Asunder (25 page)

            He put his head between his knees and covered his ears. When the other sounds started, the sounds of magic and fighting, he trembled. Somewhere in the distance he heard Rhys shout in pain, but Cole remained where he was. He felt like a coward. The darkness outside of his hiding place was too daunting. The creatures were everywhere. If he could have run back to the tower right then, he would have.

            Sometime during that night, exhaustion overcame him. It wasn't sleep. It was a torment of strange dreams. Memories stirred in him, like old wounds ripping open and spewing forth rot. He saw faces, but didn't know why they terrified him. He was hiding, but it wasn't between two rocks . . . it was somewhere else, somewhere dark and small that lay in the distant past. He wanted nothing more than to get out. And run.

            And then he woke. The music reached a tendril down into the dark waters he floundered in and dragged him up into the light. The winds had begun again, and rather than being immediately worried about what had become of Rhys, his only thought was
I am alive.
He felt relieved . . . and utterly alone.

            Cole rose from the rocks, stiff and caked in grit . . . and froze. One of those creatures was standing not ten feet away. It looked like a man, but wasn't. It was a man who had been eaten away by something evil inside, eaten until the darkness oozed out and spat upon the world. And it reacted. It spun around, staring at Cole with terrifying glassy eyes, a window into its tormented existence.

            Of all the things he would want to see him, this wasn't one.

            And then, ever so slowly, the creature's gaze shifted. It wasn't looking at Cole after all . . . or, rather, it didn't see him. It
smelled
him.

            It sniffed, and then let out a ragged hiss. It took a step toward the rocks where Cole stood. He inched his hands toward the dagger on his belt. He didn't want to draw it. Yet. One more step and he would have no choice. And then . . . then the other creatures would come. They would know.

            But the music saved him again. It swelled suddenly, just as the wind did, and the creature's gaze moved upward. Sunlight managed to worm its way through the grey clouds, just for a moment, and the creature recoiled as if in pain. It scrambled up the rocks and away . . . and within moments it was gone.

            It hadn't been easy to discover which way Rhys and the others went. Cole found the little camp at the base of the metal tower, a spike jutting out of the sand like a skeletal finger that beckoned to him from afar, but the wind had already erased their trail. What little he could find showed there had been all sorts of movement around there, perhaps the previous night. Cole felt utterly helpless.

            And then he did the only thing he could: he followed the chasm. It was a wound in the side of the world. Long ago, something had split the ground apart and let out something dark, something that lingered like the smoke after a fire. The sight of the chasm left him awestruck, dwarfed by its immensity, and he felt nervous being so close to it. But he had no other choice— Rhys had been heading in this direction so far; Cole had to assume he would continue on.

            And that's when he found the castle that perched on the very edge of the chasm. There were templars outside on horses, waiting around and laughing at jokes as they drank from canteens. He recognized some of them. Big Nose was there. Why, he had no idea. They hadn't come with Rhys, after all.

            He ignored them, and picked his way gingerly through the rubble in the courtyard. He didn't like this place. There was a . . . presence here. The music had withered away to nothing during the day, but now a whisper had replaced it. It spoke words in his ear, too faint to be discerned but enough to set his nerves on edge. Death filled this place up, and it was more than just the pile of burnt corpses he didn't want to see. Terror was imprinted on the stones, as clear as if written there yesterday.

            Why would Rhys come here?

            There were horses in the courtyard, which meant Rhys had gone into the keep— but how long ago? Cole entered, shuddering as he passed through the doorway. The whispers were worse inside. They told him to be afraid, and he was.

            Worse, there was no trail to follow in here, either. No voices, no sounds of footsteps, nothing. Cole waited, rubbing his arms briskly to warm them up.

            "Rhys!" he called out.

            The echoes answered back: Rh
ys! . . . Rhys!

            "Are you here? It's Cole!"

           
Cole! . . . Cole!

            Nothing.

            He kept hoping someone would walk into the entry chamber, anyone he could then follow farther within. What he didn't want to do was go exploring on his own. But he was left with no choice, wasn't he? Up? Down? One of the side passages?

            He chose up. Down seemed too . . . he would only go down those dark stairs if he truly had to.

            The stairs were littered with strange things, like some animal had been busy strewing them about: bloody pieces of clothing, broken furniture, a child's doll. People had lived here. This castle was someone's home, or had been.

            For over an hour he roamed the halls of the upper floors. There were bedrooms, or at least they might have once been such. The beds were demolished, the furniture ripped apart. Blood was everywhere, but not a single body. Everything was still. What few windows existed were all barred, and the faint light they admitted did little more than show thick clouds of dust hanging in the air. Everything smelled stale, and strangely meaty.

            Cole's heart began to pound. What if Rhys wasn't here after all? He called out several more times, but still there was no response. What if Rhys couldn't hear him? Cole could be fading away, even now, just as he'd always feared.

            He stopped in a dark hallway and leaned against a wall, sweat slowly pouring down his face. He felt like he was burning up, despite the chill. What was he going to do? He'd been around and around these abandoned rooms, but whoever had been here was long dead or long gone.

            And then he paused.

            There was someone nearby. He knew, in the same way he knew when the templars brought someone to the tower— someone who would see him.

            Slowly he stepped away from the wall and crouched down low, drawing the dagger from his belt. His senses felt alive, and he reached out through the darkness to find where this person was hiding.
Almost. Almost. . . .

           
T ere.

            Cole moved through the darkness. He could hear their heart beating, like an insistent lure drawing him close. He could
feel
their despair. In the silence it was like a clarion call. How could he not have heard it sooner?

            Up the stairs again to the top level of the keep. Down a dark hall almost devoid of litter and blood. What ever had happened barely touched this place. There was dried blood on the wall, a few smears on the floor . . . but some of the rooms were almost intact. One bedroom he passed looked like it might have been a nursery, a carved wooden crib just waiting patiently for its babe to return.

            And then he was there. Some kind of sitting room, maybe. He'd never seen a room like this in the White Spire, so he had nothing against which to compare it. Someone wealthy might have lived here, once. There was a fancy- looking chair with a red leather cushion, a cold fireplace, a massive bookshelf that covered all of one wall . . . all of it untouched. Even the books were still where they were supposed to be.

            But someone had died here. A rumpled rug covered in patterns of red and gold lay in the center of the room, and in the middle of it was a large and ugly pool of blood. Black and dry. They had fought hard, he thought— there were long splatters of blood along the wall nearby, and a large splash on the bookshelf. The smear leading from the rug said they'd been dragged out.

            Another door led beyond, but that didn't matter. The person he sensed was in here. He crept around the room, trying to listen. The faint buzzing of flies, nothing more. But they were
here
. He knew it.

            Suddenly Cole leapt at the rug and threw it back. He was rewarded with the sight of a wooden trapdoor hidden beneath. It, too, was stained with blood . . . but someone was beyond. He knelt down and pulled it open, its hinges creaking loudly.

            A dark cubby-hole was revealed, and a figure cried out in fear and cowered. It was a young woman, and she tried to squirm out from under the trapdoor's opening— unsuccessfully. He stared at her: skin stretched thin over her bones and black hair wild from fear. Homely, dressed in only a dirty smock. Covered in filth from head to toe. Surrounding her was evidence she'd been in there for some time: bits of dried food, a stained blanket, and the overpowering stench of urine.

            He'd seen people who never slept, kept in the tower's dungeon until their minds reached the breaking point. She was like that. She trembled as much from exhaustion as she did from fear.

            And she could see him. The sense of relief he felt was palpable.

            It was some time before she peeked out from under her hands. Her eyes rapidly darted to his dagger and then back to his face. "Are you . . . going to kill me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

            "Do you want me to kill you?"

            She didn't answer.

            "I can take this all away, if you like. I can make it quick."

            She stared into his eyes; inch by inch, her trembling eased. There was nothing but silence between them, and he realized she understood. She knew what he offered her: a way out of the pain and the fear. But she couldn't bring herself to say the words.

            Cole ran his thumb along the edge of his blade. She couldn't move. He was the guardian on the precipice between life and death, no one else. Already he felt that familiar stirring inside him, that old fear demanding he fight to stay in this world.
Never give up,
it said. Don'
t fade away into the night.

            But what would Rhys say?

            He would say that Cole was mad, that he shouldn't listen to that stirring. That killing someone didn't help him, or make him more real. But was that true? Looking down at this girl, knowing what she had been through— would it be any better to leave her as she was? Every one of those people he found in the tower had agreed to release, in their way. He struggled with the idea, turning it over and over in his head.

            "I'm not going to kill you," he finally said.

            The young woman began to weep. At first he thought it must have been the wrong choice, but then he realized her tears were of relief and nothing more. She covered her face and cried so hard she trembled. Cole felt sad for her, and decided it was best if he left her alone. He turned away.

            "No!" she cried. T en, more hesitantly: "Please . . . don't go."

            He stopped. She continued to stare at him, but still didn't move from the hole.

            "Have you seen Rhys?" he asked.

            She looked confused. "I don't know who that is."

            "How long have you been in there?"

            "I . . . go out sometimes, to get food. But I have to hide at night."

            "Why?"

            Her eyes became dark. "Because they come for you at night."

            So there were others. Somewhere. Cole knew where, of course: down. The place he didn't want to go, but would have to now. He got up to leave.

            "Please!" she shouted, then covered her mouth in horror at her volume. Slowly she sat up in the cubby-hole, poking her head over the edge and staring around at the room with wide eyes. Her breathing was rapid and loud.

            He waited, and eventually she crept out onto the floor, alert for the slightest sound. When he began to move toward the doorway, she ran after him and clung to his shoulder. Her nails bit into his arm. "Where are you going?" she begged.

            "I have to find Rhys."

            "They’ll kill you!"

            Cole couldn't think of a good response for that. If whomever she spoke of was going to kill him . . . then they were going to kill Rhys, too. That worried him. What if Rhys was already dead? His only friend gone, and he'd come all this way and not even been able to protect him. Knight- Captain might have killed him, too. Maybe that's why all the templars were here.

            Her face was inches away from his own. It seemed like she would crawl under his skin if she could, but he tried not to mind. It had . . . been so long since anyone had touched him. He couldn't even remember the last time. It felt good. Like he was real. It was even worth the smell.

            "Do you have a name?" she asked him quietly.