​​​​29 The Guardian of Mourn

FOR NINE HUNDRED and ninety-nine years, old Skelet had resided on the edge of Insanity’s Hole. It was a section of the underground warren closest to the Darklight. Wasn’t a ’ficial name mind you, just what this maggot-riddled resident termed it, and that’s where I am, right up the back passage—

‘Skelet, you blind half-wit,’ called a voice, ‘what are you doin’? You haven’t told me a story in ages. Tell me the one about how you got this job. Where you got to exist down a hole for eternity, hah! Got you good they did, didn’t they? Hah, I love that story.’

The ancient viral turned, pausing in his work. He chewed on the stem and de-spined pad of a prickly pear cactus, thinking. Shacked up together, cos no one else wants us and there’s nowhere else to go. The dregs of existence left to wither and rot, everything they’d ever done forgotten. Not that he’d done nothing worth shouting over. Skelet couldn’t rightly remember anything before Mourn. How had he gotten the job? He must’ve told the story a thousand times, but couldn’t remember it.

His friend, whom he’d named Toad since his friend couldn’t recall his name, stood within the Darklight. Staring out, wide-eyed and wild-haired. A breather, or rather the reflection of one. Skelet didn’t hold prejudices against the living or their mirror-images. He’d heard of that sort of goings-on. Everyone had a right to be different to his mind. Such reflections needed feeding with stories though, or they tended to fade. Toad had grown so faint it was hard to see him. Guess I been neglectin’ my duties a bit, he thought. There had been much on his mind the past couple of centuries.

‘You’ve been ignoring me for hours,’ Toad complained. ‘What tomfoolery you up to? You said you’d tell me a story. I’ve been stood waitin’ for hours, no wait, days, no, no wait, weeks. Yes, I’ve been waitin’ for weeks and—’

‘It’s been centuries,’ said Skelet, finishing off the cactus pad. His supply of cacti was running low, but he had no time for foraging. Likely no need, though he never strayed far beyond the city.

‘What?’

‘Two centuries, ten years, four months, two weeks, and six days to be precise.’ Skelet was always precise. He liked precision, when he could remember stuff. ‘Told you then, and I’ll tell you now, I got no more stories. Told you ’em all and besides, I can’t remember them.’ Nothing new happened in Mourn, nothing worth shouting over, or putting in a story. Not to mention, events were arriving at a conclusion. One he’d waited a millennium to see. I’d sure have some stories to tell, he thought with a wry grin. Although, I won’t be about most like.

Toad had a temper and often ranted for hours without pausing for breath. Not that he needed to breathe, no more than Skelet, but he mimicked life. It had taken a century to convince Toad he wasn’t alive. Near gave him a heart attack once he’d finally understood. There were thousands trapped within the Darklight. Just one chose to speak. Oh, the others had listened to his tales. He had responsibilities to them, but they resented their imprisonment. Toad, on the other hand, was insane – a result of his realising he was a reflection – and no longer had issue with his confinement, though he was always hungry. All of them were fading, but soon Skelet would rectify the problem.

‘Well?’ inquired Toad. ‘You look like you is preppin’ for battle. Is there going to be a battle? Lots of killin’ makes for a good story, you know. Will you tell it to me after? And don’t skimp on the good bits, neither.’

‘They are gonna mess up my streets, Toads, and you know how irritable it makes me.’ As Guardian of Mourn, and the dark denizens slumbering beneath, Skelet had developed a sense for things. Visitors would soon walk the abandoned streets overhead. It meant his term of service was at an end. His instructions on his first day had said as much.

‘Tis the end of the world, anyways, you damned fool. What you think you’re goin’ to do with it?’

The old viral squinted at the length of Darklight in his bony hands, a good six feet. As good as a spear. ‘You always say it’s the end of the world, Toads. Maybe it’s the beginning and not the end. Did you never think about that?’

‘You mean like the beginning of a story? Beginning’s need to be good. You cheated me on the start last time, you blind-sticks-for-bones-half-breed swindler! Stories always taste off when the start ain’t nice and juicy.’

Wasn’t true he was blind. Things went blurred a little around the middle, and sometimes the edges. He thought there might be rot in his eye sockets, or maggots. Picking out maggots was an unending task. He’d found rubbing a mixture of water and vinegar into his shrunken flesh helped. Sometimes he drank it. It were the ones burrowing deep he had trouble with. He had no vinegar left. He’d used up the last of the urns a century ago.

‘Coming to mess up my streets,’ he mumbled, as he placed a rag to the dark obsidian spear, cleaning it. It felt good to create something beautiful.

‘Oh, help us,’ cried Toad, ‘divine angels of mercy and fools! Bestow on this idiot a benediction, and while you’re at it, you divine mongrels—’

‘They’re comin’ to release ’em, Toads. Them fool zorasts is coming and you know who, with ’em. I’m the Guardian, and you and all them others hiding behind you, are going to help me fight ’em off. Going to mess up my beautiful streets. Can’t be having that.’ He’d been sweeping those streets so long he knew every crack and stone.

‘I is not going up there. Zorasts, you said?’ Toad’s voice had turned high-pitched. ‘You heard about them? I know you did. You told me stories about them. Oh, angels divine, have mercy on me. I want stories of battles you walking brainless skeleton. I don’t want to be in one.’

‘Messin’ up my streets,’ Skelet said, as he finished the spear. He raised it and examined the blurred end. ‘Look right ’nough to you?’

‘It won’t stab nothin’, it won’t,’ noted Toad. ‘You need a sword, for hacking and disembowellin’. Every story needs a bit of disembowelment. Adds flavour.’ The reflection licked his lips.

‘I need to ward ’em off, and you lot are helping.’

‘No, nope, we’re not. Raised the issue myself with the others at our annual meeting. We’re on strike. Haven’t seen any pay in centuries.’

‘You lot don’t have meetings, Toads, and you don’t get paid. Besides, those what didn’t fade away can’t even speak.’

‘Still not doin’ it.’

‘Never said you had a choice, did I?’

‘They aren’t your streets, you blitherin’ witherin’ maggot-brain. I want no hand nor part in what’s comin’. I’m a pacifist, born and bred. Diplomacy’s my style.’

‘You were Atlantian once, Toads. I remember. Or leastways the flesh you were taken from was. Was an Atlantian machine with magic inside it. The machine tore your reflection out. Atlantians built a lot o’ machines. Most was inventions for killin’ better. Building killin’ contraptions isn’t the same as pacifism, no matter how you spin it.’

‘How’d you know? I never told you nothin’.’

‘You’re a reflection trapped in obsidian. You will do as I say.’ They were his streets. Breathers had built the city over his head, but the undead defended it. Always, the undead. Now, the streets were empty, devoid of life. Therefore, they were his. It was a rule, written down somewhere, he was certain. He also thought he might’ve been born in Mourn, but couldn’t remember.

Skelet eyed the reflection in the Darklight. ‘You been great company all these years, and I thank you, but I can’t spare you. I have a duty, after all. Can’t let them loose, see? Can’t let them ravage this world, and he’s coming to do exactly that. Mayhap he’ll succeed, but I gotta do my bit and get in his way.’

‘Who you natterin’ about? Make sense you ol’ bag of rattlin’ bones! Maggots have gone an’ eaten up your brains, haven’t they?’

‘The Fetch, his hoary old self, is who. Not far off, I reckon. Coming here to mess up my streets. I am sorry, my old friend. I needs make room for a new occupant. If it gets hold of you lot, it’ll be stronger than ever.’ Skelet took the spear and touched it to the Darklight containing Toad and thousands of others. All were reflections of souls captured long ago by ... someone. He couldn’t remember. Toad’s reflection opened its mouth one last time to complain, and vanished. Others came and went as quick. The spear in his hands grew heavy.

He withdrew into the darkness to wait, staring at the cold empty Darklight. He was going to miss his friend and his protests.

Time had run out for the Guardian of Mourn.

‡

BOILS AND SORES COVERED the emaciated creature’s legs. The sores oozed yellow pus and the boils a clear fluid. The locals who lived in squalor watched it step through their desert village. The creature’s head hung low as though following a scent. Perhaps it was dead and didn’t know. Maybe some force had reanimated its carcass, propelling it towards some unknown destination.

The imperial legions used sydarags in war. The locals had seen such animals, though they were of little value in an arid climate. Camels were of far better use. This animal – plodding on thin legs ending in claws, a long snaking tail swishing at flies, three eyed with a single jutting horn on its nose – no one had seen before, unless it had been in their nightmares.

Still, it wasn’t the freakish-looking mount that bothered them. A beast, no matter how ugly, was a beast. Grotesque, the rider was like its mount, half there. Not a few suggested it might be a spirit. Others were convinced it was undead, one of those Plagueborn from the stories. The rider’s body was naked but for a long thick cloak, flapping in the breeze. Horns covered its muscular frame the length of its spine, and breadth of its shoulders. The head looked wrong too, and gave anyone who looked at it a headache. Flies buzzed about mount and rider, though none dared alight. A miasmic darkness also swirled about it, whispering of terrible magic. Yes, concluded more of those who saw it, a spirit. But as everyone knew, spirits didn’t emerge in daylight.

The ghostly mount and rider halted outside a house.

Then the locals overcame their fear, and followed to watch. Why would it stop there? Perhaps it was a vengeful spirit, but if so, it would get a nasty surprise. Everyone knew who lived in that house.

‘Harken to me, brother,’ the rider cried in a harsh voice. ‘It is time. None of your games. Come out and face me or I will come in.’

The green-tinged bronze doors opened slow and silent. A gust of dry air flowed outward, and the denizens of the forgotten town, cheered. They knew him, and knew this strange rider was in trouble.

A fat man with a jutting forehead emerged. Sweating profusely in the heat of the desert village, the incongruous excuse for a human swiped at head and face with a rag. A sword blade of pure steel was in his right hand. This man had lived among them for centuries, vanishing and returning with a regularity whispering of magic. Their village prospered where none should, all because of him. He was a local legend, tales of his exploits handed down through word of mouth. From father to son, mother to daughter, but never to outsiders. They understood his requirement for privacy.

‘I don’t like the heat,’ said the man, sometimes named Davard Tystrus, when it suited. He’d had many names, worn many faces. He swiped at his face again. ‘Do you like this heat? Flies are the worst, though they don’t seem interested in you. I suppose being what you are, they wouldn’t, would they? Come to think of it, I doubt the heat bothers you either.’

The Fetch gazed at the fat man with a smirk. ‘You can hide behind your mortal mask but you do not fool me. I am not like those miserable wretches you protect.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘You have persisted in your meddling.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Davard gestured at the locals who’d gathered as close as they dared. ‘Any of you know what he’s talking about?’ He offered the rider a perplexed look. ‘Nope, nobody knows anything about meddling.’

‘Your recent interference was a step too far. The master has diverted me from my tasks to deal with you.’

‘Huh,’ grunted Davard, taking the two wooden steps down from the house, raising dust. ‘You know, I seem to remember the face you’re wearing. Saw it far away to the north, not long ago. I never look in the mirror. Don’t like mirrors. You like mirrors? No, well, I suppose with a head shaped like yours, you wouldn’t, would you?’

The Fetch sneered. ‘The master has tired of your foolishness. You play your little games, jester, always laughing and making jokes. It ends today.’

‘Ah, yes, he has tried to murder me in my sleep once or twice. Ah, such good times. Does he still wear the scar I gave him? Quite a deep one if I recall. Suited him, and after all, shouldn’t the Grim have scars?’

‘You have a choice. Return to face judgement, or perish.’

‘So, it’s death at his hands or yours?’ asked Davard, gesturing with his sword. ‘Oh, well, I guess you’ve made the choice for me.’ The fat man shimmered as his form warped, growing taller, wider. Many of the locals chose then to flee. They had never seen him do this. None of the stories mentioned it. However, they knew the start of a fight when they saw one.

The Eleventh Torment, who was as it happened, also an angel, stretched his limbs. The sword remained in his hand, though it looked smaller compared to his new size. ‘I’ve worn many guises over the centuries. Didn’t think you’d find me. Perhaps I have worn this face too long. Sort of grew on me, you could say. I’m sure you can empathise. No?’

‘You talk too much.’

‘Ah, I guess we are come to it, then.’

The Fetch grunted. ‘Do you not tire of these games, Adal? You wear the flesh of these humans, walk among them. You exist like them.’ It said this last in a tone of disgust.

‘Perhaps, it is because they know how to exist.’

‘Enough procrastination. This is your final warning. The master would have you live and serve. He is not unforgiving.’

Adal, also named Petraeus, Crawl, Davard, and a hundred others, shrugged. His fist tightened on the grip of the leather wrapped hilt. ‘When I first lived among them, it was to escape your master. To avoid his keen eye. Back then, he didn’t have a mutt like you to hunt me down. Now, I live among them because I like it, and I like them.’

It appeared confused. ‘There is nothing to like about such pathetic creatures.’

‘Oh, they can be a belligerent, smelly and boisterous lot,’ said Adal, ‘it is true, but they also have something we lack. Humanity. I see it every day in the love and affection they show one another, in their pain and grief. In their dreams. You named me, brother, but you are no brother of mine. Oh, he is there, deep within you, a prisoner in chains. I vow to you, either I or another will free him, with a sword through his chest if it proves necessary.’

‘Your sister tried and failed,’ said the Grim’s servant. ‘You cannot stop me, Torment. No one can. Forget your pride.’

Adal, the Eleventh Torment, gave a final warning gesture to a handful of villagers who hadn’t run. The Fetch lashed out with its power, while Adal was watching those last flee. Flesh blackened as the humans shrieked. The corruption attacked from the inside out, and death proved slow.

The Grim’s creature didn’t take its eyes from Adal. ‘This is what they are. Pieces of meat and you cannot save them. You are not one of them. You are a Torment unlike any other, one with an angelic origin. An aberration, but an immortal nonetheless. But you will suffer their fate if you do not heed.’

The Eleventh Torment struck with his blade at the mount. The steel point sunk deep between two of the beast’s eyes, piercing the third. The jaw snapped once, inches from his face, but the creature died. To anyone else, the rider and its mount were insubstantial, like ghosts, for they had not entered this world. They merely touched it. To the Eleventh Torment, who was also an angel, such rules of unreality didn’t apply.

The Fetch toppled from his dead mount, and rose with a speed matching Adal’s. The angel next struck with his magic. A coruscating blinding flash that hit the Fetch full in the face. The creature shrieked and lashed out with thunderous detonations throughout the village. When it regained its sight, its prey was gone.

It shrieked in anger, flattening the village. ‘Coward,’ it screeched, ‘I will find you, Adal!’

An emaciated figure joined a group of villagers within the red rocks of nearby hills. The survivors, children among them, shook with fear as they watched the destruction of their homes. They whispered about what they would do, where they might go.

‘What was it? Why did it attack us?’ asked one villager.

‘Why did he not save us?’ asked another.

‘Did we fail him?’

‘Yes, we failed him.’

‘It is the Grim in the flesh.’

‘It is death itself,’ said a younger man. ‘This is the start of it all.’

‘Wait,’ said his neighbour, ‘the start of what? What you blatherin’ on about?’

‘The apocalypse,’ the young man replied, his voice hoarse with fear. ‘The end of the world.’

The thin man who huddled among them said nothing. He grimaced at those words, especially those about him. Poor mortals had no idea how close to the truth they struck. It was a surprising thing about them. They had such perceptive instincts and most of them didn’t know it. He stared across the low hills towards the smouldering village.

The Grim’s servant was gone. Adal, who was also Davard and many others, smiled. Today, he was nobody. The Fetch was distracted, and the Eleventh Torment hoped this would give Threadfin a little breathing room. He knew he could not destroy the Fetch, which was a torturous amalgamation of reflections. Not something he could dismantle with his power. A sword stood no chance, which was why he’d attacked the mount.

There was one who could stop it. Adal needed to make sure Todder got the chance. Both viral and Fetch needed to be in the right place, at the right moment. He’d set events in motion but anything could go wrong. Things going wrong were the story of his existence, but he never quit. He’d always found a way to achieve what he wanted through persistence and patience.

The human way.

He would lead the Grim’s servant into a trap. Of course, with any trap came bait. She knew the consequences, and had agreed. His sources were definite, though he didn’t always trust the twins. As the bait, however, she was unlikely to survive. This was also her own choice and inevitable. It once again brought warmth and sadness to his tormented soul. She had never planned to survive. The truth of who she really was, tormented her. An agony he empathised with.

The Eleventh Torment, who looked like any other villager, stopped smiling. It had not been easy, to plan the death of the woman he loved, no matter if it was a fragment of her soul.