The craft itself was built for function, rather than form. This was the first thing that had occurred to Farris when he had taken his seat behind Nicole. The ship’s body was as long as Blind Jacob’s skiff, but Farris remembered the old smuggler’s vessel being far more comfortable than this. He was fastened tightly in his seat, with leather straps binding his waist to the chair and his feet to the floor. There was one more empty seat behind Farris, and very little room for much else.
It won’t be a large rescue operation then. He couldn’t help but think of those he had known back in the capital. Derelith from the pawnbrokers, Ardal from the Lamb’s Head… he even found himself smiling at the memory of that barmaid from the Stained Glass with whom he shared his penultimate night in Cruachan. He struggled to remember her name, though. Jana? Jade? The smile on his face quickly vanished when he considered that they were all probably dead already. Or dying.
Or undead….
After some time, Skirmisher took them over the valley of the Tulcha, the river of the same name meandering through the empty hills. The last time he had travelled this way, Farris had seen a plethora of life on the banks of that river, but now there was nothing. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that they had not seen a single animal since leaving Penance.
The sun was sinking over the Eternal Sea to the west, illuminating the whole ocean with hues of amber and gold.
“Do you really believe the sea has no end?” asked Farris, hoping to take his mind of the dead landscape below.
“I believe in nothing until I see it,” replied Nicole. “I did know an astronomer once who claimed there was only one ocean… and sailing west across the Eternal Sea would bring you to the lands of the east.”
“And those lands,” Farris ventured. “I take it that you don’t believe they are as inhabitable as the Church claims?”
Nicole snorted. “Whatever you do, don’t mention the Grey Plague near Argyll. He could bore a hole in a stone with the stories he’d tell about that.”
“Can you give me a summary, at least?”
She sighed. “Four hundred-odd years ago, Móráin the First led the Humans to conquer Alabach. This is common knowledge, of course, as is the reason why Móráin and his people were fleeing the lands of the east.”
“The Grey Plague consumed them,” muttered Farris. The memory of his final night in Cruachan suddenly surfaced. “I met a Simian once who claimed the Humans themselves brought the plague. He said something about more native Simians dying from illness than from the swords and spells of Man.”
“Close enough to what Argyll believes,” said Nicole. “but he goes one step further. He reckons there never was a plague. Móráin’s people wanted to settle on our land, so they invented a story about a Grey Plague devouring their homes to give them a reason to come to our shores.”
“And what do you think?” asked Farris.
“He has a point. Sin’s stones! Even the Arch-Canon himself couldn’t tell you what exactly the Grey Plague was. Tell me, why would such an important detail of such an important story be forgotten after a mere four centuries? The historians of the Basilica can tell you the colour of Móráin’s smallclothes if you’re enquiring. If such a plague did exist, surely those folks would know all about it.”
“Maybe they do know,” said Farris. “Maybe they’re just keeping some truths to themselves.”
“Aye. Not some truths, but the Truth. That’s what the Sons believe, but that’s an entirely different theory. If we make it back to Penance, I’ll be sure to tell Argyll and Ruairí you want to know more.”
***
Night had fallen by the time the fires of Cruachan could be seen, and it wasn’t long after that when Farris could smell the acrid scent of the charring corpses.
The North Wall of Cruachan was ablaze, marked by a thick pillar of smoke spiralling into heavens. Here and there, flashes of fire illuminated the grounds surrounding the city. At first, Farris could have sworn that the ground itself was moving; writhing and pulsating like it were alive. Another flash came, and with blinding horror, Farris realised that the ground was far from alive. He was gazing at the horde itself.
“Gods,” cried Nicole. The shock in her voice was evident, and it seemed she didn’t notice her peculiar choice of expletive. Farris didn’t comment. The more he looked down upon the teeming undead, the more the hope drained from his spirit.
“They… they just keep going,” whispered Nicole, gesturing out to the east. It was true. As far as their eyes could see, the land was black with the dead.
Farris had never seen an army of any scale before, but he supposed he knew what one should look like. Nothing about the horde resembled what he imagined an army to be. None held torches, for he supposed they no longer had use for light, even as they marched through the darkness. There was no order to their movement, just wave upon wave of bodies, hurdling towards the last shore of mankind. Cruachan. The Grey Keep. The seat of King Diarmuid the Third.
“Focus, Farris,” said Nicole. “We only have one shot at this, and I doubt that’ll even be enough.”
Farris tore his eyes away from the terror below and turned his attention to the task at hand. They were over the city walls now, and the cries of the battle beneath them were clearly audible. Plumes of smoke from burning buildings rose up to meet the Skirmisher, but the little vessel ploughed through them as if they were mere clouds.
“That used to be Saint Lorcan’s Cathedral,” said Farris, gesturing to a collapsed and ruined structure to the south of the city. Like much else around them, it too was burning.
“Don’t look down,” said Nicole. “If we fail tonight, Penance might take this city’s place. Keep your eyes on the Grey Keep.”
“The Grey Keep,” Farris reminded himself, squinting through the smoke. The great stone structure was still standing on the southern side of the city, but after seeing the extent of the horde, Farris supposed it wouldn’t be standing for much longer.
“Do you think she’s here?” asked Farris. “The girl. Morrígan. Do you think—”
“All that concerns you,” cut in Nicole, “is whether or not Diarmuid is where you claim he’ll be.”
“He’ll be there,” said Farris. “His private quarters are just about the safest part of the keep. Any other king would have fled the city, but not Diarmuid. He has always blurred the line between stubbornness and strength.”
Skirmisher glided over the Grey Keep. Despite his best efforts, Farris glanced down at the castle grounds, only for an instant. There, he saw men dressed in the reds and blacks of the city-guard struggling against the undead. The living corpses crawled across the moat, not slowing despite a heavy shower of arrows raining upon them. Two battlemages in green added salvos of rocks to the arrows, but these seemed to help even less. Beyond the moat, a group of four Simian guards stood with their backs to one another, surrounded by a dozen skeletal soldiers. One wight lunged in first, only to be cut down by a living soldier... but the poor souls were unable to fight off the other skeletons that followed. Once the struggle was over, a moment of peace fell over the fallen Simians before their fresh corpses spasmed abruptly. Farris looked away before they started to rise.
“This is as close as I can go,” said Nicole. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? There’s a lot riding on this, Farris. Clear your mind of all distractions and fears. All worries and—”
“Just give me the damn rope.”
Nicole reached under the controls of the ship and fished out a thick loop of hempen rope. She passed it back to Farris without turning back to look.
“It’s already bound to the stern,” she said. “It’ll be strong enough and long enough, provided you don’t go wandering around the keep. Or gods forbid, attempt to fight the dead themselves.”
“Again, with the gods,” Farris said. “Has the sight of the horde turned you toward faith?”
“If we live to see the end of this, I’ll take the damn cloth itself.”
