Ryland

Soft blond curls and a golden crown are crushed in a thick, gloved hand. Ryland stands with forced posture but a high chin. We are surrounded. And I can’t get to his side.

I grope for the dagger in my boot, struggling against where my left forearm has been speared through the ruin wall with my own sword.

“Run!” My dagger plunges into the dark armor of the figure holding Ryland. Ryland darts, but he slows when a sword emerges from his chest. He falls with the rivulets of blood.

“No!” I pull forward, my arm tearing in two, but I can’t-

—

William bolts upright in bed. He pulls his knees up to chest and wraps his arms around them. This familiar motion is disrupted when he grasps the fresh scar replacing his left elbow. Mourning fills him, then shame strangles his building lament.

Six lives lost, only one spared.

Quietly, he leaves the barracks. Outside, a teal glow permeates the humid night, emanating from the oaks, the mushrooms, the lichen. It’s veined, corrupting, and grows brighter as Will clenches his fists in frustration. Because that’s what it feels like: two hands, nails digging into palms. A chill travels from his fantom arm into his shoulder as he flares the colonizing death. The gangrene must be spreading.

But when he looks up, a transformed world awaits. The oak trees sprout meaty flesh and the mushrooms unfold dark petals. He remembers eating this fruit, desperate in the wastelands when he dragged Ryland’s body home. He earned no sustenance from its wrongness; it only filled his stomach.

He follows the brightest growths past the gate on a path carved through dense forest. Will remembers the relief of crossing through the gate and offering his oldest friend, King Oron, the chance to bury his little brother. Remembers offering Oron his own head if he chose the mercy of taking it.

Inky water glistens in the ravine as Will steps onto the vast network of patchwork bridges and walkways that follow the canyon’s crags into the rising sun.

If the sun rises, so will I to destroy the decay that plagues this world, William reminds himself. Even if that means ending with myself.

_

“... and I pledge my soul”

And I pledge my soul...

“to Ah Puch, in the name of death, disaster and darkness.”

To Ah Puch – that scheming menace of a god – in the name of death, disaster and revenge.

The sunken form finishes reciting its contract and stares into the rough cavern wall without blinking.

Ruth’s mind, however, continues to recite an echo of the pledge she gave ten years ago. For the price of that soul, I will be your conduit. I will molt the dying into your servants. I will learn everything you teach me. I will protect your vision of the future.

She removes her thick black gloves meticulously, plucking each fingertip until the only barrier between her and the corpse is tucked neatly on her workbench. Picking up a piece of chalk, Ruth draws concentric circles on the worn floor like it’s second nature.

She chuckles while she works. She’s not insane. Not quite yet, although she puts on a good show. But without a soul, she feels no remorse for her work or her subjects. Ruth is completely adjusted to her grotesque life. Her attention is turned inward, to the only thing she never pledged to share: her mind.

I never said I wouldn’t tear you down, Ah Puch. You don’t belong to this world.

She interrupts herself to direct the skin and bone shell into the circles, before beginning to chant. She digs deeply within herself, pulling the essence of the earth with her will, not her patron's.

The mushrooms skirting the room burst into bloom with the surge of energy. The thing in the circle jolts. It is returning to consciousness as its soul is temporarily reunited with its body. It blinks; someone is home.

A decade of work later, Ruth has become a mage in her own right.

_

All around Will, the forest surges a bright aquamarine. Then, the fading glow retreats into a previously unnoticed crevice. Will edges to the opening, feet sliding on the dew-damp wood.

He peers into the crevice. Its narrows considerably in a few meters. Could I go around-

“Ah!” Something slices his rib, tangles in his cloak. He turns, drawing his sword in a hasty parry. One step back. Two. Will hits the cliff avoiding the onslaught, so he thrusts under his attacker’s guard and nicks their thigh. He pulls away, but he’s knocked off balance and over the edge with their mace.

Will drops his sword to grab the boardwalk. Rough wood digs into his palm as he pitches, eyes wild.

“What brings you poking around?” the woman before him cackles as she kneels over lip. The single long spike jutting from her mace hovers dangerously close to Will’s fingers. She smiles, flexing her gloved hands.

He searches for a ledge, a branch, anything. He can’t pull himself up without leverage.

“I think you should start talking.” Her teal streaked eyes are ravenous. “Or don’t.”

The spike slides downward in a swift motion. Will pulls himself up a little and jumps his hand to avoid her plunging blade, planning to catch the ledge again. He misses. He falls. In the dim light, he sees the woman’s eyes are a lifeless as the vines that drape the cliffs. Oh.

He reaches for the vines, and they respond, pouring into his hand, making a rope. He doesn’t hesitate to climb, so it’s a second before he realises he’s using both hands. A stalk bone and sap sinew limb curls from is elbow and moves as naturally as his own. William has no time to be amazed as he scrambles over the ledge.

The woman stepped back when the vines flowed over the platform. Now, she takes a stance and drapes one hand on her hip.

“Hello, Will.” He blinks. She still hasn’t. “Ryland told me about your… affliction.”

“You lie!”

He draws two daggers – carried out of habit until this moment – and lunges. She draws the long pole of her mace up like a staff to block, then twists his daggers to the side. She uses the momentum to swing the mace at his face.

Will’s vines are scattered defending a fatal blow, and he’s tossed into the rock face by the impact.

The woman circles. “I’m Ruth. You should try to remember that because I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Will pushes himself off the rocks and faints right. Ruth springs right then tries to backtrack her guard when she notices the trick, but her right leg buckles from the deep gash. He slips past her guard and bring his dagger to Ruth’s neck.

“Ryland thinks you’ll turn eventually. He wanted you to seek us out.”

“You curse his memory by uttering-” he stammers. “You killed him!”

“It’s sad to release a body so young…” she cackles, “but he rises again. And together, we can destroy-”

Will slits her throat.

Ah Puch and the horrible world he’s creating, Ruth thinks as her vision clouds over and her ears are filled with static.

_

He’s running home, blood and sweat soaking his back. The cave - he can send a squad back.

I was there when they buried him. It rings in his ears.

William crosses through the gates, still sprinting. He shouts commands as he grabs a shovel.

At the royal graveyard, he leverages the shovel on his knee for every scoop, wrangling his coordination, cursing his loss and his inability to conjure his momentary new power, until, finally, Ryland’s plot is overturned.

William pears within. A rough-hewn tunnel blooms with phosphorescent bluebells. The body is gone.