Patches of sickly green moss carpeted the forest floor, each step kicking up clouds of spores like silt from a riverbed. It threatened to strangle any living thing that lingered too long. The air was thick with it—hot and clinging. Dried blood, now slickened, clung to his skin and clothes. Walls of time-worn stone and curse-fractured mortar pushed through like petrified fungi.
“There are few moments in my life when I’ve been grateful to be cursed,” the knight mused. “This is one of them.”
“And the others?” the Question asked absently.
“Each marked by pain and led by purpose.”
“You’ll have had your pain and met your purpose when we are through.”
“Yes,” the knight replied, “and perhaps an end.”
“Yes, an end.”
A snapping stick stole the knight’s attention. He looked toward it, but there was nothing—only the spore-filled haze of a swamp and the ruins sinking into it.
“Why is it you abandon me so often?” the knight asked.
“I’ve never lost sight of you,” it replied.
“Perhaps not, but even if you refuse to aid me, information might prove useful.”
“What information?” the Question asked.
“You seem to know a great deal about the curses that plague these lands,” the knight said, turning his attention toward another distant echo.
“No plagues,” it replied. “Only life, living to its end.”
The knight furrowed his brow, jerking his head toward a muted scurrying among the trees.
“It would help to know what I face.”
“I can only see the end that is asked and what lies before me.”
“And what do you see now?” the knight asked.
“The dead,” it replied, before leaping into the sagging canopy and knocking loose slabs of moss.
The knight strained his sight through the haze. Green lights appeared in pairs, drifting like the spores that polluted the air. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped them clean as the lights drew closer.
Corpses floated patiently toward him, their feet dragging like puppets led lazily on strings. Some were nothing more than bones, clattering softly in the dark. Others, flesh-swollen and ragged, pulled along beside them. Many wore simple plate armor over tattered garments, others wore only what remained of their clothes, and fewer still only form.
A putrid stench overcame him.
“Question,” the knight said plainly, “you are of little use.”
“We are not allies,” the Question answered, its voice an echoed whisper.
The knight’s shirt, tacky with sweat and blood, pulled at his skin. He adjusted the collar as he lifted his sword.
As his blade steadied on the nearest threat, the dead rushed him, pulled by their invisible threads. Those holding weapons raised them.
In a blink, a corpse swung its blade. The knight barely sidestepped the undisciplined attack before cutting cleanly through its torso. He felt its swollen form split with a wet, dull crunch.
Before he could recover, a mace struck the back of his right shoulder. He nearly dropped his sword as he stumbled forward.
He caught himself and rolled, rising as he cut a skeleton in half at the waist. He did not stop. Pivoting on his heel, he swept his blade to the right and decapitated another corpse. Limp, it collapsed, its momentum carrying it into another that fell. He drove his sword into the skull of the fallen.
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One by one, they fell like paper dolls torn and tossed aside.
They did not slow.
Dead arms flailed—unskilled and imprecise—his only mercy. He thought, briefly, that were Sir Draven at his side, this army would be no challenge at all. But he was alone, and they were many.
A blade slid through the back of his knee, dropping him. Another strike took his hand—and his sword with it.
The knight closed his eyes and waited. He waited for the killing blow, for the pain to consume him, for his curse to stitch him slowly back together.
He braced for the time it would waste, the suffering it would demand—but neither came. Instead, bony hands seized his arms and lifted him into the air.
The Question, he thought, opening his eyes.
It was the dead that had him. One, just out of reach, plucked away the knight’s severed hand—still gripping his sword—and drifted off. Those holding him followed, dragging him deeper into the swamp.
Exposed bone and muscle strained at his wrist, reaching for what was no longer there.
The ruins grew more intact the farther he was taken. Entire structures emerged—none whole, but standing. The dead pulled him through what had once clearly been a city square.
Ahead, wide, shallow stairs led to an arched doorway. A large, waterlogged door hung askew, thick with moss. Inside, rows of stone benches lined either side. The dead dragged him down the center aisle. Broken stained-glass windows loomed above, and a wooden altar stood centered on a small stage beneath them.
Behind the altar was a frail old man with a long, moss-tangled beard. He wore a simple crown, a worn golden ring, and flowing robes stained black and green.
He regarded the knight with bored detachment through cataract-clouded eyes. The distance in his gaze reminded the knight of the mages—those who saw past what the rest of the world could, in ways the knight never trusted.
Swords lined the fractured walls behind him. Each was unique, their circular ricassos burning with warm, sunburst flames of differing intensity.
A Godless church, the knight thought. In a Godless land.
The dead carrying the knight’s severed hand placed it upon the altar. They set the knight beside it, pinning his arms and legs. His hand lay close enough to reclaim.
As he reached for it, the mage leaned forward, intent. He studied the knitting flesh. The knight felt sensation return; his fingers twitched. Without hesitation, the mage drew a knife and severed the hand again.
The knight cried out.
Dead faces stared down at him. Beyond them, the Question perched at the edge of a hole in the ceiling, watching in silence.
When the knight looked back, his sword was gone from his hand. The mage pressed the severed hand back against his arm and watched it heal.
“What is this place?” the knight asked.
The Question descended and examined the swords, stopping at one. It pointed, then gestured across the nave.
“I’ve seen this end,” it said. “And those.”
“What does he want with me?” the knight asked.
“To forge a blade,” the Question said, moving among the weapons as if through a gallery.
The mage began to chant. Each word rasped out of him. Blood streamed from punctures in his palms, spilling freely onto the stone.
The knight turned back to the Question.
“You’ve not seen this end,” he said. “The end is yours to know, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve not seen mine, yet you let him draw it out? Why?”
The Question turned. “Curiosity.”
The mage struck the knight’s chest with his fist.
Agony seized him—absolute, breathless. Blue light flooded the church, pouring from his chest. The mage pressed harder. The knight heard his ribs crack amid the roar of power surging upward.
Unable to move, the knight watched as radiant light spilled free, roaring like breath torn from lungs. The mage reached in and drew forth a sword.
Its steel was dark, nearly black. Charred leather wrapped the grip. With a violent pull, the mage freed the guard.
Slowly, the ricasso rose, drawing the blue light with it. The knight thought of lanterns. Then the blade slid free in one final sweep, its tip slipping between his ribs.
The mage raised the sword. The dead slackened, their grips loosening as his attention broke.
The knight tore himself free and swung for the mage.
The mage snapped the blade down in front of his face and twisted it in his hands. It slid through the knight’s flesh without resistance, splitting his arm to the elbow. Bone followed through the split flesh.
White points punched forward.
The twin bones drove into the mage’s face, bursting through his eyes. His cry died wetly as the dead collapsed where they stood.
The knight screamed and fell back onto the altar. The mage crumpled with him, the sword slipping from lifeless fingers. Where the mage’s eyes had been, there were only pits.
As the knight lay there, gasping and healing, the Question stood over him.
“You did not end,” it said.
The knight wept, covering his face with his mending hand.
“You will need it,” it said. A blade grazed stone.
The knight sat up, swallowing his pain.
“It is mine.”
The Question handed him the sword.
“I should kill you,” the knight said.
“You are bound,” the Question replied, already turning away. “Come. There is something I must show you.”
The knight followed, stepping over the dead that filled the church. Outside, the scale of the mage’s army became clear.
A ruined kingdom, its streets running over with death.
