Sample Sunday: Each Dawn, I Die

The Wanderer came out of the wastes. A bullock of a man clad in matted furs of white, brown and grey. Bitter winds blustered about his feet and whipped his dark trailing hair and lengthy beard until they were lashing like aged medusa coils. Despite the bite and sting of sand and ash, his eyes remained open, permafrost jewels staring ahead through the gusts of the growing storm. Out here, beyond the northern mountains and over the grassland plains, there was little in the way of shelter. That was why few came here and that was why the Wanderer was alone.

There was a shadow out there, breaking the line of the horizon. Angular enough for him recognise it as a creation of men rather than of nature. Whatever it might be, he would have to hide within it until this storm passed on. The tales of the winds that chased one another across the Western Wastes told of bodies discovered where the flesh and muscles had been torn clean away from the bone. Though whether that was down to mere winds or something else with flesh, muscles and bones of its own, the Wanderer did wonder. Still he did not mean to wait around here and find out the truth. Where there was shelter to be had, it should be taken. He strode towards the waiting shadow without further pause.

 

It was a necropolis of some kind, hewn from stones long-buried. It seemed ancient, the upright stones were crudely cut with sigils and signs that were little more than the scars a man might make by mindlessly battering at rocks with a piece of flint. And it was that sense that the stones were less engraved, more marked and scarred, that made his old stomach turn. His own scars, hidden underneath his furs, began to itch. He took in the many stones that were leaning precariously or altogether fallen, broken and wearing away into the dust. He walked amongst them and felt a chill that seemed to ebb into him from out of the ground itself.

I should not stop here, he thought, and turned about.

And there before him was a way into the burrows and catacombs beneath where the men who had raised these stones were doubtless interred. A slab of stone barred the way. It was laid across the opening between two uprights with a third set above as a mantel. The winds were becoming very fierce, biting through his furs and into his skin. He would have to be quick.

The Wanderer went up to the stone slab, flexed his fingers, put his full weight behind it and then he pushed hard. At first, nothing. He let out a roar, spat on the obstructing stone and pushed hard once more. This time, there was a deep grinding of stone. Then, there was a cracking, a sound of sundering and the stone slab crashed down the unlit steps into the depths below.

The Wanderer followed the echoes it left behind.

 

It was a long way down, or so it seemed in such utter darkness. Mulch and lichen crunched and crumbled underneath his footsteps as he descended. His keen eyes made out rusted sconces mounted on the walls to either side, set there to light the way for bearers of the dead. All were unlit and made into nests by spiders.

As he went further and deeper, he slowed his steps, creeping on as quiet as he could. The light cast from the entrance way was little more than a pinprick, no bigger or brighter than a lone star in the heavens on a clear night. And even though his eyes were sharp, in this all-consuming penumbra, he was as near to blind as he had ever been in his life. With a swift hand, he reassured himself that his blade was still secured beneath his furs. If there was something other than himself and the sleeping dead abroad in this necropolis, he would strike it down.

It was then that he saw the light. A pale phosphorescence coming from not far below.

From where these steps must come to an end, he thought.

Keeping his breath steady, knowing he had no other way he could go, except to retreat into the howling embrace of a sandstorm, he came down to the last step and set his feet on unbroken ground. He looked around. The phosphorescence illuminated his surroundings brilliantly. Three roughly-cut tunnels ran away from him until they became dark and unlit once more. Reaching out to touch the shining stone of the walls, he saw the light was cast by a fungus grown thick in the cracks, scars and divots that were there. He could make out deeper hollows cut into the tunnel walls and the embalmed bones that they held. Here, a shattered helm. There, a rust-and-rot-pocked sword. The dead were sleeping, nothing here was stirring.

So he thought until he heard a wail that was not made by the winds of a sandstorm.

Swallowing hard, the Wanderer drew his blade out from amongst his furs and, with his free hand, he scraped handfuls of the shimmering mould from the walls and smeared them onto the metal so as to light his way. The sound had come from somewhere up ahead, deep within the unlit, farther darkness. Holding his sword angled, ready to strike, the Wanderer followed the sound into shadow.

 

Whereabouts he now stood under the shifting sands of the wastes above, the Wanderer did not know. But he did know that the chill he felt when he walked amongst the standing stones was now emanating from all around him, not just rising from the ground under his feet. He walked slow, his muscles tense, his heart fast and his breathing shallow. He could taste fear in the air as something sickly lying on his tongue. The toe of his boot struck something soft and meaty in the dark. It let out a cry, it was in the same tone as the wail he had followed.

The Wanderer stepped back and raised his sword, showing light to what lay at his booted feet. And he saw a man, what was left of him; a husk of blackening, corrupted meat that was slowly sloughing off its own withered bones. The man was dressed in the remains of scaled armour and his eyes were white globules sunk deep into his face. A tongue worked feverishly behind toothless, rotten gums, aching to speak.

The Wanderer, wary, leaned in to listen.

And the dying man told him his tale.

 

There were many more such men scattered along the length of the tunnel ahead. Soldiers, nobles, barons and even kings were there, reduced to rotten shades of what they once were. Lowing, moaning and howling, grasping at him with their fetid fingers, begging to tell their woes to the unsoiled Wanderer. He cast them off and turned them aside. The tale of the first of the dying was enough for him. Now he knew what waited for him in the dark down here.

A serpent’s smile crept across his ragged lips.

 

The hall was as he had expected when he came to it. Ruined and empty with a single long table of stone slabs dividing its centre. A crude facsimile of the Eating Hall of the Dead from old legend. Dust, cobwebs and the droppings of cemetery vermin were everywhere. He waited patiently at the nearest end of the table until the light came. It was a warm light, soft and soporific, seeping in from no place he could see. And before his eyes, the filth of the hall evaporated as if it had never been. Every inch of stone suddenly appeared polished and as smooth as once it had once been. And the table was laden with platters of spiced meat, poached fish, sweet fruits and numerous flagons of mead, ale and rice wine. The smell arising from the feast was luxurious and it made his mouth water. He reached out, plucked a ripe, red grape and popped it into his mouth. He bit through the thin skin into the cool, wet, sugary flesh beneath and smiled as he swallowed the morsel.

Delicious indeed.

 

It was some time later that she came into the hall. The Wanderer saluted her with a flagon, slopping mead down his arm and onto the floor. His belly was full to bursting. His mouth was stained and smeared from his hearty feasting; bones from chicken, pig and ox were scattered all around. He made to speak but instead emitted a drunken belch.

She moved on bare feet, making no sound, seeming to drift towards him as would a ghost. But she was no such thing. Her snow-white hair tumbled down over her samite robe and he could see that her figure was full, curved and ripe. Her eyes never wavered from his and they were coloured as the dawn, shifting often between shades of amber, violet and a clear cerulean. He felt her hands upon his furs, then she was prying beneath them, to his flesh, kneading on muscles that had not known so gentle and firm a touch in years.

She smiled at him and led him by the hand out through a doorway he had not seen before into a scented space of hanging silks and pillows that could only be her bed chamber. He imagined her continuing to smile as she turned her back on him to disrobe. He imagined she would be surprised if she saw the sober smile that he allowed to linger for a moment upon his own lips.

 

In the hours after, in that soft, exotic chamber, the Wanderer knew what it was to make love to a goddess and to be loved in turn by her. As with every man who had come here before him, he cried out as her nails raked his back, bit at his lips as she drew hot streams of his seed out with fingers, cunt, tongue and mouth until he was spent. Finally, he sighed as he lay back to drown into the soothing darkness of a dreamless sleep.

It was then, through half-lidded eyes, that he saw the change come upon her and the space in which they had fucked. He knew that the words of the dying man had been true. He watched beauty wither and recede away as summer turns to autumn and then autumn to winter. Hair rapidly thinning into torn, frayed strands. Skin mottling over and breasts shrinking in on themselves until they were sagging empty pockets of decay. Fine fingers and elegant toes that he had tasted were now little more than the straggling twigs of old, dead trees. But the eyes, they stayed the same, they never changed, those tempting eyes of dawn.

She lunged and bit down hard upon his throat, drawing in a deep draught of his blood. He lay there for long minutes, watching her through hooded eyes as she had a feast of her own. When she finally drew away, satiated for a moment, he let out a sigh and rose calmly to his feet. She recoiled with a gasp. Too used to easy and stupid prey over the centuries.

She had not disposed of his blade.

He sprang from the bleached nest that had been his true bed, shuddering at the slick feeling of treading upon the bloodied bones, flesh and faeces of those she had fed upon before. He drew the sword out of the pile she had made of his furs and belongings. She shook before him as he advanced, licking her thin lips clean of his blood, gurgling in her throat. Tears ran down her wasted cheeks as he turned and rested the shining edge of the blade against her neck.

“How can it be?” she asked, “I drained enough from you to bring a man to his knees, yet you walk as if you had not suffered a scratch.”

The Wanderer fingered the wound at his throat, feeling the broken skin there beginning to set itself back into place and the flesh beneath being remade. There would be a scar there soon, one amongst the many that criss-crossed his body. Smiling at the creature, he drew the blade away from her throat and displayed it, turning the blade from side to side. She saw how it now shone with a colour that was not colour, none she had ever seen before. It hurt her eyes and mind to look upon it. She knew it. She was old enough to remember. True sobs wracked her and she cowered away.

“That sword you carry is Baro Vane, the screaming sword, forged from the Colour that fell from out of Space. It is said to be borne by a man from whom Death’s blade turned aside. You are Khale. The one they call End-Bringer. Slayer of Worlds. The Butcher of Life itself.”

“I know my own legends,” said the Wanderer, “I spread most of them myself.”

“Spare me, Master. I did not know. I would not have fed on you if I had known who you were.”

The Wanderer approached her, knelt and took her trembling chin in his hand and raised her eyes until they met with his.

“You gave me food, drink and pleasure this night. Three things in which I have not been able to indulge for some time. Know that I thank you for it, Sister.”

He smiled and stood tall once more. Looking up at him, she began to form a smile, tears of fear began to shine instead with the light of gratitude. Her heart did not beat as fast as it had.

The Wanderer hacked off her head in one swift motion.

Her skull struck the floor with a dull, wet sound and her body fell. As he lowered the sword, the blade seemed to let out a sigh. He redressed himself, leaving the corpse to rot and become food for the rats. Returning to the hall, he found it was once more as it had been when he first entered. With her death, the magic haunting this place was now gone, undone.

As he ventured out through the tunnels, he was no longer harassed by the groping paws of the moaning dead. With her gone, they were no longer bound to the world of the living. As he passed their silent carcasses, the Wanderer wondered what it felt like. To be in such a state of death and life at the same time, rotting before your own eyes, helplessly watching her come out from that nest to gnaw on your bones and pick at the choicest remaining pieces of your flesh. Such pain, such horror, such suffering. It made the sword that he carried sing a low and sonorous song as he left behind the catacombs.

 

The storm was long past.

He ascended the steps of the necropolis and came out into the open air which he breathed in deeply. It was dawn and as the colours of the sunlight shone before his eyes, he thought of her and the dreadful transformation she could only keep at bay by feeding upon the flesh of the living. Drawing out the sword, Baro Vane, he raised it and, for a moment, saw her visage howling back at him from some space beyond and within the rune-scarred metal.

We were not so very different, he thought, you and I.

The Wanderer watched the sun rise, and he spoke a few words, a remembrance, for her.

“For each dawn, I die.”

END

Copyright © Greg James 2012

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