Page 93 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Gods, I wish Nibblebones were here.

“I suppose this does require a bit of a rethink for me,” he says. “But all in all, in my favor. I can have you executed in the morning and water my orchards with your blood by afternoon. Then the last of the idiotic council will be forced to assent to my unchallenged rule and I’ll be Regent no longer—King has a much better sound to it. And Renard… ah, yes. What did happen to my gutless, witless half-brother? I assume you left him, or he left you, or maybe my stars have truly aligned and he’s lying in a ditch somewhere with a dull dagger wound to the gut and empty pockets. The bandits on the eastern road have been getting bolder of late.”

“Dead,” I whisper, because that’s how it feels. It feels as though my body—my heart—had rearranged itself to beat alongside Renard’s, and now it thumps too loudly, echoing against a cavernous emptiness in my chest.

Arden takes my reply literally, and I find I don’t have it in me to correct him.

“Excellent,” he replies. “Most efficient. Well, I’d send down a meal for you, but you’ll be dead tomorrow, so it feels like a waste of resources on my part. Do you wish to make an offering to any gods before dawn? I can find a mage to come down here, though not all of our temples are in use these days.”

I spare a single glance at him—the disgust and hatred so virulent I worry they will drip from my lips.

“Get out,” I snarl.

“As you wish,” he frowns, leaving without another word.

It’s the phrase that finally unlocks my despair—those tender words Renard uttered to me in precious moments now tainted.

When the door above closes, I offer a deep, soul wrenching scream to the gods and finally—finally—the Blight Mother answers.

20

Renard

Despite riding Magnar harder than I have in years, it’s clear by the path of decay ahead of me that we’re late—too late to prevent something horrible from happening.

Magnar’s sides heave, foam flecking his bit as I dismount. Nibblebones gives a concerned trill and bounds down from my shoulder, dashing off through the fields sprawled before us—likely in search of her mistress.

The scene before me is worse than any nightmare I’ve endured. Piles of bones from the Blight Mother’s skeletal army litter the ground, the stalks of wheat still glossy and unblemished, swaying in the breeze.

What has happened here—and where is Vireth?

None of her decay mars the soil, the trail of it stopping suddenly at the edge of the tree line along the road. She cannot be dead—surely, I would sense it. Perhaps she has been taken?

“I’m afraid this next part calls for stealth, old friend,” I say to Magnar. “And I’m afraid our journey together might come to an end today.”

With trembling hands, I unbuckle his harness and lift his saddle off his back. He doesn’t shake his mane like he usually does when I unharness him—merely stares and me and lets out a low nicker.

“If I don’t return,” I begin, for once unashamed of the emotion lodging in my throat. “Find yourself a fine mare. Live free, unbound by the burdens of men. Thank you for your loyalty, my friend—for bearing me into every battle, and settling into a life you were always far above. I did not deserve your companionship and your strength, but I am grateful for it all the same. Ride on, Magnar, and perhaps we’ll meet each other in the spirit realm.”

Each word feels wrenched from my chest, punctuated by hitches in my voice. Tears begin to fall down my cheeks as I lean in to give him one final scratch on his withers. He nickers again, nudging my cheek with his velvety nose. I’ve suffered great losses in my life—family, friends, my brothers-in-arms, yet not since the death of my wife and children has anything felt so unmooring as this.

Leaving the tack stashed behind a nearby rock, I shoulder mine and Vireth’s packs and make my way down the sloping path that cuts between the wheat fields and leads toward the city gate. From behind me, I hear Magnar shift, uneasy, but I do not turn—I cannot. If I see his steady dark eyes and glossy black coat, I may lose my nerve to do what’s certainly right.

With Nibblebones away, Magnar behind me, and Vireth somewhere within, I haven’t felt quite so alone in a very long time. Doubts begin to prick at my ages-old injuries, healed but for the phantom pains that pulse every now and then, reminding me that this life isn’t merely just behind me anymore—it stretches in front of me, as well. Sinking into my exile only served to delay the inevitable for me.

Each step feels harder than the last, until I find myself edging past the main gate and dropping round to the one weakness of the fort—a drainage grate atop a now dry creek bed, which funnels the city’s filth away from the streets when the spring rains arrive.

The grate isn’t much to look at now. Rust has gnawed along the bottom edge and one corner has pulled free from the stone where the mortar has cracked and crumbled. The perfect place for a clandestine entry.

I crouch among the dead reeds and set down Vireth’s pack, my knees cracking with a sound I can’t help but wince at, given my present need for stealth. The grate’s iron pins are rusted through, and with a violent wrenching sound, I yank the grate to the side and let it tumble down into the dusty culvert. I wait to see if anyone will come rushing out, weapon drawn, but am met with silence.

For a moment, I look back. The fields beyond the road are dimming in the late light, wheat nodding in soft gold currents as if nothing has happened here. Farther beyond, the rise of the hill hides the place where I left Magnar. I tell myself he is already gone. I tell myself he has found the road, followed some scent of wild clover and wind, and put me out of his loyal mind.

I know better, of course. The old fool is likely still standing near that rock, waiting patiently for me to return, dig an apple out of my pocket, and praise him for being the best horse a man could ask for.

“Go on,” I whisper to the empty air. Then, I take one final breath to steel my nerves, and lower myself into Valehar’s underbelly.

I’m greeted with the thick stench of sour waste and fetid water—worse, even, than Hollowmire’s bog. It’s sticky with rancid warmth, and the sides of the tunnel are barely wide enough for me to crouch. Pale roots have forced their way between blocks, dangling in thin ropes from the ceiling.