He feels the bones in his wrist break as the gravestone cold hand twists them in a direction they were never meant to turn. The sword falls from his hand, clatters on the throne room floor. His pain echoes in the corners of the hall along with the Fiend's laughter, singing along in chorus.
His knees fall next to his sword, his eyes tight and full of tears. All around him are the bloodied and beaten bodies of the men he brought with him. Only Iean is still alive… his coughs of pain a distant sound, his body twitching just out of sight.
You should have brought more men, the Fiend whispers through the razors in its mouth. Their souls will be sweet as I suck them through their bones.
The Fiend twists his wrist again and he falls further.
Your weapons did not harm me. No weapon may harm me. Such is the blessing my Gods gave to me.
“The Fell Gods,” he whispers, spitting the words.
Call them what you will. No man weapon may –
There’s the sound of an arrow piercing flesh and the pressure on his wrist releases. He falls to the floor, the stones greeting his face with an icy caress.
Iean, he thinks. He looks up and sees that he’s right.
The boy, no more than nineteen summers, with his grandfather’s bow in his left hand, his right hand stringing another arrow. His first pierced the Fiend’s throat. The second… the Fiend’s eye. The shaft pierces the Fiend’s skull, jutting out under its main of perfect hair.
Little boy, the Fiend whispers. Little boy with a little toy.
“Run!” Iean shouts to him, stringing another arrow, his face twisted with pain, his chest covered in blood. “Run, my Lord!”
He tries pushing with his broken wrist and gets a scream for his effort. He can hear the naked footfalls of the Fiend slap against the stone. He uses his good hand to push himself up, not looking back. He knows where he needs to go; the Fiend has shown him the way.
He’s across the courtroom to the backdoor, trying to pull the right path from his memories… twenty years gone. From behind him, he hears another arrowshot and the Fiend’s laughter. He pushes the door open with his good hand, passes through, then pushes it shut behind him with his back. He drops the bolt and hopes it will buy him a moment or two. That’s all he can afford now: a moment or two.
Down the long corridor to the stairs, the spiral stairs he was forbidden to take. Old words are carved in an arch above the stairwell. When he was a boy, he did not know what they meant. Now that he is a man, he can read the words, and they make him pause…
From behind and above, he hears the Fiend throw its weight against the door he pushed shut with his back. He doesn’t stop, not even for a moment. Down the stairs, under the words carved into the arch.
There are double doors at the bottom of the stairwell. He pauses for only a breath to look at the carvings in the stone. He’s seen them before. Snuck down here when he was only eight, touched the door. Thought he heard a whisper behind it, ran all the way back upstairs into his room and hid under the covers, unable to sleep for the rest of the night.
Now, he’s here again. This time, he can read the words on the doors, understands the symbols and what they mean. Understands the pictures. He looks down at the handles. He’ll need both hands. From behind him, he hears the dead skin of the Fiend slapping against the stone floor. It’s reached the archway. It reads the words. It laughs.
Hope is delicious, it says, the words flowing down the stairs to his ears. It makes your blood so sweet.
He puts both hands on the handles and he pulls.
The old doors resist. He pulls again, the pain in his voice scraping against his throat, the doors scraping against the stone. A wind pushes by him as the doors open, wind that hasn’t tasted the night air in over twenty years. It reaches down his throat, down into his lungs, and sucks.
He stumbles forward through the half-opened doors, coughing and retching. Then, he looks up… into the only chamber in the castle he has never seen. The room is vast, at least fifty paces wide. He looks down the long room into the darkness that obscures the other end. Only a trickle of light from the stairs behind him make the entry way visible.
Darkness before him, the Fiend behind.
He runs into the darkness.
* * *
On either side of him are statues, long shadows stretched along their faces like black scars. Each of them with a crown on his head, a sword in his hands. As he moves from the beginning of the corridor toward its dark finale, the men grow larger. The swords grow heavier. The statues are taller and taller, their shoulders wider. As the light dims, their eyes grow darker. Darker.
Billows of dust gather at his feet. He holds his broken wrist close to his body, watching the statues of dead men growing around him. The darkness seems to move around him, stealing away the last vestiges of light. From behind him, he hears the Fiend behind him, still descending the stairs. It knows where he is. It knows there’s no escape from this place. It’s taking its time.
When the light is almost dead, that’s when he reaches the end. He stands there, so small before the great statue, before the great tomb. A single word is there, written in that same tongue.
Burghe.
He can hear the Fiend at the front of the hall now, feel the shadow it casts over what little light he has down here. Casting shadows across the statue’s face. It’s beard long and braided, its nose hooked and long, its eyes shrouded in the dim light.
He reaches for the door below the statue, just three feet tall off the floor. He’ll have to crawl. The stone door refuses him two times before it even begins to budge. He grasps the brass hoop, puts his feet against the wall, and pulls. It aches as it moves, and he almost screams.
Finding a hiding place? the voice behind him asks. I don’t think so. I’ll find you, little Burghe. No matter where you hide. I’ll find you.
He pulls again. Again, the door moving inches at every effort.
Twenty years you’ve waited for this. Twenty years ago when I ripped your father’s throat out with my teeth. Twenty years ago when I took your mother in her bridal bed. And you hide from me.
Finally, enough room to squeeze through. He’s through the opening, pushing his shoulders, pushing like a babe through the womb, squeezing. Feeling his skin rip against the sharp edges of the opening. He’s kicking his legs against the floor, spinning, finding the brass hoop on the other side of the door, pulling now, pulling the door, his feet on either side of it, pushing. It shuts easier than it opens and the room is sealed… and black.
There is no light in here. None. He moves forward cautiously, using his only good hand to guide him. He can hear his breath echoing off the walls. The door may have been small, but the room is vast. He has to find it. Find…
Are you in there, little Burghe?
Still far enough away. Still time.
He moves forward, assuming he’s in the middle of the room, assuming what he’s looking for is there. His steps echo back at him. His fingers in the cold air, stretching, hoping to find it. Hoping…
There.
They touch stone. Ice cold. As cold as the hand that broke his wrist. He reaches up, trying to find a seal. He can’t reach the top. He reaches out, hoping his hands can find the edges of the massive block. They can’t. It’s wider than his reach.
Ah, I see.
Outside. It’s outside.
He moves around the slab to the other side, hoping. In the dark, he can only guess at its length; maybe two men long. Maybe longer. He finds the other end… and steps. Steps going up to the top of it. He rushes up.
At the bottom of the room, he hears the small door moving. He reaches the top of the slab… and the coffin.
The door is opening. He has no more time.
He reaches down with his hands, both of them, and throws open the lid. He can see nothing. There is the smell of dust. The lid hits the floor behind him and clangs. Brass or bronze. It doesn’t matter anymore. The door below is open enough to let a man in, but not the Fiend.
He shuts his eyes. He reaches down into the coffin and finds the hands of a dead man clutching a sword. The fingers are bone under mesh gloves. He tugs at the sword, but the hands hold fast. He pulls again, but the corpse in the coffin won’t give up the blade.
He grasps the sword a third time… and pauses. He remembers the stories his father told him to put him to sleep. He remembers the history books he read. Remembers.
His grip on the sword tightens, and his voice bursts from his lips.
“My name is Valin, son of Bavar. I left this castle a boy, but I have returned a man, come to lift the curse on this house… but I need your help.”
The corpse within says nothing, the grip on the sword as tight as a trap.
“You are the first Burghe, who fought for this land, who bled for it, who suffered for it. And I promise you now, by the blood that is within me, the blood that was in you, that I will not shrink from any pain to defend this land, even unto the pain of death.”
The corpse within says nothing. The door opens fully, a trickle of light and shifting shadow. Footsteps against the floor.
“I am the Burghe!” he shouts into the face of the corpse. “And you will aid me. Now!”
One last time, he pulls at the blade. And the hands let it go.
He falls, straight to the floor. His knee hits the ground and his foot goes numb. He lifts himself from the floor.
The Fiend shuffles around the slab, its dark shape against the little light creeping through, its eyes blood red in the darkness.
I see you have a weapon.
He stands, holding the blade in both hands. He does not realize his wrist is without pain, nor will he until the battle is over. The light of the Fiend’s eyes catch the blade and it seems to glow.
“This is the house of my fathers,” he says, his voice deep in the small room. “And this is Grendurung, wielded by the founder of my people.”
He pauses, feeling strength in his arms, in his legs. There is no pain now. No fear.
“I am The Burghe,” he says.
The red eyes of the Fiend dim, like a star winking in the sky.
Valin’s fingers clutch the blade and as it cuts, he he hears its edge sing a song silenced for too long.