“Uh, this is going to sound silly, and honestly unbelievable, but—” I stopped as the scythe moved upward, resuming its swing. “OKAY, short version! The Knights of Order—or rather their Elders—performed a prophecy ritual. Something to do with dragon hearts? Or a singular dragon heart? And it predicts the downfall of the mad—I mean, the Great Sorcerer Merulo, but only if I die. Hence why these knights are, ah, out to get me.” My injured leg shook as I rose slowly, using the tree for support. “That’s why, Merulo, your boss?” I waited for a confirmation that didn’t come. “Well, he should want me alive and perky. It’s in his best interest, after all.”
The construct made no acknowledgement of my words, aside from not killing me, which I did appreciate. The copper smell of blood wafted from feet away, where bodies lay in pieces. Supplementing it was the stench of opened bowels; it summoned memories of a battle I’d deliberately arrived toolate to participate in. I’d been surprised then, that a killing field could stink like a latrine.
At some unspoken order, two of the winged constructs erupted into the air, flapping toward me. Talons like tree roots closed around my arms.
I might have screamed and wiggled a bit, fighting their attempts to get me into the air, because the scythe-wielding construct raised its weapon meaningfully.
“Okay!” I said, going limp. “No, for sure, go ahead.” And my feet lifted off the ground.
The constructs smashed through the canopy, drawing me upward. I spluttered, blinded by the wet slap of leaves—then we were out, the trees sinking beneath us into a green patchwork.
With the ascent came rising pain as my shoulders took the full weight of my hanging body. “Please,” I cried. “This actually hurts a lot! Don’t you want me alive, isn’t that the point of this?”
If the constructs understood, they showed no sign of it. I dangled like prey between them, my shoulder sockets crunching, while their leaf-and-mud wings buffeted my hair into disarray. I couldn’t do much but kick my feet and take in the view. Miniaturized in this way, the forest looked like a bed of moss, all puffy greens with the occasional shadowy gap.
Somewhere down there lay Glenda. I’d seen the aftermath of blows to the head; if she woke at all, she’d be aching and nauseous. Assuming she overcame her infirmity, she would follow my frantic, sloppy trail to arrive at its gory termination all alone, with her emotions already a ruin. Ah, poor Glenda.
“Poor me,” I corrected, then frowned. The ground was rising beneath us.
We’d reached the sorcerer’s cliffs.
The infamous fog rose in a white wall before us, which the constructs flew into without hesitation. It closed about me, cold, wet, and blinding. Without warning, both sets of talons released my arms, and I fell shrieking . . . only to land a second later, the ground a mere foot below. Even so, it jarred my knee.
Favouring my good leg, I stood carefully and rolled my shoulders. The constructs circled once, before vanishing upward, leaving me alone in the fog.
“Hello?” I called to nobody, rubbing my arms. Red punctures ringed them where the claws had gripped too tight. I stayed there, rubbing away, for longer than strictly necessary; anything to avoid my thoughts. I’d never been this far into his territory before. Coming within sight of the fog—let aloneenteringit—was suicide.
Nobody knew what spawned it. Nobody knew what effects it caused when inhaled; nobody had ever come back alive. And here I was, filling my lungs over and over!
A sound broke through my hyperventilation. Distant hoofbeats, growing closer and louder, until a head broke through the fog. Another construct, equine this time, with a body of interlocking driftwood and glowing eyes that cast the fog in green. It clattered to a halt, a steed from a nightmare, and I swayed on my feet in acceptance of my doom.
Nothing happened.
Nothing continued to happen, until I broke. “Did you want me to, uh, ride you?” I asked, evaluating the construct. While I stood a good six feet, it was the height of a war-unicorn. “You’re too big. Could you bend down or something. Please?”
It didn’t move. With some reservation, I approached,pressing my palm flat against its shoulder. It was smooth wood, without any of the warmth or reactivity that would signal life.
“How do I . . .” Usually I had a block, or a convenient stable boy with cupped hands. Tentatively, I dug my fingers into the crevices between its woven branches, then with more confidence at its continued tolerance, I hoisted myself up, up, only to overshoot and half fall down its other side. I’d effectively beached myself across its back. “Shit, hang on, WAIT!”
The construct creaked into motion. I groped at its driftwood ribcage, hooking a foot around its gut so as not to slide off the trotting creature in either direction. Blood rushed to my head, the wood rubbing against my bare chest. “Come on, if I die it’s bad for Merulo. This has far too much potential for bodily harm. Please!”
I bounced, griped, and chafed as the mulch of hooves on grass became the clatter of wood against stone. After an eternity (which felt more and more like divine punishment), the construct slowed to a halt.
I unclenched my fingers from the wood, allowing myself to groan at their stiffness, then pushed backward, sliding down the construct to fall ass-first onto the cobblestones. The blow drove a sick blossom of pain up my tailbone. “Ahhhhhhhh!” I exclaimed, and it helped a little.
Stepping over me with surprising delicacy, the construct clopped away, disappearing into the fog.
“Merulo?” I called, sitting huddled in the featureless space. Slowly, as though sucked in by a giant breath, the fog pulled back to reveal my location. From the escarpment before me rose a castle. Instinctively, I gasped—though my reaction came too early, as the sight was far less awe-inspiring than I’d hoped.
The mad sorcerer’s castle was scarcely larger than a lord’s manor house. Moss blotched its ugly stonework, gashed through by thin windows. If placed beside the castle I’d served in as a squire, it would’ve collapsed from embarrassment.
Occupied with my criticism, I nearly missed the constructs. Pinpricks of green light betrayed their presence first. As my eyes adjusted, I saw dozens of unnatural bodies clinging to the walls and battlements, crawling over one another like maggots on a carcass.
I reached for a sword I didn’t have.
“And who might you be?” came a haughty voice.
My knee nearly gave as I leaped to my feet. Cursing, I limped around to face the man. “Ah, Cameron! I’m Cameron Vaillancourt. Sir Cameron actually, being a knight and all, except I’ve probably been excommunicated on account of not dying.”
