A Sense of Dark Horror

Death In Harmony: Part Twenty-Four of Twenty-Nine

Death In Harmony is the fifth in the Tales of The Lesser Evil and this is the twenty-fourth chapter.

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This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

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A Sense of Dark Horror

The Present: somewhere north of The Pit

‘Fuck, I missed anything vital,’ the woman said, already pulling another arrow from her quiver.

The man had stopped running towards them as soon as the arrow had struck him. Now, he stood still, one hand still raised to protect his head against his invisible assailants, the other holding the shaft protruding from his side. He shook his head, unsure what had happened, then looked up.

Even from where they stood, Flin saw the moment the man regained complete control of his mind. His movements became smoother, more focused, his head tilting slightly as he saw them, eyes widening as he realised what he was seeing—who he was seeing—and the realisation that he was staring straight down the shaft of another arrow, already being pulled back, ready for release. He twisted, throwing himself to his right and screamed, as the shaft in his side hit the ground, snapping off. He rolled once, then leapt up, staggered, and ran.

The woman’s second arrow missed entirely, passing through the space where he had stood a moment before and disappearing into the ruins.

‘Fuck!’ she repeated, before immediately giving chase.

Flin did not wait either, but launched herself into a sprint, only to catch her toe on something unseen and stumble with her very next step, arms flailing, trying to balance herself: trying, but failing. Her momentum carried her on and she went sideways, balance askew, leg twisting, crashing into a small bush and entangling herself within its thorny embrace.

It was difficult to extract herself from the clutching thorns, each movement pulling at her, catching and rending. A part of her felt a deep sadness that her clothing was now certainly beyond repair, long rips, puncture marks and flapping fabric all that seemed to remain once she broke free, her escape accompanied by the sound of material tearing, twigs snapping, and her own cursing.

The other part marvelled at how much distance the other two had covered in the time she had remained trapped. They were almost out of sight, following a gently curving street which she could see initially ran parallel to the line of markers, before easing into the centre of the city, towards the tower.

Too late, Flin realised neither the man nor the woman knew this.

Then they were out of sight, disappeared behind a building with a garishly painted yellow and orange wall, gone.

‘Oh, fuck,’ she whispered. She knew she did not have long to act; the memory of what had happened to Shint out at The Maelstrom tearing at her mind like the thorns that had ripped into her clothing and skin.

Flin briefly considered drawing her knife, but a quick glance back at the bush stopped her. What if she fell again, what if she fell on to her own blade? That would be a less-than-heroic end. The cuts from the thorns were bleeding, some of them more than she would have liked, especially one which burned a jagged line across her forehead. She was grateful it had missed her eye, however much it burned.

She ran, going exactly the same way the other two had gone. She knew she had protection, and they did not and, as she ran, she felt the pouch below her throat warming, as it had on several occasions in her life—occasions, with one exception, she would prefer to forget.

This was true magic. Real and deep and dangerous. Who—or what—had created this area at the very centre of a long dead city, had done so using power beyond the comprehension of mortals. Not for the first time, she forced down a flash of sudden sheer terror, a sense of dark horror that such beings existed, that perhaps the stories were all true.

‘One step, two step,’ she gasped as she ran, ‘One step, two step.’ It was not the best mantra, and certainly nothing close to some of the songs she had woven whilst fleeing at other times, but it carried her onwards, kept her mind from betraying her, burying her beneath a blanket of terror.

The buildings she passed were extraordinary, the stonework still as fresh as the day the city had died. The windows were glazed, each pane clear and, despite a layer of grime, see-through, totally unlike the expensive but whirled and bubbled glass she was used to seeing in certain rich homes. When she had been invited into such places to perform, that was; it had been a long time since anyone had allowed her to entertain at a private party. A very long time indeed. The thought almost made her laugh, imagining turning up in the rags she was running in, covered in scratches and blood and dirt, proudly announcing the wondrous stories and rapturous songs with which she could delight any party, all the fashionable and exotic dances she could lead, the jokes, the laughter, the merry and the mirth. And the money which followed. It was enough to make her snort.

Ahead, she saw the woman, crouching on the ground beside an ornate water fountain, which somehow still spewed a steady stream of liquid, as high as Flin stood tall. She had her arms around her head, and was rocking backwards and forwards, side to side, in a circle. Beyond her, the man had fallen, laying in a foetal position, arms likewise protecting his own head. He was not moving.

Flin slowed, and drew her knife, memories of the other men she had killed over the years flooded her, as they always did when she had time to ponder coming violence. Dealing out death never got any easier for her, no matter how justified she felt it was, and those lines had blurred a long time ago.

The woman continued to flail and stare into nothing, the man twitched a little, but kept his arms tight. The pouch at Flin’s throat was hot now, and she was sure she could smell the leather beginning to scorch. She walked over to the man and crouched behind him, gently easing her arm beneath his, curled as it was around his head, then pushing the point of her blade into his jugular, seemingly unseen and unnoticed. The tip came out the other side and blood pumped from both holes. She pushed forward and down as she had been taught by a friend, a long time ago, tearing through his throat and trying to avoid the sudden, vigorous shower as best she could. He kept his arms around his head, still protecting against something only he could see, unaware that he had but moments left to live.

Flin began to straighten and move away, then she paused and turned back, bending to pull the broken arrow from his side, before rifling through his pockets. She found very little worth taking, other than a small knife, the wood and leather sheath tightly wound with a good length of expensive wire. This went into her own pocket, more for the wire than the knife.

She was again about to leave the now-still body, when her fingers brushed against a lump in the fabric belt he wore around his waist. She swiftly untwisted the material. Within was another small, carved stone figurine, this time carved from something red, but also wrapped in intricate golden clothing. The similarity to the tiny statue she had found herself was clear and she tucked it beside the other, in the secret sleeve pocket which was, she realised, just about the only piece of her clothing not ripped. The figure might prove another potential bargaining chip, another potential way to save her life or buy her freedom. Flin guessed he had found the statuette in the same place she had, and she guessed there would be many more to be found too.

Around her, whenever she looked up, she could see small pieces of pattern at the very edge of her vision, similar to those she and her friends had drawn with chalk as children, after rubbing their eyes too hard. They flickered, but she saw no obvious images in the way she knew others did; the leather pouch, burnished through years of her own sweat and oils, was hotter, uncomfortably so. She knew she had to move fast; she did not want to find out the limits of the contents in such a place, best not to push her luck. Behind her loomed the tower, the occasional brighter flash seemingly emanating directly from the top.

She glanced back the way she had come, wondering how far she would have to drag the woman, whether to leave her bow or take it, and how to move her. However, as soon as she laid a hand on her shoulder, talking softly and calmly, she found she could encourage her to a crouching stance, then a shuffling step. Flin carried the bow in her free hand, the other around the shoulders of the woman, all the time talking of very little, the tone comforting and peaceful, the words practically nonsense.

‘What do you mean? Lions, dancing?’

Flin knew they had travelled far enough from the strangeness of the centre when the woman spoke, her voice dry, hoarse and rattling in her throat.

‘Nothing. I was just talking to keep you calm while I got you out, making up a story.’

‘You came in for me. You saved me,’ she scrubbed at her face and groaned. ‘Fuck,’ she drew the word out, elongating the vowel and explosively releasing her breath at the end, before adding, ‘Not again.’

Flin was unsure how to respond.

‘I really do not like being in debt,’ the woman continued, ‘I really do not like it. I’ve had some issues with that in the past. Trouble. Problems, but I thought I’d balanced the scales by nursing my, my friend through her broken leg,’ she gestured, roughly in the direction they had originally walked from when tracking the man, clearly still intent on not using any names, ‘Apparently, however, I have not.’

‘I killed the man.’

The woman turned and looked back at where he lay.

‘Yes, yes you did. But that doesn’t count as debt. You brought that here, that was your problem too.’

‘True.’

They both slumped to the ground, silent for a time.

‘What did you see?’ Flin asked, when her natural curiosity got the better of her,

‘Nothing I’d care to share. It was not pleasant, not at all. Worse than the first time. I suspect, had you not got me out, I’d still be there, losing my mind entirely. What the fuck happened to you, anyway?’ She added, noticing Flin’s shredded clothing and long, deep scratches. The woman seemed to say fuck a lot.

‘I fell,’ Flin replied, ‘into a bush.’ She felt embarrassed, especially when the woman’s eyes widened and she began to laugh, a surprisingly melodious sound, compared to her rough voice. It was infectious and, before long, they were both laughing, until tears ran down their cheeks.

When they had eventually finished, Flin passed the woman her arrowhead and bow, and sighed.

‘There’s still one more man, you know?’

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