“I thought they killed you,” the man said. “When they took away everyone else, when they emptied out this horrible place, I thought they killed you. Your voice, I’ve missed it. Melody? Your name is Melody…”
Even the lowliest of criminals will cling to order when lost in darkness, but only if you offer it to them, thought Melody, mirroring the words she’d learned from Luther’s tutelage of Karak’s way. She stepped closer, slowly, carefully letting her hand brush the side of his face. It was warm and slick with sweat, but unlike with the stone beside the stairs, she did not pull away in revulsion.
“I’ve come to free you,” she said. “All I ask is that you kill those who are a danger to my ascension. Because of them, they put our entire city at risk of destruction and fire.”
“Who are they?” he asked.
“A woman named Zusa,” Melody said. “She used to be one of Karak’s faceless women, and now protects my daughter with a disturbing zeal. Her very existence threatens my own, and she must be dealt with swiftly. You’ll find her skulking about our mansion, acting like the loyal watchdog she is.”
“Who else?” he asked.
“The Eschaton Mercenaries continue to interfere with my plans. Do you know of them?”
The man nodded.
“I do. Is that all?”
“No,” she said. One name left, the one she’d felt certain would earn his cooperation no matter how stubborn he might be.
“The Watcher,” she said. “He’s gone into hiding, but you can find him, can’t you? Bring him to justice?”
The man fell silent for a long moment, then nodded.
“For three long years, the beauty of your voice helped me endure the darkness,” he said. “For that, I owe you greatly. Release me.”
Melody stepped away, and she gestured for Warsh. The old man hobbled forward, a set of keys jangling in his wrinkled hands. Off came one lock, then the other. With a groan, the dark-skinned man stretched and leaned forward, letting out gasps of pain as his back popped. Warsh exited the cell, and he cast a strange look at Melody as he did. Not caring what it meant, Melody at last unfurled the cloth from around the small box she’d brought with her.
“I’ve been told of your certain … peculiarities,” she said. “So, I brought this with me. I thought it might help remind you of who you were and who you truly are.”
She put the box down before him, and he reached over for it and removed the top. Within was an expensive white powder, and it clung to his fingers when he dipped his hand inside. With practiced efficiency, he bathed in the powder, covering the skin of his face, even rubbing it into the uneven growth on his chin. That done, he put aside the box and rose to his feet. There was something truly terrifying about him then, the contrast of the paint on his skin, the way he towered over her, rising up as if from a grave. He smiled at her, and for the first time, it seemed as if he were truly alive.
“I once had many names, but Ghost was the one I carried the longest,” he said. “And after four years in this death pit, I daresay I’ve earned the damned title.”
He stretched out his hand and she took it. His fingers were puffy and speckled with scars, the results of the gentle touchers’ needles.
“The Watcher, the Eschaton, and the faceless woman,” said Ghost. “I’ll kill them all but the Watcher. Him I get to drag down these stairs and make suffer just as I suffered. After that, I make my own life.”
There was a nobleness to him, a sincerity to his promise. Above all, he doubted not a single word he spoke. The deaths of her enemies, the interlopers to Karak’s great plan, would die by Ghost’s hands.
Melody smiled.
“Then we have a deal.”
CHAPTER 4
Haern did not consider himself a skilled tracker when it came to the wilderness, but it didn’t take much to know a successful ambush when he saw one.
“Impressive,” Thren muttered as they looked upon the carnage.
It’d only been three days since they had overrun the Sun Guild wagons, and they’d traveled through light forest for all three, following the well-worn path toward the Gods’ Bridges. Not long after dawn, they’d traversed a brief stretch of hills, rising up like warts on the land amid the forest. At the top of the third hill, they’d come upon the bloodied remnants of what had once been men and women. Blood soaked much of the road, and at the crest of the hill was a great pit where there’d been a fire. Haern tried to count the bodies, but they were all cut to pieces and strewn about as if they were but playthings for their murderers. Crows had already descended upon the various pieces, and they shrieked out their annoyance at Haern and Thren’s arrival.
“Should we proceed?” Haern asked as he drew his swords. “Whoever did this might still be near.”
Thren shook his head, walking nonchalantly into the midst of the gore.
“If there was an ambush planned, it’d already be sprung on us,” he said, glancing about as if looking for something. “These butchers have already moved on.”
Haern followed his father, and he winced at the smell. From what he could tell, the deaths were recent, perhaps only the day before. He stepped over a severed hand, kicked at a crow pecking at a face, and then searched the ground for any sort of belongings, finding none.
“Bandits?” he asked.
“It seems as such,” Thren said, kneeling down before a mutilated head, half a spine still connected at the base. He brushed aside stiff, dark hair to reveal an ear torn in multiple places.
“The last of the Sun Guild who fled,” Haern said, guessing at what his father was inferring. “Whoever killed them ripped out the earrings.”
“That would be my guess,” Thren said, standing up and giving a disapproving glare about the hill. “Though whoever did it has rather poor taste.”
Haern took a step closer to the large fire pit, and he pulled his cloak over his face, unable to stand the stench. Leaning over, he saw a crude spit and, within the fire, a collection of bones. Hoping he was wrong, but deep down knowing he was not, he reached inside and pulled out what could only be the bones of a man or woman’s arm.
“Poor taste?” he said, tossing them back down and looking to Thren. “They massacred them all and then ate one for dinner. Poor taste doesn’t begin to describe what happened here.”
Thren crossed his arms.
“The more savage outlaws are known to have cruel tastes. It may still be bandits.”
“If they are, I hope they decide to move against us next,” Haern said, breaking the spit with his heel. “I’d love the chance to remove their scum from this world.”
Thren laughed.
“Ever the hero,” he said. “But you may just have your chance. Whatever group did this made no attempt to hide their movements. Their footsteps lead on ahead of us, and if they had such fun with their last ambush, I suspect they’ll do it again. Let us see just what kind of men we are dealing with.”
They continued on down the hill toward the next, taking time while they had the height to search for any possible sign of bandits, smoke from a fire, or movement on the road. So far, none, but their eyes were open, their ears alert.
“Perhaps we should leave the road,” Haern suggested after half an hour.
“Extra care here is probably justified,” Thren said. “I have no intention of being some sick bastard’s meal.”
Their speed dropped immensely doing so, but Haern felt better. Despite fighting against the brush and constantly ducking at the grasshoppers and beetles that zipped about as if angry at their trespassing, he preferred knowing no one would easily spot their approach. Haern led the way as Thren followed, head down, arms crossed. They kept the road to their right, always ensuring it was just within sight.
After the fourth hill, the land evened out, and the trees grew farther and farther apart, the thick shade from the canopy above growing spotty, the sun peeking through with ever increasing regularity. Less than half a mile from the forest’s edge, Haern heard the first unnatural sound of the entire day. It came from the direction of the road, and he froze, lifting a hand to order Thren to do the same.