28: A Dark Soul (Patreon)

The itching faded. Nicolai moved, and expected pain, but there was only a fading echo, his mind generating the predicted agony then realising there was no reason for it. Putting his back to the statue, Nicolai ran his hands over his stomach and felt for the hole amongst the build-up of dried blood. It was gone. He felt for his back and it was the same there.

He couldn’t feel inside of himself with his fingers but presumably his insides were equally healed, because otherwise he would be feeling significantly worse. He got his shaky legs moving, made himself rise, took a deep breath that widened his ribs and stomach, twisted his body left and right, and knew he was fine. It would be some time before the memory of the pain faded, but his capabilities were restored.

The relief poured through him in an awesome wave from his toes to his fingers, even as he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for being so afraid, so weak and fleshy and fallible. He told himself it was only human, but there was something cold and implacable inside of him that saw his reaction as nothing but weakness. He wanted to rip his organs out and replace them with steel wire and synthetics, to saw his arms off in favour of gun-limbs.

Taking slow breaths, he forced himself to calm down and focus. He barely glanced at the statues around him as he re-tied his useless chainmail jacket and strapped his shield back on. They depicted more of the People in all kinds of grand and dramatic poses, and at that moment they were of absolutely no interest to him.

He walked up the great stairs of white marble, seeing the library looming above. As he moved he found his body loosening, his energy returning. He was deeply thirsty and hungry, urgently in need of sustenance after his numerous injuries and forced recoveries. Part of him wished once again that he’d brought the water bottle, but he recognised it would have slowed him down and gotten in the way, flapping around on its strap while he fled from the archers.

Shortly he stood upon the landing atop the stairwell. There were no banisters or handrails but the cold flame inside of him pushed any primitive fear of falling far away. He stepped to the edge and peered down and across the gap. As he’d seen before, it was about fifteen or more metres to the far side. The stairwell had risen to a great pinnacle of lofty stone, and here that stone simply ended, then restarted on the other side. There he saw a ridge of metal poking out of a long slot just below the stone of the other landing. He glared at it with mute resentment.

Nicolai examined everything he could see for any way to climb. He considered finding some long planks of wood and making himself a bridge, but he doubted he would have any luck, nor would trust the ancient wood lying around the castle to hold his weight over such a gap. He considered trying to find some rope or chain and a hook, like those some of the undead in the patrol he’d encountered had wielded, but other than the ridge of metal, the far side was flawless and smooth. With no bannisters or railing there was nothing to get a grip on.

He walked in an aimless circle up there, staring at nothing. He raised helpless hands, clutching at the air. A small hissing sound came from between his gritted teeth. The darkness was rising and rushing through him, his control slipping in face of this unexpected obstacle, and it was all the worse because there was no way for him to vent it. The fact of his weakness, and smallness, and inability to accomplish what he wished took physical form in the fifteen metre gap that blocked him, after everything, everything, he’d been through to get here, from reaching his goal.

He returned to stare into the empty space and the fall to the ground. Some worthless part of him actually considered throwing himself off to plummet and break upon the pitiless stone below, but the impulse only pulled a derisive snort from him. He hadn’t killed himself that day over four hundred years ago, and he would not kill himself now.

Nicolai turned around and stepped down the stairs. As he went he watched the various entrances through lidded eyes. His thoughts of being a better man were lost in the writhing of his psyche and at that moment what kindness and humanity was left to him was buried deep. He knew that if anyone, human or otherwise, were to step out right now, he would draw close to them with false friendliness then murder them.

He was disappointed when no one appeared, though some tiny spark of his earlier desires felt relief, and said that he shouldn’t have encouraged his rage while he was injured because now it had transformed into the dark urge which was unmanageable and then that voice was swamped.

The sun was lower in the sky. He’d lost time somewhere back there, in his struggles with the arrow. Nicolai lurked behind the wall on the outside walkway and considered the problem of the bridge, watching the archers slowly floating over it. His orb of rejuvenation was done. If he was injured again he may not survive. Judging by the sun’s movement, he guessed he had about two or three hours before darkness fell.

In that time, he had to cross to the other side by this bridge or another, retrace his steps, then face the gauntlet outside his safe-place. If he went right now and crossed the underside of the bridge without issue he would be back in under an hour.

But he couldn’t do that. When he’d watched earlier, the archers had never shown any sign of venturing below to check on the underside of the bridge. But once he was there and moving beneath it, one had come down to check. Why? Had it simply been bad luck? Should he have watched for longer, and then he would have seen it go to check? Or was there something he hadn’t seen, some kind of alarm or mechanism?

He remained where he was, watching the bridge, but now also turning his eyes to the other nearest bridges. There were no more on this level, branching off from the walkway he had access to. But there were ones lower and higher. How could he get up or down to them?

Should he keep trying to work out how the bridge he had been across worked, or should he try to find another way?

Maybe if he simply clambered down to the underside and ran across as fast as possible, he would be fine?

Should he start looking for somewhere with a door he could lock or barricade, a place to shelter for the night?

Nicolai drew his lips back in a grimace. None of these options struck him as optimal, no good choices.

He decided he would watch the bridge for a further thirty minutes, and find some other angles to see if he could spot something he’d missed. If he still saw no solution, he would explore the area for an hour in the hopes of finding a way to one of the other bridges, or a place to shelter for the night. In the event he found neither, he would return with an hour to spare, go to the underside of the bridge, and simply run as fast as he could and hope the flying archers didn’t come for him, or that he could get away before they did.

Thirty-odd minutes later, nothing had changed. He’d been up and down the walkway, sneaking through the area directly before the bridge then back. This had been a large open area similar to that on the other side, but with some abandoned wooden carts that had provided him some cover and allowed him to avoid notice from the undead on the bridge.

The archers continued to float above the bridge without ever bothering to check below. He saw nothing that could have triggered them to do so.

It was time to move on. Nicolai rose and headed away from the bridge down the walkway, his eyes on a bridge about fifty metres below. It was a sheer wall and he saw no way to make the climb, but he hoped he would be able to find a stairway down to it in the building above it.

Turning to enter a tunnel inside, a flicker of red light from the side drew his gaze. Frowning, Nicolai turned to look back at the bridge. There was a band of red light wrapping the wall that formed its border, formed from runic shapes he could barely make out.

Stepping to the edge, he sightlessly put his hands on the wall, eyes focused on the bridge. The flying archers were looking at the red band of light. Then one of them drifted down. He saw it moving along outside the main supports, peering inside. Then it stopped, nocked an arrow, fired. After a pause he saw it push its visor up, he heard its piercing whistle, and the other archers began to descend.

Nicolai’s hands squeezed the stone, a savage grin on his face. Someone was having a very bad time down there but he couldn’t care less because he was staring at what was, quite possibly, the solution to his problem.

He started back the way he’d come.

Creeping through the open area, Nicolai approached the start of the bridge. The band of red light came up over the wall, here, then it ran across the ground before the entrance to the bridge.

It was formed by a repeating pattern of runes, carved very faintly into the ground, almost impossible to notice when they weren’t glowing red. This was an alarm. He wasn’t sure how it worked, but often one didn’t need to understand how something worked to break it.

Drawing his knife, he leant over the section of glowing runes before him then began scraping at one. After some time the pattern was noticeably marred, and the red light began to flicker.

Then it went out. With a faint hum, the light died all over the band. A cackle bubbled up inside of Nicolai but he forced it down. Quiet and careful, rat under bridge.

He crept towards the ladder then laid in to wait. After some time, he saw the flying archers emerge and rise through the air, their job done.

Nicolai waited to be sure they wouldn’t return, then clambered down the ladder.