistrust, chewing at his lower lip. His nerves seemed to be strung to the point of snapping.
“Welcome to Blizzardwood,” Garmonea said with a warm smile as they approached and dismounted.
She had to be ancient because her hair was nearly white. And yet her face was smooth, and although her cheeks sagged, she must have once been remarkably beautiful. She peered at Baard and Elya with enormous, soft brown eyes but only glanced at Hareth. Her eyes radiated kindness yet seemed to bore deep into Baard’s soul, just like Ruah’s. She surely knew what had happened to Diara!
“This is Garmonea,” Ruah said. “And these are—”
“What about the soldiers?” Baard blurted out. He had no time for introductions.
Ruah frowned at the interruption, but Garmonea said, “Soldiers gone. Sailed south.”
“Oh, no!” Baard groaned, although he had been expecting this.
Garmonea’s eyes glistened with sadness as she said, “Soldiers came as friends. To protect us, they said. Two days later, they took pretty maidens. Killed men who resisted.”
“Baard is hoping to catch up with them,” Ruah said. “The soldiers took his sweetheart, Diara. And he’s the only one in the realm who can see.”
Garmonea nodded as if she had already known that, but Baard raised his eyebrow. Sweetheart? Weren’t he and Diara just friends?
“He would like to hire a ship and pursue the soldiers and try to save Diara,” Ruah said. “Will you help him, Garmonea?”
Baard stared at the old woman in expectation. His heart dropped when she sighed and shook her head.
“Soldiers destroyed all ships; nobody can pursue.”
A dizzy spell nearly sent Baard to the ground. “They destroyed all the ships? Then how in the Wrathlands can I go after them? Hilts and blades! I have to save Diara!”
Everyone glared at him and Fierran growled, his hackles rising. To his horror, Baard realized he had been shouting. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his cheeks blazing with shame. “It’s just . . .” A lump of uneasiness constricted his throat. Hilts and blades! I do love Diara! And I must save her. But how?
Garmonea rubbed his back. “I understand, darling.”
Elya kneeled by Fierran and hugged him to calm him. Then she lifted her head to Garmonea. “What can we do now?”
“By sea impossible,” Garmonea replied. “Only way: cross Grimwood.”
Hareth gasped and shuddered. Elya and Ruah also looked startled. Fierran growled softly in his throat.
A sense of dread crept upon Baard. Grimwood was a long stretch of woods that spread between Blizzardshore and Esgardia. According to legends, it was an extension of the Wrathlands, a hundred miles of dry yet sinister trees and living shadows. And Daemorcs.
Grimwood was almost three times the distance from Icecreek to Blizzardshore, so it would take them three days to get there. They would have to spend two nights camping in the midst of horrors. And if they left the woods alive, they would be three days behind the soldiers.
“We have to try, anyway,” he said out loud as if they could have followed his thoughts. And perhaps some of them could. He tried to push away the memory of the Daemorc lifting him to slam him against the tree.
Hareth uttered hysterical laughter but said nothing.
Elya shrugged her thin shoulders. “If there’s no other way . . .”
Ruah looked troubled but nodded.
Only the twirling of birds broke the silence for a while. Then Elya asked, “Do you live in the town, Garmonea?”
“No, darling. The woods.”
Only now did Baard notice that Garmonea had a strange intonation as if she wasn’t from the north or that she wasn’t even from Thorstorm. And the short, choppy sentences showed that she wasn’t used to speaking to people.
“My dwelling very small,” Garmonea said apologetically. “Many creatures near now. But I spoke to innkeeper. Enough room there for all of you.”
Baard wondered whether she had thought that Elya had been asking her for accommodation. What would the old soothsayer think of them? He was so worried about Diara that he wanted to go on throughout the night, but he realized it was more sensible to spend the night in Blizzardshore.
Elya smiled and said, “You arranged accommodation in the inn? Oh, thank you, Garmonea.”
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“How did you know we would . . .?” Hareth started, but then he swallowed and fell silent, peering at Garmonea with mistrust.
Garmonea ignored him. “Come. I take you to inn.”
As she turned toward Blizzardshore, Ruah asked her, “Will you stay in town, exceptionally, tonight? We have so much to talk about! And we should do a rite to find out what is happening with the girls.”
Garmonea smiled and nodded. “Woods too dark for me anyway now. I wouldn’t find dwelling. We must reach town by sunset. Darkness bad. Many creatures around. Come. Come.”
Garmonea started to walk, surprisingly fast for a white-haired woman, and the others had to hurry to keep up. Ruah ran a few steps so she could walk beside her. Elya walked on Baard’s right, holding Fierran by the hackles on the back of his neck, while Baard led Whitecap. Hareth hurried to catch up with them; he kept glancing around.
The path sloped more sharply and the sea grew nearer. Blizzardshore spread below them, a wide, lush valley lanced with wide streets and dotted with two or three-story buildings, and a large port with a towering lighthouse on an elevated platform.
“Blizzardshore is in sight,” Baard told Elya. “And it’s enormous. It must be at least five times as big as Icecreek. Perhaps it has a thousand inhabitants! Many of the houses are made of stone, and they have shingles instead of thatch!”
Hareth must have seen the town as a blurry smudge from that far. But as he had visited it many times with his father, and as their inn was stone and shingled, he smiled and shook his head at Baard’s awe.
As they descended the valley, Baard noticed that a few houses were charred and blackened, just like the piers at the port. Some ships had burned to black skeletons that swayed eerily on the saltwater that hadn’t saved them from the flames. Others tilted as if they had been scuttled. Sails hung limply from broken masts the way loose clothes would hang from scarecrows. The smell of smoke and tar permeated the air.
Along the edge of the valley, about two dozen men dug holes. Some broke the ground with pickaxes while others stood in the holes and shoveled out the dirt. Several holes were so deep that only the diggers’ heads and shoulders stuck out. A large group of women and children watched them in solemn silence.
“They make graves,” Garmonea said.
“For those who were killed by the soldiers?” Elya asked.
Garmonea nodded. “Graves must very, very deep. Against Gravelackers. They near now. Very near. Corpses hidden in cellars before funeral.”
Baard remembered what he had heard about Gravelackers from legends and stories. They rotted wherever they died in the First Wrathlord War, but their souls were subject to the Wrathlords who had killed them, and who could raise them at their will. Even an ancient king of eastern Thorstorm—Baard thought he was called Aklan—was said to have been killed by a Wrathlord and become one of the living dead. He had always thought Gravelackers were just legends. But he had thought the same about Daemorcs.
Garmonea frowned and said, “Gravelackers smell death. Very near.”
They walked toward the bottom of the valley. The breeze made the last trees of the forest sway and whisper, and the sea hummed and murmured. Large waves rushed toward the beach as if they wanted to flood the valley. A low wall of clouds hung above the sea, threatening an early sunset. Baard hoped the next day would be sunny so Hareth wouldn’t go blind in Grimwood, and Ruah could return safely to Icecreek.
As they got closer yet, the grave diggers stopped to peer at them, but then they murmured Garmonea’s name and kept digging and shoveling. Some of them also seemed to recognize Ruah.
Passing by the nearest grave, Elya gasped and turned her head toward two diggers. Baard looked that way just as a man lifted a pickax above his head. The tool’s iron head got loose, flew off the handle, spun in the air—and whizzed straight at a scrawny man who shoveled behind him. The head’s sharp end bored into the man’s forehead. Baard could have sworn he had heard the skull break; the sound bored into his spine like a dagger.
The scrawny man dropped, and Baard ran toward him. The pickax head had slid out as he had fallen, leaving a dreadful hole in his forehead. Blood ran over his face, but the man was still alive and screeched like a wounded animal.
“Take him to inn!” Garmonea commanded. “But carefully.”
Two men grabbed the wounded man by his wrists and ankles and carried him into town. Many of the onlookers followed.
Garmonea rushed after them, the Icecreekers at her heels. As they neared the houses, Ruah shuddered and turned around toward the woods they had come from. Baard turned his head and followed her gaze just as a large group of people barreled from the woods. Although they staggered, they moved as swiftly as if they were gliding. Filthy, tattered rags hung from their skeletal bodies and fluttered in the breeze.
Baard thought they were drunken, emaciated outlaws. But a second look told him they were not human at all.
“W-who are those?” he asked, his voice trembling. But he feared he already knew. An icy drop of sweat ran down his temple.
A dreadful, hollow groan came from the strange group.
Ruah screeched, “Gravelackers!”
At hearing that word, everybody started screaming and yelling.
“Run to the inn!” Ruah shouted, taking Elya’s hand and dragging her forward. “Take refuge!”
Everybody ran, but Baard couldn’t move. He stared at the creatures in horror mixed with fascination. They shuffled on wobbly legs, their shoulders twisted and sloped, and yet they were approaching incredibly fast. Too fast. He could already see the black circles under their lifeless eyes. Some of them had only two holes instead of noses, and gnawed-away lips that showed protruding teeth. They displayed terrible wounds from the Wrathlords’ swords: missing limbs and torn bellies with their innards trailing behind them. Dirt and dead leaves covered the rags that had once been their clothes.
Whitecap tossed her head and screamed beside him, breaking his trance. Hareth had abandoned his stallion and trotted toward the town, catching up with Garmonea just as she reached the first house of Blizzardshore. A few paces behind them, Ruah led her horse by the bridle and Elya by the hand. The growling Fierran flanked Elya from the other side.
Elya turned her head and screamed. “Baard?”
“I’m coming!” Baard shouted. Whitecap tossed her head and reared, but he yanked down on the rein to make her walk.
The path widened as they entered the town. People poured into the inn, a towering building behind the first crossroads, three stories high and nearly three times bigger than Corwyn Crown in Icecreek. Baard looked back at the Gravelackers, which had already reached the empty graves. They groaned as they passed the bloodied pickax. And they staggered on toward the town.
Hareth had already disappeared inside the inn, but Garmonea stood at the door.
“There still time,” she said. “Stable horses. I take Elya in.”
Garmonea took Elya by the hand and ushered her inside the inn, with Fierran at their heels. Ruah and Baard led their horses into the inn’s stables, and Hareth’s stallion darted in moments later. Baard barred the stables’ door and they rushed toward the inn.
As they neared the entrance, Baard glanced over his shoulder. “They’ve just entered the town.”
Ruah cursed under her breath and pushed at the door. It was already barred.
“Open up,” she shouted, giving the door a hard knock.
For a sick moment, Baard feared they would be left outside, prey to the Gravelackers. Then the door opened to let them in. Just before Baard closed it behind him, he took one more look at the Gravelackers.
They moved as one body, like a shoal of fish in the creek, or like a herd of deer in a meadow. Wherever the first one went, the others followed. And the first one headed for the inn.
Baard slammed the door shut and lowered the bar. He looked around and realized they were in the common room, which was much bigger than the one in Icecreek, yet similar, with torches blazing in sconces on stone walls, and with long tables and benches stretching around. People stood among the tables, holding their children in their arms and murmuring in agitated voices. The windows were shuttered but the walls were freshly whitewashed, and a bonfire blazed in each corner to help people see. And yet, everyone squinted and peered as if the fires were nothing but glowing embers.
The wounded man lay on a table near the door, still as a log; Garmonea was just closing his eyes. Ruah and Baard walked to Hareth, Elya, and Fierran who stood by Garmonea, and Baard squeezed Elya’s hand. She turned her head to him and gave him an uneasy smile.
Garmonea said, “Wrathlord’s curse awaken Gravelackers. They roaming woods for days, growling. Battle drew them nearer yet.” She pointed at the corpse. “They smell blood. Come to feast.”
As if in answer, a terrible blow rattled a nearby window shutter. Blows also battered the door, which shook and budged so much Baard feared it would soon splinter. People screamed in panic. The children wailed.
Dread clenched Baard’s throat. He looked at Hareth, hoping he would act. But his friend and hero only trembled. Fierran growled, his hackles bristling, his yellow eyes darting from Elya to the windows as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay and protect her or rush and attack the Gravelackers. Elya hunched her back and tilted her head, listening to the blows, but she looked much more composed than most people. Definitely more than Hareth.
The Gravelackers ripped the shutters off the hinges and tried to crawl through the windows. The windows were large, but so many undead strived to get in at the same time they got jammed, and they growled in fury.
The people screamed and backed away from the windows, tripping over each other in panic. Half-blind, they were helpless and out of their wits with fear. Baard noticed that many wore bloodied bandages, likely over injuries from workshops or from the battle with the soldiers. If the Gravelackers broke in, they would probably go after the wounded as well as after the corpse. And they would attack anyone who got scratched during the melee.
People stumbled toward the stairway, pushing and shoving just like the Gravelackers. Remembering his bandaged head, Baard wanted to join them and elbow his way upstairs to hide in one of the chambers. The next moment, the cowardly impulse shamed him so much that he wanted to punch himself. He was the only person who could save the people. And he had to act.
“I will be right back, sister,” he told Elya as he let go of her hand.
A startled look spread over her face, but she nodded.
He bent for the dead man and hoisted him over his shoulder. Luckily, the man was slender, and not even death had rendered him too heavy. Baard was about to desecrate the man’s corpse. But if he didn’t, corpses would cover the floor of the inn from one end to the other. And the Gravelackers would have their feast.
“Unbar the door!” he yelled, bringing the dead man forward.
He yanked his ax from the iron loop on his belt and hefted it. Although he was dying of fear, other feelings surged through him. Thrill, pride, and excitement made his whole body tremble.
A plump woman stood beside the door. After a short hesitation, she lifted the bar.
“Open it!” Baard shouted. He sounded hysterical, but he didn’t care.
The woman opened the door ajar so he could squeeze himself out. Dozens of Gravelackers groaned and lifted their hands, clawing at the corpse. The stench of rot punched his nostrils. The door slammed shut, hitting his back.
Baard roared as he swung his ax left and right. To his relief, the Gravelackers fell like young trees. As they dropped, they dragged down the others, and he advanced through the groaning herd as if he would through a thicket. He stepped on them and kicked at them as they tried to get up or grab his leg. Although he thought he heard himself groan continuously, just like they did, he felt strangely detached as he fought his way through.
They tried to pull the corpse off his shoulder, but he held onto it firmly. Ice-cold hands grabbed his limbs, and he screamed as he yanked them free. Turning around, he slashed at the monsters and shouldered them out of his way. Relief made his head spin as he made it through the herd. But the Gravelackers hurried after him.
Baard wished he could get Whitecap, but the Gravelackers would surround him again even before he opened the stable door. And if they killed the mare, he would spend a week walking through Grimwood to reach Esgardia.
He turned to swing his ax at a monster who clutched the corpse’s ankle, and then he rushed toward the graves. When he looked over his shoulder, the Gravelackers were following him, a huge mob of staggering undead. He was almost certain that none of them had stayed behind in Blizzardshore.
Baard passed the graves and kept rushing toward Blizzardwood. The dead man got heavy; the shadows grew as he entered the forest. The eerie groaning got closer, growing all the more sinister because of the dark. Baard shuddered when he realized he was in the Gravelackers’ territory. There could be many more staggering through the gloom.
It took all his will to keep walking, but at last, exhaustion sent him to his knees. He tilted sideways, and the corpse rolled off his shoulder. For a second, Baard felt so light he thought he would levitate.
A Gravelacker snarled two paces behind him. Baard screamed and crawled away from the corpse. The Gravelackers got closer. They would be on him before he could get up. If he had gotten injured on the way here, or if the dead man’s blood had stained him, the Gravelackers would go after him. His hand shot up to his bandaged head. Had the blood dried enough? Would Ruah’s poultice overcome its scent?
To his relief, the Gravelackers ignored him. They fell to their knees around the corpse like worshipers around a toppled statue of the Goddess Aganope. And they started to gorge. They tore at the corpse with their teeth like wolves, pushing and biting each other, and snapping their large, rotten teeth with fury.
The ones who came later tried to push and elbow their way to the corpse. Nobody even glanced Baard’s way. There were way too many for them to feast on a single corpse, and they fought and pushed blindly, driven wild by the smell of blood. Those who had been at the back of the herd tried to crawl over the backs of those who surrounded the corpse. The others lashed at them and tried to shove them off.
Baard got to his shaky feet. His stomach cartwheeled and he vomited. Breathing hard through his mouth to make his stomach settle, he circumvented the feasting horde and staggered back the way he had come, hoping that the Gravelackers wouldn’t find their way back to town. The smacking of lips and the sounds of tearing flesh and crunching of bones followed him all the way to Blizzardshore.