Blood and Honor

Things moved on the plain—things that were too small to see, or too far away; things that cast feeble shadows in the wan gray light. Overhead, the dead-gray mist arched like a canopy, covering the Mournland above as it surrounded it on all sides. There was no sun, no wind, nothing that spoke of nature—just still, dead air and pale, gray light. Following Brey, they made their way down the glassy slope and set out across the plain.

Water—or something like water—collected in the hollows of the plain, but they did not stop to drink. Nothing in the Mournland could be relied upon, and the pools might have been refreshing water—or even be imbued with magical healing properties—or they might have been deadly poison. There was no way to tell except by tasting them.

Passing in the lee of the leaning tower, they came upon a grove of crystals growing against the foot of the reef. On one side, the crystals were like the foam of a wave that breaks on a rocky shore, frozen in time like the glassy waves of the plain; on the other, they grew bright and jagged in small clumps, looking almost like plants. Their edges were razor-sharp, as Tarrel found out to his cost. Brushing carelessly against one leaf-like crystal, he tore open the side of his breeches and gashed his leg. The cut was long but not deep, and they stopped to bandage it.

A few miles further on, they came to a depression in the ground, shaped almost like an amphitheater. It was hundreds of yards across, and in the middle they saw a strange battle taking place. A cloud of pale green light was rolling around the lower edge of the depression like a marble in a bowl, as if it lacked the strength to climb out but was unable to stop moving. Wherever it rolled, armed skeletons burst forth from the ground, swords in hand. The cloud was pursued by a white haze of ghosts, which attacked the skeletons as soon as they appeared. There was no telling how long this battle had been going on; it might have been a ghastly re-enactment of some battle between living forces that took place before the Mournland was created.

They skirted a forest whose trees, blackened and dead, all seemed to have been pulled up by the roots and replanted upside down. Dark shapes moved between the trunks and branches, and skittered along the tops of the spreading roots. The nearest of the trees bent toward them, although there was no wind. They took care to stay out of reach of the clawing roots and branches.

At last Mordan and Tarrel had to rest. They stopped by a ruined farmstead that seemed largely intact. One end of the house had sagged like melted wax, but the barn was secure and free of dangerous creatures.

Brey stood guard as the two mortals slept, but their sleep was not restful. The unvarying gray light, and the noises that resounded across the weird landscape from time to time, made rest hard to find. After a few hours and a light meal, though, they were ready to move on.

After a few more hours’ walking, Brey stopped and sniffed the air.

“Do you smell that?” she asked. Mordan and Tarrel both shook their heads. Brey shrugged and turned to go—and then turned back with a hoarse cry of alarm. Mordan and Tarrel had already begun to turn, in response to the sudden dimming of the ever-present gray light. Towering above them was a horrific apparition. Taller than a house, it was red, with no apparent form. Shapes came and went across its surface, some looking like tortured faces crying for release. It was ready to fall on them like a rockslide.

Tarrel fell back and drew his orange-tipped wand. Mordan drew his rapier and stared at the thing, wondering what he could do against a creature that size, with no apparent weak spots. Brey stood beside them; the smell of blood had grown stronger since she first noticed it, and it was beginning to affect her. Her fangs lengthened, and a snarl distorted her face as her fingers spasmed into claws.

The abomination flowed forward. Mordan judged its speed, and was about to suggest they could outrun it when Brey leaped forward. She tore into the creature with claw and fang, ripping and snarling like a wild beast, but its translucent red body closed round her, apparently undamaged.

Mordan slashed at the thing, hoping to cut Brey free, but the cuts sealed themselves as soon as they were made. It lashed out at him with a pseudopod, and he flung himself aside, rolling back to his feet. He looked helplessly at Tarrel; they could see that inside the body of the thing, Brey was still fighting.

A ray of brilliant golden light shot from Tarrel’s wand, striking the upper part. As Mordan’s eyes recovered from the flash, he saw that a huge chunk of scarlet protoplasm had been blown away and lay on the ground beside the thing, writhing weakly. The wound was blackened around the edges, and the creature stopped moving momentarily. Then, as they watched, the charred wound became translucent red again.