I Will Fight

Death In Harmony: Part Nine of Twenty-Nine

Death In Harmony is the fifth in the Tales of The Lesser Evil and this is the ninth 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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I Will Fight

The past: below Youlbridge

The tunnels that wormed and twisted beneath Youlbridge were constantly changing, each different from the others, from moment to moment, complicated and dangerous. In parts, she seemed to be passing through a smooth, water-washed natural cave, in others, walking along an ancient street, arches and impressively thick vaulting holding the city up above her head. Whole buildings still stood, enclosed in the dark embrace of the underworld, windows gaping uselessly, doors to former homes now black mouths that seemed to scream as she passed.

Here and there were piles of fallen masonry, debris from a world where humanity still walked beneath the sun, elsewhere, the former alleys and footpaths were remarkably clear of any such detritus, almost swept clean. There was little rotting rubbish of the sort she had expected, the occasional pile beneath a chink of lighter-darkness that signified a hole between this underworld and Youlbridge as she knew it, a way in to the below, a one-way passage between worlds.

The directions Flin had been given led to a set of stairs, each step taking her further down into the dark of the inner-world. At their head stood an ancient statue of a stern woman, her hands outstretched, one palm out, the other towards her. Graffiti adorned the bronze from which she had been cast: scratches, crude symbols, pictures and indecipherable marks, for the main. Before leaving with Rharsle, Flin had known only four people who could write. Her older sister, Kem, in her role as the village’s apprentice scribe, one of them. More people, however, enjoyed drawing. It seemed that whoever had decorated the woman had principally enjoyed carving simple figures, sporting breasts and penis both, over and over in a spiral up and down her legs.

‘Right, little one, down we go. Then we take the left trail, then left again, before climbing another set of stairs.’ She knew the directions were correct; memorising things quickly and accurately had been a task Rharsle had set from the very first day of her training, even before she had left the town where her father had sold her. One day, when she found home again, when she felt safe once more, then she and Kem would sit all winter long, warming themselves beside a big fire, Kem writing down all the songs and all the stories Flin knew. Until then, she had no idea how many were lodged in her mind.

They walked slowly, each of Flin’s senses straining as she listened to the strangely echoed sounds from the world above and, once, to something she was sure came from behind her. She turned swiftly, sure she was being followed, but saw nothing.

‘Just another echo,’ she whispered, yet she strung her bow and pulled an arrow from her quiver, checking the fletching in the pool of light from her lantern, just in case. It was difficult to carry the bow and lantern in the same hand, especially with Kadan wriggling against her, the quiver bouncing off her leg and the pack rubbing against her shoulders. She wished she had time to practice with the bow, learn how best to draw with the baby impeding her movement. The sooner she was out of the deep darkness, the better.

Ninety-nine careful steps down, the stairway lined with tall walls on both sides, each constructed from huge blocks of stone, fitting together neatly, with barely a crack. The rock sparkled in the lamplight and faded, painted signs were still visible in the gloom.

How long since anyone had been down here? Mariea had told Flin she had last used the secret ways a decade before. She had smuggled someone, whom she refused to name, out of the city, and had been handsomely rewarded for her efforts. The following spring a small cart of the finest Ornock red wine arrived at the inn. A gift that proved twice valuable, as each amphora also held golden coins hidden in the base.

As Mariea stuffed food into a canvas shoulder bag for her, Flin had listened as she explained how sudden money was unwise, how it had taken another year to exchange and launder enough of the gold to pay off their loans and afford the repairs the inn needed.

Mariea had paused, looked at Flin and smiled, then reached into a large jar in the pantry, no different from any of the dozens of others.

‘Here. I know Sarah already gave you a bonus, but it makes sense for you to share this. Good luck Flin, I hope to see you again one day.’ Then she had dropped five heavy golden coins into her hand and helped Sarah open the trapdoor.

Flin now carried those coins with forty-three silver, as well as the selection of tiny golden nuggets and a vial full of even finer golden dust, the tiny glass container no bigger than her littlest finger, the remnant of her teacher’s meagre life savings. The wealth weighed heavy on her belt, in her pockets, and in her mind. Each metal told a tale of its own, whether the simple route a coin had travelled, or the more personal histories, the inns where Rharsle and Flin had been paid in nuggets or dust. Together, it was a fortune, but gold alone could not show her the way home, nor would it ensure her safety. Gold was a danger unto itself, a magnet for the wrong eyes, the wrong hands, and the wrong intent.

The stairs ended and Flin swore aloud; at some point in the ten years since Mariea had come this way, the route had become blocked. Immense blocks of masonry were piled high where a wall had tumbled, crashing down to fill the space she had hoped to travel, completely obscuring the tunnel to the left. The way was blocked, the directions now useless.

‘Shit.’

She checked to see if there was any way she could crawl over, through or under the wreckage, but it stretched from the shattered cobbles to as far as the lamplight reached over her head.

‘Shit. We’ll have to go back.’

‘Yes, come back to us,’ came an answer from above.

Flin loosed an arrow and had another drawn and nocked before she had even finished turning her head to the source of the sound, almost dropping the lantern as she spun, the word ‘us’ still echoing over and over. She had drawn and released instinctively, and had almost caught the bowstring against Kadan’s head in the process.

She could see nothing, hear nothing more.

‘Who’s there?’ she called, projecting her voice as though on stage, trying to muster courage, to sound strong, less of a target, yet her heart was in her mouth, pulse racing and her muscles tense.

Silence. Then the sound of feet, running, slapping against the stone somewhere above at the top of the steps. She almost released the second arrow into the darkness, but held back, waiting.

She was met with more silence. Whoever had spoken was toying with her.

Flin risked a look back at the jumble of fallen masonry. The small cobbled square at the foot of the stairs had two other exits, one to the right and another in between, opposite the steps. It seemed sensible to take the latter path, as it was the one closest to the directions she had been given. Perhaps she could try and somehow loop back to join the original route.

She tightened the straps on her pack with one hand, holding the nocked arrow, bow, and lantern in the other, checking Kadan was snug and safe before slowly backing towards the opening. Her heart beat faster and faster, her eyes trying to see any movement in the blackness.

‘Come back to us.’ The whisper seemed to come from almost directly overhead. Sound travelled strangely underground, noises deceptive in the dark.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Silence was the only reply.

She let out a small, involuntary whimper when she backed into something, before realising she had covered the distance behind her faster than she had thought. That would not do. If there were sudden drops, debris or other perils, she could not risk Kadan’s safety. She drew a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

The steps were almost invisible now, just an indistinct patch of slightly more textured black. Was something moving there, at the edge of the light? Was that noise footsteps, or her own thundering heartbeat?

Fear threatened to overwhelm and, rather than allow it to paralyse her, Flin forced herself to move. One step, two steps. She walked along what had once been a street of average width and she stayed in the middle, eyes scanning sideways, forward and backward. She looked up and could just make out a high, vaulted ceiling, details vague in the stretching lamplight. She was sure she could see something moving up there, a shadow crawling beneath the stonework, so slowly. She moved faster, heart beating in her throat, palms sweating and the feeling she was sinking through her own body. Her armpits were cold and wet, each breath more shallow, faster than the last.

Flin had never been this scared in her whole life; even when Rharsle had died, even when he had taken her from all she had known, she had been afraid, yes, but not like this. Having another life to care for on top of her own seemed to have heightened her terror to levels she was not sure she could cope with, every small noise made her bite back screams, every perceived movement willed her to loose an arrow.

‘I will fight, I will fight with all I have. I will fight.’ She thought she had been talking in her head, but then heard a soft echo of her words and realised she had been muttering the phrase aloud, as a mantra.

Check, step, check again, step. She repeated the actions, over and over, breaking down her retreat into tiny manageable portions, all the while whispering,

‘I will fight.’

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