Empire of Night (10 page)

Moria stared down at the girl, her body rotting in a pool of blood so deep it was still tacky. Moria looked at the thin blade, fallen at the girl's side.

“Why did she not use it to protect herself?” she said.

“Perhaps she never thought of it,” Tyrus said. “She looks
like a merchant's daughter. It may not have occurred to her.”

Moria shook her head. “I cannot believe that. If any girl saw that thing reaching through the door, and she had a shaving blade, she would use it, even if she'd never been trained to defend herself.”

A moment's pause. Then his voice lowered. “Perhaps she did not see the point. She could hear what was happening elsewhere in the village. She'd seen what had happened to her mother. Perhaps she thought there would be no sense fighting. That she would not—could not—escape.”

And perhaps she was right. No. She
was
right. The girl could have fought off this one shadow stalker, but there were more beyond the door. All the men of the town had turned to monsters, hunting and slaughtering.

There'd been no escape except this: a quick death where she did not need to look into her father's eyes and see the horror he'd become.

Moria spun on Tyrus. “Why was the emperor not quicker? If he'd been quicker—”

“The bodies are rotted, Moria,” he said, his voice still soft. “These people did not pass yesterday or even a few nights ago. I believe this happened almost as soon as you left.”

“And what would be the point in that?” she snapped. “Alvar was holding the village hostage, threatening to do exactly this. Why do it before your father has a chance to respond?”

“Because he knew my father could not respond. Could not give him what he asked for. So there was no reason to keep the townspeople alive. Better to slaughter them quickly, before they revolted. Harvest the menfolk for shadow stalkers. Leave
the corpses as a message to my father, one that says ‘you are responsible.' He knows my father too well, and he knows exactly how he'll play his hand—”

“This is not a game!” she roared, so loud the words scraped her throat raw. “Everyone here is
dead
. Everyone in Edgewood is
dead.
Every person I have known since I was a babe has been slaughtered or turned into a monster, and I'm not sure which is worse, but I know one thing—this is not a game!”

He reached out for her. She backed away and slid in the blood, and he caught her, arms going around her, gathering her in. When she struggled, his grip tightened. She pounded her fist against his back and he only said, “Go ahead. Let it out.” But she couldn't vent her rage on him, and she froze there, torn between anger and grief until her chest heaved. Then the tears came—great, gasping sobs, hot tears flowing down her cheeks, her body shaking, Tyrus holding her against him, whispering in her ear, telling her it was all right, no one was here, just him.

She'd cried twice after the massacre at Edgewood. Once when she found her father's Fire Festival gift. Again when she finally broke down with Ashyn, sharing their grief. But those were nothing like this, her whole body consumed, the sobs so deep they hurt, the tears like acid, stinging her eyes and her cheeks. This hurt. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong, so horribly wrong.

“I couldn't stop it,” she whispered, finally pulling back. “Not at Edgewood. Not here.”

“I know.” Tyrus held her face in his hands, fingers against her burning cheeks. He kissed her forehead. “I know.”

“I'm the Keeper. I'm supposed to be able to stop it.”

“I know,” he whispered again. And kissed her again, on her forehead, on her cheeks.

“I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop it.”

“I know.” More kisses, his lips blessedly soft and cool. “Neither do I, Moria. Neither do I.”

She looked up at him. His face moved over hers, mouth lowering toward hers. Then he stopped. He hovered there, then pulled her against him in a fierce hug. When she finally moved away, he rubbed his hand over his face and looked around, as if momentarily forgetting where they were.

“Thank you,” she said.

A wan smile. “No need. You keep my secret about what happened in the other house, and I'll keep yours about this.” He said the words lightly, but the haunted look crept into his eyes, fear and shame returning.

“It was the smell,” she said.

“No, it was a weak stomach. I've always had one, and I suppose I never realized the impediment it might cause on a battlefield. I . . .” His gaze shifted away. “I've never been on one. A battlefield.”

“The empire isn't at war.”
It hasn't been since before your birth.
She didn't say that. While it might allay his guilt, it would only remind him of that deeper fear, the one that said, after so long at peace, Tyrus wasn't the only one unprepared for war.

“There are still skirmishes at the borders,” he said. “I should have insisted on going. Sparring in the court isn't nearly enough. I see that now. This . . .” He motioned at the girl on the floor, then waved out toward the town beyond. “I've heard the stories, Moria, but they do not prepare one . . .”

“Nothing can,” she murmured.

“I worry now whether I—” A sharp shake of his head. “And now is not the time to think of that. We must tell the others what we've found. The town needs to be thoroughly searched for survivors. And then we'll search for the children of Edgewood. For now, remember them. They are still alive. I am certain of that.”

I
t did not take long to retrieve the others. There were already four warriors at the gate—the counselors having become concerned by their prince's vanishing inside—and Ashyn, who'd been threatening to go in herself.

On Tyrus's instructions, the warriors were to search the homes for survivors. The counselors, along with the scholars, were to follow, taking notes to convey to the emperor—the number of dead, the manner of death, anything they could glean from the bodies. Simeon did not make it past the first house, where he vomited so quickly that no one noticed someone had left a similar mess before him. Katsumoto and the counselors did not take to the task any more easily, requiring frequent breaks for air. Even the warriors often found excuses to step outside.

Ashyn wanted to aid the scholars and counselors. Moria forbade it. Ashyn was not trained in such reporting, so there
was no need to add to her nightmares. Finally, Ashyn relented and took Simeon to find the town hall, where they could retrieve records. Moria and Tyrus joined the search for survivors.

There were almost a hundred houses in the town. The task was as long as it was unpleasant. With each home, they would open every door and check every room. There were no cellars in Fairview, with the volcanic rock of the Wastes not far below the soil. That made the task swifter. It also, however, had robbed the townspeople of the best place to hide and survive. When the shadow stalkers had struck Edgewood, that's where Moria, Ashyn, and Ronan had been—underground, in the cells.

People here had fled to the community hall. The main doors were open. Inside, bodies carpeted the floor. Two lay at the foot of a closed interior door smeared with blood. The hands of the corpses were battered and swollen, as if these two had—like the woman in the first house—survived the first wave and died of their injuries, pounding on that door to be let inside.

“It's the storeroom,” Moria said. “When they brought us here to speak to Barthol, I saw inside. It was communal food storage, for charity and festivals and such.”

“That is where the townspeople went,” Tyrus said. “Where they could barricade themselves in and survive.”

Moria looked down at the two bodies by the foot of the door. Townspeople had fled into that room and dared not open it even for their neighbors.

Tyrus banged on the wooden door and announced himself.
Sounds came from within, but no one answered. After being in there a fortnight, any survivors would be much weakened. Tyrus tried again, and Moria did the same, telling them who she was, that she'd been here with her sister, that they'd come back to rescue them.

“We'll need an axe,” Tyrus said, stepping over the strewn bodies.

Moria pushed on the door. It moved a crack before banging shut again.

“Something's against it,” she said. “But it's not properly barricaded. Help me push.”

He did. Daigo came closer, but only to supervise. As soon as they got the door open a couple of handspans, he leaped through.

“Daigo!” Moria cried. “Don't—”

A hiss. A scrabbling. A shriek. Moria shoved the door wide and burst through, ready to calm the frightened—

The smell.
By the ancestors, the smell.
It sent her back out that door, propelling Tyrus with her. She pulled her tunic up over her nose. He did the same as he heaved breaths through his mouth to calm his stomach. Inside, Daigo hissed and spit. Enraged shrieks answered, so shrill that Moria's first thought was
Children! It's the children!
Then she caught the smell again and thought,
No, please don't let it be the children.

Stepping back through the door, Moria saw what Daigo was chasing. Rats. That's what had been making the squeals and the skittering. The only people in there . . . Moria saw what had been stopping the door. Bodies.

When the killing had started, townspeople had fled in
here. And then they had died, not because they'd run out of food or drink, but because there were men with them, and the shadow stalkers had sought out and possessed them. Then those who'd barricaded themselves inside had found they were trapped here.

Moria thought of those dead outside the door. Had they known what was happening within? Had they heard the screams and been trying to help? She squeezed her eyes shut and wished she'd not been blessed with such a vivid imagination.

After she surveyed the carnage, she turned to Tyrus. “There are no children. It is like Edgewood. No one under twelve summers remains.” Which was not entirely true. They'd seen babes in arms, as in Edgewood, but she'd not think of that.

“They've taken the children again,” Tyrus said. “As hostages.”

That, then, was all she could take from this. A spot of hope. The children lived.

“We should go,” Tyrus said. “The others can make the accounting here. It does not help to linger.”

She was about to call Daigo when he let out a snarl, and she spun to see him facing off with . . .

It was a rat. Yet it was not.

In the Forest of the Dead, they'd seen a twisted creature with quills. Gavril had said it must have adapted to the conditions of the forest. She looked at this rat, up against the wall, and she knew he'd lied. Whatever magics Alvar Kitsune had been working in that forest, preparing to raise the shadow stalkers, they had warped that beast.

This rat was nearly twice as big as the corpses of the others, swollen and bloated, with huge patches of angry pink skin showing through its coarse fur, as if it'd been stretched almost to the bursting point. Its eyes were lost in the lumpy, bloated mass that had become its head. Only the tips of its ears and nose protruded. And teeth. The swelling seemed to have pulled its lips back, its pin-sharp teeth exposed all the way around. A creature in transition, bloating and swelling as it metamorphosed into something else.

“It's sick or poisoned,” Tyrus said. “Daigo! Away!” He turned to Moria. “Call him off.”

Sick or poisoned.
Yes, perhaps that was it. Her imagination was getting the best of her.

She did not command Daigo to leave his prey, though. It would be an insult to call him off. She threw her dagger instead. It caught the rat-thing in the side and there was a grotesquely wet popping noise as the beast shrieked its last.

“Or you could just kill it yourself,” Tyrus said.

“That is the advantage to thrown daggers,” she said. “No need to get close enough to be attacked.”

“Just wash the blade well. Please.”

Daigo was looking around, as if for more enemies to fight. Tyrus bent and pulled out Moria's dagger. When he did, it seemed half the rat's insides bubbled out of the hole, like an overstuffed sausage roll.

“Well, that's disgusting,” said a voice behind them.

Moria turned to see Ronan. He stood in the doorway, and his gaze was no longer on the rat-thing, but sweeping the room, and as it did, any glimmer of humor fell from his face.

“It's all disgusting,” Moria said. “Unspeakably disgusting.”

Ronan nodded soberly. Moria reached for her dagger, but Tyrus was cleaning it and ignored her.

“You think that beast was infected?” Ronan asked Tyrus as he scrubbed the dagger with a cloth and wine from an open skin.

“Either that or it ate far too much.”

Ronan exchanged a look with Moria. He was thinking what she had been, and while she wanted to see that as proof that her imagination wasn't taking liberties with her common sense, she knew that, like her, he was probably overly quick to blame sorcery. They'd seen too much of it, in too short a time.

“We should take the corpse,” she said. “For study. Ronan can do that.”

“No, Ronan cannot,” Ronan said. “Because he isn't under your command, my lady. That thing will not walk away. Leave it for the warriors to collect. I have found something more interesting. A survivor.”

Tyrus and Moria hurried through Fairview, with only Daigo accompanying them. Ronan had given them directions and then slipped off.

He'd said he'd spotted a woman darting across a road, while Ashyn was still in the town hall. Had Ronan been keeping an eye on her? Moria hoped he wasn't playing with her sister's heart, as he determined his own feelings. She'd let it happen once with no repercussions. It would not happen again.

When they neared the house the woman had entered, Moria noted movement beyond a half-closed shutter. Across
the road, a pair of guards searched. They all made enough noise that any able-bodied survivors should be dashing from their homes.

“But how would they know we're rescuers?” Tyrus said. “She may have heard me identify myself. She may have seen me and recognized my armbands. Yet even if she knows who I am . . . ?” He shrugged. “Would you come out so quickly?”

After being beset by bandits and shadow stalkers, one might not trust the emperor himself if he appeared and offered sanctuary. And given what Moria had seen, if someone had been trapped in this town for almost a fortnight, it was entirely possible she was not in her proper mind.

“In here,” she said, motioning to a house across the road.

From inside, they watched the house where the woman hid. Finally, the front door opened. A woman peeked out. She was younger than Moria expected, no older than Tyrus. She looked one direction and then the other, and, once convinced the way was clear, the young woman darted out and slipped into another house farther down.

“Avoiding the search,” Tyrus said. “She does not want to be found.”

“Well, she will be,” Ronan said, appearing as if he'd come in through a window. “Do we have a plan?”