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Chapter 57. The Song |
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og? Can you hear me?” With some effort he pried open his crusted eyes and blinked until the smears of light and color around him resolved into the shape of Lemony sitting at his bedside. Through the soporific haze of amuridan he tried to make sense of his surroundings, vaguely remembering the last time he had seen her and how her visits inevitably ended in tears. “Hello Lemmy,” he managed, fighting the overwhelming urge to go back to sleep. He no longer resisted when the potent green elixir was set before him each morning. Ama had made it abundantly clear that he would be rendered powerless one way or another. Amuridan was the least painful option with the added benefit that his constant stupor made him less appealing to Josef as a subject of study and torment. “Poor thing,” she murmured, stroking his jaw gently. He fought to remain focused and awake, knowing it was important to her that he was present to some degree, “Are you well, my friend?” “Yes,” he slurred, embarrassed that it was an effort merely to move his lips. “I miss you so much,” she said, emotion causing her voice to quaver, “I wish we were home again sitting around the bonfire at night. Do you remember the songs and dancing?” “Aye,” he whispered even though it seemed centuries had passed since those happy times. “Remember my favorite song? The happy one about Maragor? I always think of you as my Maragor.” He grunted acknowledgment, the narcotic haze settling over his mind again. He no longer remembered how long he had been a captive. The amuridan stole away his life, replacing it with nothingness. It was no better than being imprisoned in the jar except for the few precious moments he was aware enough to know Lemony still lived and life continued. “’m sorry, Lem,” he breathed, unable to keep his eyes open. “Sing about Maragor when next you think of me,” she whispered. Her lips brushed his clammy forehead and she was gone. The strange impenetrable fog of the powerful soporific enshrouded his mind and stole away sight and dream. At times he neared the surface of consciousness like some hapless creature sealed beneath a rind of ice. Servants came to bathe him and guide him numbly through the chore of eating bland soup or using the chamber pot. Their actions went almost unnoticed, one day blending into another. When next he approached wakefulness his room was wrapped in the silky darkness of late evening. The perpetual cloudiness lifted from his mind and he lay awake drenched in sweat and shuddering. A servant would arrive soon with a new dose of the potent draught, but for a few moments he was free of it, his mind piercing the numbing veil as his body knotted in pain. Gods, he hated amuridan, but he knew in time the pain would make him long for the soothing nothingness. Now he remembered the other nights, the fever and agony, the welcome arrival of the servant coming to offer him release. Mog staggered out of bed, almost falling over as his calves burned in protest. Trembling, he found the chamber pot and spewed the contents of his belly into it. The bitterness of bile flooded his senses and he heaved for many long minutes until he lay back against the cool plaster of the wall and gasped softly. Fiery waves of agony latched onto his ribs and stabbed him with every breath. Now he was fully conscious, every fiber of his being alive with pain. He stared at the door, part of hoping the servant would come soon. Another part of him railed against the indignity of his situation, hated that he found refuge in the intoxicating potions of his captor. Focus, he had to focus on something other than his suffering. Music then. It was his only true savior, a charm against grief and loneliness. And then he remembered Lemony’s odd words. Hadn’t she mentioned a song about something happy? Mog struggled to remember, his jaws clenched and his knuckles white as he clenched them at his sides. At last he remembered the name. Maragor... How odd. It was a lament, not a cheerful song. Maybe she misunderstood its meaning. “Silly Lem,” he gasped, crying out once when his legs began to spasm out of control. He used his hands to crawl back toward his bed, his vision blurred with sweat and involuntary tears. His uncooperative legs flailed in his wake and he at last crumpled into a pile beside the bed and hugged himself tightly against the continued protests of his muscles and joints. “I could surely use yer help now, Lem,” he whispered, closing his eyes and trying to focus upon her, upon anything, “Maragor ‘n no happy song, m’ dear. Poor man were kidnapped n’ killed by ‘is captors…” “Oh gods.” She was trying to tell him something alright. He racked his memory until he found the dreary tune and hummed it between gasps of pain. Finally the words returned. “On the day they murdered Maragor, I turned to a different god. No more to mend broken bones, Nor flesh will I make whole. By Balthazar, by holy fire, I shall smite them spirit and soul. “I will burn their charnel lair, Lay waste their ancestral home. Of my fate, I give not a care. If I die I’ll not go alone. On the day they took my Maragor I became the vengeful one.” Horrified, Mog grasped the thick wooden beam of the bed’s poster and hauled himself trembling to his feet. The full meaning of her cryptic message had not yet lodged into his mind, but some part of him understood and was driven forth by desperation and fear. Somehow he stumped toward the door, relieved to find it unlocked. There was no reason to bar it, the amuridan was prison enough. Except now when fear helped him overcome the pain and drove him to seek Lemony in the bowels of the great house. He leaned against the smooth wood paneling that lined the corridor outside of his bedroom and felt his way forward slowly, only to collapse and thump clumsily down the first few steps of a flight of stairs that opened before him in the darkness. Somehow he arrested his fall by grasping a baluster and for some minutes he lay sprawled with his belly against the steps and his arm hooked in the railing. Heart pounding, he listened, scared that his commotion might alert someone in the sleeping household. When he was certain no one was coming, he struggled back to his feet, leaning his weight on the railing as he placed his trembling feet upon each step. In the gloom of the dining hall he nearly crashed into one of the ornate chairs that lined the long gleaming table. His heart caught in his throat as dozens of faces emerged from the darkness and stared down at him. Terror solidified his mind and a long forgotten spell raced from his lips only to fizzle uselessly in the shadows. “Paintings…” he mumbled, cursing under his breath as he staggered past the pale lifeless portraits with their brooding eyes and accusatory stares. They were not alive and yet their gazes burned over him and his skin crawled with the sensation of long dead things stirring in the ether. A muffled cry pierced the darkness and he stood in the doorway blinking the cold sweat from his eyes as he tried to pin point it. Another cry, bird-like and desperate. Instinct drove him toward it even as his muscles seized again and he reeled like a drunkard. Now he was close enough to hear sounds of struggle but it was like running through water. Like a nightmare it seemed no matter how quickly he moved he would be too late. At last he reached the door, felt her body thundering against it as she sought to escape. It was locked. The metallic smell of blood stung the air and her cries came in agonized gasps. “Lemmy,” he gasped, “Lemmy, open the door.” He felt Josef’s presence like a filthy stain and remembered the burn of his psyche thrusting against his defenses. Hatred snarled against the bonds of his weak flesh, drew him snarling from the depths of his suffering. No more humiliation. No more torment. He reached through the thick wood of the heavy door, reached with his mind until he found the dense black knot of sickness that he knew to be Josef. A hex flew from his throat, striking true with the satisfying cessation of violence. Lemony’s sobs pierced the tense silence and a new reservoir of rage surged through his frame. Without thinking, he threw himself at the door and felt it shudder against his body. Nothing would stop him, not pain, not mere wood and metal bolts. Mog snarled another spell when he felt Josef needling his defenses. Never again. The man screamed and fell back as Mog hexed him again through the locked door. Lemony was weeping, she was alive. He set his concern for her aside and sought for his quarry. Josef curled around a darkening stain of blood as Mog visualized an open wound upon his chest and uttered a final spell. “You murdering scum,” he whispered as Josef surrendered to the illusion. Josef made a weak attempt to retaliate but his life energies were pouring away too quickly and his methods were now etched upon Mog’s psyche. Without a second thought, Mog silenced the spell before it flew free of the villain’s tongue. A surge of stolen energies soothed his trembling body followed by the satisfying thud of the man collapsing wetly to the floor. “Lemmy,” he called, his lips close to the door. He could feel her fear and sensed her nearness. “Mog,” Lemony sobbed, “Thank the gods. I thought they’d killed you.” “Open th’ door, love. Please.” He had to know how she fared, then he could rest for a few moments. Please let her be well. If she could escape, even were he unable to go with her, it would have been worth all the suffering. Mog slid to his knees, closing his eyes against a backwash of pain as adrenalin cooled to be replaced with exhaustion. He was vaguely aware of movement beyond the door and the faint rattle of keys. Finally the door lurched and he fell inside onto the slick tiles. “Mog? Are you alright?” He laughed hoarsely for she had stolen his words before he had mustered the strength to speak them. Lemony grasped his hand and tugged until he was inside before closing the door and locking it again. “He hurt you,’ Mog rasped, fighting to keep his eyes open even as the fever and trembling threatened to steal away the last of his strength. “Not as much as we hurt him.” “Aye,” he murmured weakly, “but you need t’ escape, Lem. Go afore someone comes.” “No one is coming, Mog. Josef doesn’t get disturbed at night, no matter how much his victims scream. Through a haze of fever and pain, he realized she had learned that through brutal experience. Pity and rage curled into his throat as a cry of misery. He wanted to kill Josef again. Over and over again. “Ah, Lemmy,” he sighed as she scooted down beside him and somehow got his head onto her lap. Her hands lingered a while over the worst of his hurts, chasing away the pain until she shifted to soothe a different hurt. She was weeping still and he regretted that he was too weak to hold and comfort her. “I can’t cure this,” she sobbed, “I need to get you home, Mog. I can’t bear that you’re in so much pain.” “’m alright,” he lied, “Y’ should get a move on. I’ll jes slow yeh down.” “No, I’m not leaving without you. If that means I’ll die here beside you so be it. At least we took one of them with us.” “Were they fixin’ t’ kill us?” “Yes. I befriended one of the servants. There is something going on tonight. They took Xue Xue and they were going to do something horrible to you.” “An’ Josef was plannin’ t’ murder yeh now? Did yeh’ really try t’ do a fool thing like smite a mesmer, Lem?” Lemony made a choking sound and he realized she was laughing through her tears. “He lay on top of me and I held on until I well nigh burned up his nethers with holy fire.” Mog winced at the thought and then laughed despite the pain of doing so. “Remind me not t’ cross yeh.” “Oh Mog, I hoped you’d come. I didn’t know what else to do, I just knew there was nothing left to lose and I hoped you’d realize what I was trying to tell you.” “Aye,” he said, closing his eyes now as she stroked his brow. “I just wish I could help you.” “Yeh are, Lem. Don’t fret o’er me, lass.” For a moment neither of them spoke and he roamed uneasily on the edge of dream. He was drawn suddenly awake when she sat up on her shins. “Did you hear that/” “No, was sleepin’.” “I heard something shatter and a scream from upstairs. I hope Leod is alright. I’m going to go investigate.” “If th’ chance t’ run…” “Don’t talk rubbish, Mog. Just rest, I’ll be back.” He lay awake on his side, his leg muscles knotted and his fingernails digging into his folded arms. It was horrible not knowing where she was going or what she might face. He needed to help her but he was useless now, barely able to move his head let alone rise to his feet and go looking for her. When the door opened again, he startled and then sighed with relief to see her again She was panting, her psyche bright with hope and fear. “Can you walk now?” she rasped, “I need your help.” He tried to move his legs but they were now nothing more than a burning source of pain. A cry tore free of his clamped jaw and Lemony knelt beside him, urging him to be still. “I’m going to enchant you. It’s one I used on Pen when he was very sick and wounded and it gave him some relief. But it will drain me and I cannot maintain it for very long once we reach the bone house.” “Eh?” he coughed, “What are yeh on about, Lem?” “Zhou and Armand are here. I don’t know how or why, but if we don’t get rid of the undead, they’ll die.” Mog swallowed, certain he had misheard her. Before he could inquire again, however, she was chanting a prayer to Dwayna and a silvery cascade of light curled around his body. Invigorating warmth nudged away the chill in his joints and belly and smoothed over the constant burn of his muscles. He was not well, yet he could rise now and stand hunched beside the door. “Stay there,” Lemony said gently, squeezing his hand, “I think old bones burn, don’t they?” “Aye.” He watched her riffle through the draws and wardrobe until she held up a dusty bottle and inspected its label by candle light. “Brandy burns, I believe.” “Aye.” “Well then, grab one of the larger bottles and a candle. One way or another, we’re burning her bone house down.” Numbly he followed her, sweat pouring from his body and the once dull pain returning to him in vivid bursts as they wound through the darkened household. Near the entrance, the door was shattered and the courtyard resounded with shouts and the mad scuffling of battle. Tiger’s roared in rage and pain as Ama’s retinue of rangers formed barricades to ward off the approaching waves of undead. “I think we should just let them fight it out for now,” Lemony said, hanging back at the door, “Let’s go see if any of the ones that got inside are helping Ama.” Mog shook free of his disgust and torpor and staggered after her, wondering what they were going to do against undead armed with dusty bottles of brandy and weakly flickering candles. And then he regretted it when he saw shadowy figures stirring in the darkness of the old dining room. Lemony hastily put aside her burden on the table and chanted swiftly, her form limned in pale fire. “Lem, ye’ should run…” “And leave you here with them?” she tsked, “Nandao taught me a few things and… well… apparently these enchantments work a treat against dead things.” “Ye ne’er done this afore?” he murmured, trembling with weakness and clutching one of the chair backs. She was right, of course. He could not run and he was utterly defenseless. Her small figure glowed beneath the enchantments and fierceness lurked in her eyes where none had been before. “No, but now is as good as any time to try it,” she said with a bitter laugh. The first shadowy figure lurched toward her and she boldly turned to face it, an enraged prayer to Balthazar flying from her lips. The ghastly thing flared and hissed, its fleshless hands raking her only to be repulsed by another harsh spell. It crumpled to dust as the other two assailed her. “Lemmy!” he gasped miserably, wishing he could help her and feeling pathetic and weak as she went before foes that would give him pause even were he hale and prepared. Yet the holy light around her flared brilliant and the vile things twisted and snarled in pain, collapsing quickly in the face of her potent magic. “Oh, that was fun!” Lemony cried and Mog nearly fell over in astonishment. Through the blood and grime and despair, her face was childlike and sweet once more. Tears flooded his eyes and he wanted to hold her and never let her go. “Come on, Moggie,” she said sweetly, “I think everything is going to work out for the best.” “Aye, Lemmy, if yeh say so.” With that, she surged ahead into the darkness, quickly destroying another knot of vile undead before stopping at the foot of a wide case of stairs that rose up into a gallery. There was a vivid magenta light flowing from one of the doorways and a terrible din. “Zhou!” Lemony croaked, hurrying on ahead of him. Mog stumbled after her, afraid she would throw herself needlessly into danger. Abruptly the enchantment she had placed upon him faded and he dropped helplessly to his knees with a cry of pain. Gods, Lemony, please be careful, he pleaded silently. Now he lay upon the steps able only to listen to the cries and shouts emanating from that distant chamber. His body shuddered in agony and lurid colors erupted before his terrified eyes. Mog struggled uselessly to hold on to his consciousness, pleading with the gods to give him strength. “Lemmy,” he pleaded across a gulf of darkness, faintly aware that an uneasy quiet had settled upon the floor. “I’m alright, Mog,” she called and he breathed again. There were hurried footfalls and someone’s hands were upon him. “What’s wrong with him?” came Armand’s voice and he managed a single chuckle before moaning at the suffering it caused him. “Stay with him,” said Zhou sharply, “Lemony and I will be back shortly.” “We have done what we came to do,” Armand snapped, “Can’t you see he needs help?” “’m alrigh’, Army, no need t’ be angry at Master Joe.” Lemony giggled and Armand closed his mouth. Mog turned his head and saw the fierceness of his friend’s pale eyes through the narrow slits of a mask. The blood splattered over his silken vest and blouse only added to his mien of savagery. “Black makes you look dead,” Mog mumbled, “Where’s your burgundy getup?” Armand snorted and sat down beside him on the step. He tugged off the mask and threw it aside angrily. “You alright? Really?” “I won’ lie t’ yeh, I’ve been better.” “I see,” Armand said grimly, carefully reconstructing his usual air of nonchalance. “Not sure how much o’ this pain I kin’ take, howe’r.” “What did that vile woman do to you?” “Amuridan,” said Zhou coldly, causing both of them to startle with his silent approach. He was still masked and his form was swathed in fine black silks that blended with the shadows. Lemony stood at his left shoulder with a grim expression, “Help me carry him, we need to get him to safety.” “I already suggested that,” Armand grumbled, “Who are they, then?” “Servants. They’re coming with us.” “Do you just let any old stray into your house?” Armand complained. “I guess so. I took you in, after all,” Zhou said pointedly and for once Armand had no response. Lemony chuckled and chanted softly, wrapping Mog in the soothing enchantment once more. She grasped his hand tenderly in hers and walked beside him as he was borne away. “Can’ stay awake, Lemmy,” Mog mumbled apologetically. “I know. Sleep now, we’ll take care of you.” |
