Like Fire Through Bone (27 page)

“Look,” Markos said, voice soft and urgent. He pointed to the cliff.

Something moved. Vasilios stared through the dark until his eyes strained, trying to make it out. Something out there was moving. There were things coming out of the holes in the rock face, Vasilios realized with rising dread. He moved his hand from his chest to press against Markos’s shoulder, warm and strong under his fingers.

The things dropped out of their holes onto the ground below and began to move around the pool toward where Gyllou stood. Now what they were was unmistakable—the bodies of the dead raised up.

As if in mockery of the last days,
Vasilios thought, remembering one of the few Church images that had ever made an impression on him. He tightened his grip on Markos’s shoulder, as cold fear began crawling up from the inside of his gut.

Below them in the quarry, Aritê began to chant again, voice still strong and sure. As she chanted, she stretched out her arms toward Gyllou. Vasilios was sure her gesture was meant to hold the demon back, but she almost looked like she sought to embrace it.

Brother Stavros turned and headed toward the pool of dark water.

“We need to move.” Markos stood swiftly. “Aritê can’t hold the demon back and deal with those things. Stay here.”

“I….” Vasilios half rose, and Markos glared at him.

“You promised me,” Markos hissed, and Vasilios sat back on his heels. He started to tell Markos to be safe, but Markos was already gone, moving quick and silent into the quarry. Dark forms detached themselves from other rock formations and headed toward the slow-moving figures of the dead within the quarry. Vasilios clenched his hand tight around the hilt of his sword and reminded himself that he had promised Markos he’d stay back and stay safe.

Down below in the quarry, someone screamed, high, keening, and inhuman, and Brother Stavros’s deep voice began to chant now in Latin. The crack and thud of metal hitting and cutting into something solid had Vasilios tightening his grip on the sword he wore at his waist. He inched forward to look more easily around the jagged stones he still knelt behind.

The demon Gyllou still stood facing Aritê, hands now outstretched toward her as if pushing against something Vasilios couldn’t see. Vasilios barely made out that Aritê was swaying a little. He couldn’t tell if she was chanting or praying or merely silent.

Brother Stavros stood, hands clasped in prayer, chanting at the water’s edge, while around them dark figures grappled with each other. Vasilios couldn’t tell which was Markos, and he swallowed nervously.

Someone, a human someone, bellowed in pain, which turned into a hacking, gurgling cough and then went silent. Vasilios was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, and it took a lot of effort to force himself to sink back down.
He had promised Markos.
He clenched his fists tight.

“Little seer.” Gyllou’s voice rang out with a high mocking tone. “Come out from there.”

It took Vasilios a moment to realize Gyllou was talking to him. His stomach turned over, and his hands began to shake.

“I know you’re hiding over there, little seer,” Gyllou called. Aritê said something sharp in the language Vasilios didn’t understand, and Gyllou hissed and spat like an angry cat.

Then Aritê hissed sharply as well, but this time in pain, and Vasilios found himself standing.

“Ah.” Gyllou sounded pleased. “There you are.”

Still clutching the hilt of his sword so tightly his hand hurt, Vasilios moved around the rocks he’d been hiding behind and started down the slight incline into the quarry.

“Vasilios, stay back!” He heard Markos yell, although he still couldn’t pick Markos out of the other figures in the quarry.

Someone rushed him, and Vasilios drew his sword. The body impacted hard enough to send shock up his arms. There was the wet thud of his blade impaling into something thick. It was almost frightening how easily he remembered this. Vasilios pulled his blade free, the figure falling to the ground.

It was not one of their soldiers, thank the Gods, but what had once been a woman. Her skin was mostly rotted away now, the bone showing through yellow brown in patches across her face and the arm that lay stretched out toward him. Vasilios felt ill.

“Little seer.” Gyllou’s voice was still rich and beautiful, with an amused singsong quality to it now, in direct opposition to its appearance.

Vasilios looked up and saw Gyllou had turned toward him and was moving closer, while Aritê knelt and drew a cross in the dirt with what remained of one of her hands. Vasilios brought his sword up, holding it with both hands that shook more than he would have liked.

Gyllou was wrapped in dark cloth from head to toe. The upper half of its face was completely obscured by the cloth, making it seem as if it had no eyes. Its skin looked gray yellow in the moonlight, darker where its lips had rotted or withered away from long, sharp teeth. There was a hole where its nose should have been, as if it had been torn off. Its hands were long, the fingers far longer than a human’s, each tipped with a pointed black nail.

Bile rose in Vasilios’s throat. He could smell the scent of rotting meat coming off Gyllou. “I could sense you spying on me these last few weeks, little one,” Gyllou told him. It didn’t move its mouth when it spoke, adding to Vasilios’s feeling of wrongness. “Which was not wise of you.” Gyllou took several steps closer. Even though Vasilios’s eyes were firmly fixed on it, he thought he saw someone running toward them from the edge of his vision.

“Because unlike those two”—one long spindly arm pointed back to Aritê and Brother Stavros—“you are not a believer, not in the One God or any, for that matter.” Gyllou’s long arms swung up, fast, two long fingers curling into claws with long sharp nails like talons, and even though Vasilios had been expecting it, he didn’t move quite fast enough.

Someone shouted.

Gyllou’s nails bit into his arm, slicing and burning like red-hot blades. Vasilios’s own blade came around and struck Gyllou high in the shoulder. He felt the impact, felt his sword cut through flesh. The blood that flowed was black and smelled like an open sewer, scorching hot where it touched Vasilios’s skin and burned through the linen of his tunic. Gyllou made a high keening noise, and its hand flew to yank the blade from its shoulder with enough force to pull the sword from Vasilios’s gasp. Gyllou’s one hand went to its shoulder and pressed against the wound.

Vasilios fell to one knee and bit his lip until he tasted blood to keep from retching at the pain, fear, and stench.

“How?” Gyllou sounded confused and a little shocked. “You are not a believer? You have no protection against me, nor power over me.”

“Gyllou!” Aritê’s voice rang out sharp and clear. “By the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I call you by your name.”

Through a haze, Vasilios watched Gyllou jerk backward as if pulled by invisible hands. It howled, an inhuman sound, like a wounded animal.

“Through the power of the Archistrategos Mikalos, I bind you to my will,” Aritê said as Gyllou continued to be drawn back, flailing and clawing at the air.

There came a roaring sound in the distance, like tall waves breaking against the cliffs, the sound of lots of water moving violently and fast. Vasilios’s arm burned, and the edges of his vision began to go dark.

Someone’s hand touched his back, and he flailed with the one arm that still would move, trying to twist around and see.

“Shush,” Markos’s voice said, and the hand on Vasilios’s shoulder was tacky with blood, but Markos’s voice was steady and even.

In the distance, he could hear voices chanting, Brother Stavros, Aritê, and others he didn’t know. These new voices could not be the soldiers, but no one else was there. They seemed to rise and swell, no longer sounding like anything that came from a human throat.

Hot air prickled against his skin and the inside of his throat when he breathed, like the air from a fire. Yet he could still hear the sound of water roaring above everything else. He squinted up at the cliff that loomed above them, riddled with tombs and secret graves, now bathed in red, blood or light of some sort or a combination of the two.

It’s a waterfall
, he thought, remembering one he’d seen when he’d been young, traveling between villages with his mother, sister, and brother.
A waterfall of fire. The cliff face is on fire.

Someone screamed, shrill and insane, off to their right. Markos pulled him close, and Vasilios cried out when his arm was jostled, sending pain shooting up into his skull. Darkness rushed at him like a storm, as a long, high keening wail rose up above the sound of the water and the chanting, growing higher, louder, and more desperate.

“There,” someone said behind them in a voice Vasilios thought was familiar, but he couldn’t place. “It’s done.”

The keening stopped then, silence rushing over all of them. The sound of water ended and the air cooled again.

“Brother Stavros.” Aritê sounded concerned. There was the crunching of boots as several people ran.

“Vasilios?” Markos’s voice asked, close to his ear.

“Patros, help me,” Aritê called.

“I need to go,” Markos said.

Vasilios coughed and managed to get his lips to work. “Go.”

Markos’s hands drew away from him, and Vasilios sagged to one side. His stomach churned as pain rushed up his wounded arm, and he turned his face away, choked, and then vomited. He managed to turn his body with his one good arm and roll away from the mess on the ground.

“Hush,” said the same voice as before, as darkness closed over Vasilios. “It is over now, you did well. Our Beloved is proud.”

Malachi
, Vasilios thought.
But this isn’t a dream
. Then he didn’t think anything at all.

H
E
WOKE
in a small room with white walls, and after a few seconds, he realized he was in a bedroom that looked like the one he had slept in at Markos’s house, but wasn’t. The door opened and then shut, and Vasilios turned his head to see Phyllis coming toward him carrying a basin of water.

“You’re awake.” She set the basin down on the table next to the bed. “How do you feel?”

“All right.” Vasilios tried sitting up a little bit, and although he felt slightly light-headed, he did feel all right. He tried moving his arm and it hurt, but not unbearably so.

“Good.” Phyllis moved across the room again and then came back into Vasilios’s line of vision carrying a cup. “Whatever slashed your arm was poisoned. You were pretty delirious with fever by the time General Markos brought you back here.” She held out the cup, and Vasilios took it and sipped, discovering it was full of wine.

“That Brother and the Amma, they prayed over you for a good long time,” Phyllis said. “Then a girl came and prayed over you some and helped me with the remedies. I’m glad to see after all, that it’s worked itself out of your system.”

“A girl?” Vasilios frowned and tried to think. His head hurt a little. “Nereida. Is that what she said her name was? Was anyone else hurt?”

“Yes, I think she did say her name was Nereida,” Phyllis said. “And one man died before they came here, several others were hurt, but nothing they won’t recover from. Markos had a gash across his head, but he’s had far worse.”

“Can I see him?” Vasilios asked. “Or go find him? I think I can walk.” He sat up and started trying to wrestle out of bed, when Phyllis held out a hand and pushed him back.

“I’ll get him. Why don’t you sit there for a while until you’re sure you’re not going to fall and make yourself worse.”

Nodding, Vasilios sat back, and Phyllis headed for the door. After several minutes, the door to his room opened again, and Markos slipped in.

“I’m glad you’re awake.” He moved over to sit next to the bed, and Vasilios reached out and took Markos’s hand in his own.

“Did we do it?” he asked, and Markos nodded.

“We did.”

Vasilios closed his eyes briefly in relief before glancing back up at Markos. Markos looked tired and slightly unkempt and there was a line of stitches across his forehead where someone had stitched him with silk thread.

“Phyllis said one man died.” Vasilios’s voice was more serious.

Markos nodded. “Yes, Arsaces didn’t survive the encounter.”

“Arsaces?” Vasilios’s thoughts went to him, their trip to and from the monastery and the way he had spoken so familiarly about the Gods of Vasilios’s childhood. He felt a pang of sadness and regret. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” Markos shook his head. “He had a wife and children. I contacted them this morning.”

Vasilios held Markos’s hand tighter, and they sat together in silence for a while.

“Phyllis said Nereida came here,” Vasilios said finally, and Markos stirred, drawing out of his thoughts.

“Yes, while you were unconscious, she helped see to you, along with Brother Stavros, Aritê, and Phyllis.”

“So Brother Stavros is all right?” Vasilios frowned, remembering a little of what had been going on right before he had lost consciousness.

“Yes,” Markos said. “He has some nasty burns, but he’ll be all right.”