Distant Worlds Volume 1 Page 28

  After traversing some distance, they came to what had once been a stone wall. Something had forced its way through some time ago, leaving a pile of bricks half buried in the muddy floor of the tunnel. Peering through the hole, Serafima now saw what was causing the sound she had first heard upon her descent. They had reached the undercity of Osric, the network of tunnels that had once been a fully functioning sewer and drainage system, but had long since fallen into disrepair and neglect. Most of the small channels and drains that had once funneled both waste and rainwater out of the city efficiently had been clogged for some time and the blockages forced everything through the larger drains that emptied into a nearby lake. They had found one of the largest drain channels in the undercity, but the heavy rains had transformed it into a rushing river of sewage and filthy rainwater. The stench of it was almost unbearable.

  Serafima stepped out of the earthen tunnel and onto the wet stone of a wide ledge just a few feet above the river. The torchlight did not extend quite far enough to see the other side of the channel clearly, but she could plainly see its flickering light reflected in the several pairs of large eyes. While many of the degenerate creatures of the undercity had been forced to the surface, it seemed that a good number of them had also been driven down the drainage channel before they managed to scramble to relative safety. For the time being, they were trapped.

  They were probably hungry.

  “Now what?” Andron asked.

  “We follow the current,” Serafima said. “It has to lead out of the city.”

  Suddenly, Letice screamed.

  Serafima whirled in time to see one of the mutants shambling into the light after the girl. Its eyes narrowed and it winced painfully at the light, but its hunger seemed to give it courage and it lunged forward. Serafima pushed by the others just in time to slash the thing before its ravenous claws reached Letice. Her fearsome blow opened the monster’s chest and it fell down dead into a pool of its own blood and entrails.

  She saw more of the creatures closing in behind their fallen kin.

  “Run!” she said, shoving Letice towards the others and backpedaling after them. Their pursuers were hesitant at first, but they grew bolder and increased their pace.

  Suddenly, Serafima heard Antonis scream behind her.

  “We’re trapped! We’re trapped!”

  As Serafima turned to see what was happening, the Kurnite crashed into her in a headlong rush to escape whatever it was that he had seen. The improvised torch came free from her hand and was swallowed by the roaring river, thrusting them into absolute darkness.

  The creatures of the undercity charged towards them, their shrill, joyous voices and clattering jaws carrying over the sound of rushing water. Serafima felt claws rip at her flesh, and she heard Antonis’s dying screams as the things tore him apart. Andron and his children were sure to suffer his fate within seconds if they stayed there on the ledge.

  Lashing out desperately, she managed to break free from their talons and reach for the others. Her hand closed around someone’s clothing.

  “The water!” she said. “Jump!”

  Serafima dove off the ledge with one of her companions in tow and plunged into the foul water. The rushing river swept them quickly away from the pack of creatures but the current was so strong that even Serafima had difficulty keeping her head above the polluted water. She tried to keep her mouth and eyes shut, but an occasional gulp of the sickening liquid slipped past her lips and nearly caused her to vomit. Buffeted, pushed, and pulled from all sides, Serafima lost all sense of time and distance in the darkness.

  At last, the river spewed them out of the earth and back into the open air where they found themselves floating in an acrid swamp of sewage and thick algae. Some distance behind them loomed the once great wall of Osric, which now encircled a city consumed by chaos and death. The rain was still pouring down relentlessly and for once she were thankful for its presence since it diffused the otherwise unbearable stench of the putrid lake of filth.

  Serafima had not relinquished her grip and could now see well enough to find that she had grasped Letice when she leapt into the river. The girl was barely conscious, but she was alive.

  Of Andron and Renart, there was no sign.

  She dragged Letice to the shore and hauled herself up out of the foul water. The girl coughed and was beginning to throw up when Serafima heard something splashing in the water behind them. She looked back and was relieved to find Renart pulling his injured father towards the shore. She helped them out of the water and they all joined Letice in sickness for several minutes.

  When their stomachs finally stopped heaving, Serafima herded them away from the sewage pond until they reached a field of thick, tall grass where they sat and rested for a few moments. While Andron and his children huddled together under the cold rain, Serafima tried to determine where they were outside the city. Several hundred yards to her left she saw the dim glow of covered campfires that she judged to be the main encampment of the Nemerians. There would be horses there to be stolen, horses they would need if they wanted to reach the borders of Vellev, where Andron’s family would be safe. If they were lucky, the bad weather would continue for another day or two, long enough to provide cover for their flight to the north.

  She looked back to the shivering family and knew that there was still a chance they would not escape the watchful eyes of the Nemerian soldiers that were likely patrolling for several miles around the city. There was also the matter of Andron’s injuries. Even if he survived the journey, there was a good chance his wounds would become infected after swimming in sewage and never heal properly, rendering him a crippled shell of a man. She wondered if he would have rather perished inside that cursed city and see brave little Aaline escape in his place. Serafima felt no shame in wishing that it had been so.

  Serafima had little difficulty stealing away a pair of fine horses from the Nemerian encampment and they began their ride northward well before the sun rose that morning. The bad weather held for another day, as did their luck, for they encountered no one of consequence on their journey. They crossed into the lands of Vellev during the night almost three days after escaping from besieged Osric and were welcomed warmly in the border town of Alvineaux, where Andron was well known by the local traders.

  The next morning, Renart woke Andron and informed him that Serafima was leaving them now that they were in good care. The merchant insisted on seeing her before she departed and Renart helped him to the stables where Serafima was readying a horse.

  “I never had the opportunity to thank you, Serafima,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “You needn’t bother. You helped me so I could help you. We’ve paid our debt to one another.”

  Andron sighed.

  “I see.”

  Serafima hoisted herself into the Nemerian warhorse’s saddle.

  “Where will you go now?” Andron asked.

  “To Osric.”

  Andron gasped

  “What? Have you lost your mind?”

  Serafima glared down at him.

  “I have unfinished business with the Nemerian dog that murdered your daughter.”

  The merchant grasped the horse’s reigns.

  “Don’t do this for my sake, damn you!” Andron said. “Killing that devil will not bring Aaline back to me!”

  Serafima sneered and yanked the reins free.

  “I’m not doing this for you! Now get out of my way!”

  Andron scarcely managed to stagger back as Serafima spurred the animal forward and charged out of the stable. He and Renart watched the horse gallop into the distance as it bore its Rostogovian rider back to the besieged city.

  Andron shook his head.

  “She’s mad. Not a bit of sense left in her head!”

  Renart shrugged.

  “Why should vengeance be sensible?”

  The Cauldron of Vanthos

  Originally published in Mystic Signals #13 (Wolfsinger Publicati
ons, 2012).

  Of all the Serafima short stories, this one is the most directly inspired by Conan. In fact, while I didn’t realize it at the time, the entire setup for this story is drawn almost verbatim from a Conan story called “The Scarlett Citadel.” Chronologically, this is the last of the Serafima short stories, detailing events that took place just a year before the opening of The Walls of Dalgorod. Careful readers might notice that some of these events are even alluded to in the novel. The necromancer Aziell Shadorn would later appear in another short story entitled “A Most Refined Taste.” His whereabouts during the events of the Rostogov novels are unclear…

  Serafima sat atop a tangled heap of corpses waiting for someone to try to kill her. The worst of the fighting had passed and the T’zaladarian reserves were now making their way through the battlefield to finish off the men who still lay bloodied, cleaved, and helpless among the bodies of the dead. Only once before had she seen such a waste of fine fighting men, and that had been the slaughter that claimed her father’s life so many years ago. Serafima had no taste for poetry, but she recognized the tragedy of fate for what it was and felt it was perhaps fitting for her father’s end to mirror her own downfall.

  The sound of young, overconfident voices caught Serafima’s ear and she turned to see two T’zaladarian spearmen approaching her. Both wore the cheap leather armor of the Black Legion’s reserve forces and were far too clean to have taken part in the day’s brutal fighting. They raised their weapons and jeered, but their expressions changed when Serafima leapt to her feet and dove past their spearpoints to impale one of the soldiers with her sword. She wheeled about and slashed the other across the back, her heavy blade easily slicing through his thin armor and cutting into his spinal column. A second swing sent his head tumbling across the bloody ground. Serafima sat back down and let her eyes drift across the killing field before her.

  Her army was hardly large enough to be called as such, only a few thousand strong. It would have been more than enough to contend with the T’zaladarian raiding parties that had been terrorizing the knyazdom of Valinsk. When Knyaz Neznan called for her aid, she hesitated, wondering why he needed her assistance to deal with such a minor threat. The other knyazes of Rostogov, however, persuaded her to deal with the problem immediately and personally before it got out of hand and opened the whole country to an invasion from the accursed T’zaladarians.

  Another pair of soldiers cried out when they spotted Serafima and charged toward her. She got up and prepared to meet them, but when they were closer, one of them stopped abruptly and shouted something to the other. They exchanged a few words, then turned and ran back in the direction of their encampment. Serafima lowered her sword and sat back down. There was no mistaking the look on their faces: She’d been recognized and the real soldiers would be coming for her soon.

  While she waited, her thoughts kept drifting back to the circumstances of the battle. She hated admitting it, but it was an expertly laid trap and she now recognized the mistake of showing trust in an ambitious man like Knyaz Neznan. He was the sort who regarded loyalty not as a quality, but a commodity to be put up for auction whenever it suited his purposes. She wondered what the T’zaladarians had promised him in return for drawing her into their ambush.

  Only a few minutes passed before Serafima spotted several dozen soldiers closing in on her. They were no poorly armored reserve force, but the fearsome front line warriors of the Black Legion that had descended upon her small band that morning like a storm issued from the deepest of hells. Clad in their black armor of polished T’zaladarian onyx and armed with serrated blades, they looked more like demons than men.

  The Black Legionnaires surrounded her and readied their weapons, but did not move closer. Serafima remained where she sat, taking note of how they shifted their weight from one foot to the other, how they exchanged glances with the men next to them, and how they remained silent.

  Then Serafima smiled for she knew they were afraid of her. They had seen how fiercely her men had fought that day, seen her small, hopelessly outnumbered force inflict horrendous casualties on an army they’d been brought up to believe was invincible. They knew they stood before the Velikye Knyaza of Dalgorod, Serafima Vladekovna, the great She-Wolf of the North who had almost single handedly pushed their rapacious empire out of Rostogov. Many had doubtlessly heard the stories that she was as strong as any man and a match for any four T’zaladarian warriors in battle. It was plain that none of them were willing to put such tales to the test with their lives.

  Serafima got to her feet and removed her battered helmet. Her auburn hair, still quite fiery despite occasional streaks of gray, spilled down just far enough to touch the shoulders of her bloodstained armor. Gripping her sword tightly, she tossed the helmet aside and prepared to die.

  But before her final battle had a chance to begin, a voice from somewhere behind the ranks of the soldiers called out and the Black Legionnaires before her obediently stepped aside to reveal three garishly attired figures mounted upon towering warhorses. Serafima recognized them immediately and sneered. The first man, who wore glimmering armor of polished onyx striped with veins of precious gems, was Lorzikai Shadorn, the ruthless king of T’zaladar. It was said that his bloodlust was exceeded only by his vanity and his sparkling helm crowned by horns of ruby, emerald, and sapphire made it easy to believe such stories. A long silken cape trailed behind him and he carried himself with a conceited air of superiority far greater than any king Serafima had ever seen.

  Alongside the pretty king rode his finest general, Origthar Grender. His armor was more practical than his lord’s, but it too was draped with fine silks and speckled with jewels. Serafima knew little of the hulking general aside from his prowess as a warrior and tactician. Rumors circulated that he was once a gladiator in the T’zaladarian slave pits and had been personally selected by the young king to be molded into his most loyal commander. Whatever the truth, there was no doubt among those who fought against him that Grender was more a butcher than a soldier.

  The third rider Serafima did not immediately recognize. His silver armor glistened with tiny flecks of jade and sapphire that appeared to be imbedded in its surface. It was not until he raised the face shield of his helm that Serafima recognized him as Neznan of Valinsk. His treason was particularly troubling, for only two years had passed since she helped him achieve the Knyazdom of Valinsk by overthrowing a cruel tyrant held under the sway of T’zaladarian gold. Neznan’s ascension to power provided her with a crucial ally in the southern reaches of Rostogov that were so vulnerable to T’zaladarian incursions. It pained her to see that he had betrayed his countrymen for the passing fancies of material wealth.

  “Well, well,” King Shadorn said. “It seems I will have the honor of meeting you after all, Serafima of Rostogov. I was so worried that I would be treated to little more than your corpse after this little affair.”

  Serafima noticed the fleeting expression on General Grender’s face as his king referred to the battle so casually. King Shadorn might have been a fool, but Grender knew quite well the damage Serafima’s warriors had done to their larger forces.

  King Shadorn urged his mount forward and Grender was quick to follow, though the general’s eyes betrayed some concern at his king’s boldness. Serafima tightened her grip on her sword.

  “You’ve quite a reputation, my dear. Why, did you know there are men among my court who would forfeit a great deal of their lands and possessions for a chance to see you struck dead? You and your little country of savages are all they speak of. Indeed! There are some who actually believe you are a threat to great T’zaladar itself!”

  He slowed his steed’s pace, but continued to move toward her.

  “My lord, you should not be so close to this savage,” Grender said.

  The king laughed.

  “Surely, dear Origthar, you give her less credit than she is due! Even this barbarian wench would not be so foolish as to…”

  The king’s horse
took another step and Serafima sprang forward. King Lorzikai Shadorn stood wide-eyed as her sword plunged toward his bejeweled head. But swift though she was, the distance between them gave Grender time to react and the general spurred his mount between Serafima and her prey. Her blade fell upon Grender’s warhorse and sheared through its spine with ease. Grender was thrown from his saddle as the beast flailed to the ground. The burly general groped for his sword but became entangled in his silken cape and rolled helplessly in the dirt. Serafima split the general’s skull open with a single stroke.

  By the time she turned her attention to Shadorn, the terrified king had already fled behind the ranks of spearmen and archers. Neznan had drawn his blade, but he appeared no less frightened than his newfound sponsor.

  “Kill her! Kill her!”

  Before the Black Legionnaires could react to their king’s command, another voice made them stay their weapons.

  “No, brother! You must not slay her!”

  The voice chilled Serafima’s skin and she saw the color drain from the faces of the men around her, especially Neznan, who very nearly dropped his jewel studded sword.

  Out from the ranks of soldiers stepped another rider whom Serafima had not spotted previously. His horse was smaller than the others and obviously was not bred for war, but it was black as a moonless night and its eyes gleamed with keen awareness. The rider upon its back was tall and wrapped in a simple black cloak. A hood concealed his eyes but Serafima could make out his thin, sharp jawline and noticed the white, almost corpulent hue of his skin. Those few features were enough for her to recognize the king’s younger brother, Aziell Shadorn; a necromancer of unfathomable power whose name was seldom whispered in Rostogov, for it was believed that to even speak it aloud could doom one’s very soul to the service of his fell sorcery. She herself had heard tell of the pale prince during her time as a hired sword and it was said the rulers of the Six Kingdoms feared him more than they feared his murderous brother and all the legions at his command.