“I don’t care what you think. I don’t pay you to think!” A familiar voice booms hysterically above us.

“You haven’t paid us yet,” mutters one of the burly mercenary types. Fourey pauses his tantrum to swing around at the man. “Sir,” the mercenary finishes gruffly as he and the rest of his ilk press themselves into the flimsy walls of the gazebo.

The fiasco serves to distract from the pitched battle going on in front of me. The perspective – looking up their nostrils – offers a surprising insight into the emotions playing out in the scene. But that might just be because Fourey coveys most of his thoughts through the bristles of his moustache.

He continues his diatribe, stopping to cower whenever a projectile drifts too close, but launching back into it immediately after. Credit when it’s due – Fourey still seems to be managing to project authority even as the situation continues to devolve. The mercenaries just continue to present as small a target as possible, and nobody has killed him yet then surrendered. The man is wasted on backwater politics – though I struggle to think of where such bull-headed faith in hierarchy would be useful.

“Rhapsody!” He calls, whirling around and pouncing on a peculiarly dressed blonde. The guy, decked out in green tights and a pink shirt – now mottled brown with all manner of stains – stares blankly at the red-faced lord.

“Yes milord?” his voice trickles out like lemon sorbet and rings out clearly even as a tree explodes across the courtyard. I start to think that lemon sorbet doesn’t trickle at all, but then he smiles and I just kind of stop. Fourey blinks and his moustache deflates a little. Everyone in the gazebo has paused their cowering, looking a little dazed and confused. On second thought, it might not be Fourey’s sterling leadership qualities that are keeping the thugs tranquilised.

“Do something about this!” Fourey shouts, building his frustration back to boiling like a seasoned veteran. “What did I bring you here for, if not for this exact situation?”

“This exact situation, sir?” The blonde eyesore – Rhapsody – asks uncertainly. The anomalous characteristic of his voice less present as he cringes away from another crackling magic bolt exploding in the distance.

“What good is a trump card if you never play it?” Fourey grabs him by the shirt and thrusts him forward to the edge of the gazebo. Rhapsody stumbles forward and, trusting perhaps a little too much in the decorative wood of the gazebo’s ceiling, he stands tall amidst the crouching mercenaries. He plants his feet firmly and cuts and evocative figure – with a dazzling smile and shaking like a leaf.

“Stop the battle! Know that you are trespassed on the lands of his Lordship, Edward Milton Fourey” Rhapsody shouts in a melodic peal that cuts through the battlefield better than any overcompensating energy blast. Having joined me to watch the scene unravel Evelyn and Emmet wilt with me – all of us having the same poor judgement to let our hopes rise at the mention of a trump card. Fourey looks apoplectic, a slug of a vein looking ready to pop out of his skull at any moment.

He claps a hand over Rhapsody’s mouth and sprays spittle aggressively against his face. “You call that solving the situation?” Rhapsody makes to answer, but Fourey pushes through, “Use the bloody flute. I want out of here – I trust you understand what happens to you if I find out that you fabricated even an iota of your capabilities.” Rhapsody nods violently.

“Sir, it’s just that I don’t think we’d make it with the flute. We’d-” He’s cut off as a second powerful voice resonate through the manufactured silence.

“Lord Fourey, your presence is impinging on the success of this mission. Please remove yourself from the field and desist from disrupting the business of Her majesty’s knights.”

I peer as far around the gazebo as I dare. Standing out across the field is the armoured form of Reynard. His chest puffed out and hands clasped behind his back as every fibre of his being goes towards projecting his voice across no man’s land.

“Any further communication from your mind wizard will be taken as enemy action. Know that resources will be levied against you.”

Every inch of the courtyard has been given a liberal coating of arrows and spell-fire. I can’t imagine that either side is particularly invested in keeping extraneous casualties low. Even this brief reprieve is just going to make us easy targets if we try to make a dash for it now. We need a really big distraction.

“Do not listen to the hunting dog!” a hoarse voice manages to still ring out from the other side of the courtyard. Evelyn, Emmet and I look on in horror as the Cult leader steps out from behind the fountain – looking a little worse for wear – and begins screaming back at Fourey’s gazebo and Reynard’s soldiers.

“How is he still here?” asks Evelyn. I just pull her and Emmet down into the trench. I almost feel the mad bastard’s gaze sweep over our hiding spot.

“My brothers always warned me about mages. They’ve always got tricks up their sleeves,” whispers Emmet. “No offense Lucien.” I definitely take some, but don’t bother replying. These guys are throwing magic around like it insulted their bloodline. Cult guy continues as I spot Emily the maid’s boss – Valorie or whatever – come up and standing with him. We’re probably lucky that she didn’t recognize Evelyn when she had us.

“Flautist! You may have been led astray until now, but I urge you to return to the fold. Together we will dismantle the Empire of Caithurt and return the land to the true teachings of the Mother!” He manages the entire spiel before descending into a coughing fit. I can sympathise, my throat feels like a chimney chute. “Return to us, who brought you into the world, and fulfill your destiny!” he finishes with an impressive flourish.

Rhapsody’s charming smile had completely disappeared somewhere along the way. Perhaps – like ours – it had taken flight at the sight of the Cult leader. Was this entire disaster just because Fourey has been lugging around a cultist who had belatedly rethought their life decisions? I turn to Emmet and Evelyn but find the both of them – Evelyn in particular – staring wide eyed at Rhapsody’s nervously trembling frame. From across the courtyard, I faintly hear the mutterings of Reynard. I assume the earlier impressive shouting has temporarily impaired his capacity to whisper.

“The mind mage is another one? Mother preserve us.” He braces himself for another round of shouting. The excessive posturing almost makes me miss the combatants shuffling around. I try to signal the others to hunker back down before the fighting starts again – but they don’t seem to notice me. “Mind mage! Remain where you stand if you wish to live.” He then turns back to the Cult leader. “Sable, this madness ends here.”

“This madness is just beginning!” Cult leader – Sable – cackles back, like an eight-year-old. “We have the noble duty of bringing the Mother’s chosen into this world – We cannot be stopped!” he shrieks, lightning crackling around him – I assume for effect.

“They’re not chosen, they’re just intelligence breaches waiting to happen!” returns Reynard. Some frustration is evident in his tone.

Sable seems to be ready to fire back but cuts himself off as an arrow suddenly sprouts from the mad-eyed lightning caster a few paces behind him. The cultist falls and gurgles helplessly in the ensuing silence. From the corner of my eye, I spy Melanie dart back into the trees. My general sense of paranoia flares dramatically as I’m reminded that she, and her bow exist. The silence doesn’t even last long enough for the guy to die. Arrows and spells begin flying through the air, but the lack of the dead cultist’s super lightning is felt as Reynard’s knights begin to feel comfortable enough to start charging the fountain.

Now I probably should have thought about it earlier, but I guess I’ve spent the last week just assuming that we had messed up the cult’s ritual, and that Evelyn was the only one who had come through. As Evelyn’s face morphs between shock and confusion while it moves between Rhapsody and Sable, I reassess the possibility that she may not be alone in her predicament.

“Rhapsody!” she shouts, shooting up and scrambling out of the trench. I jump up and grab hold of her while planting my feet in the soft ground.

“Stop you idiot, you’ll get us shot.”

She struggles and keeps going, my feet making furrows in the dirt as she drags us over the lip of the trench. “Bugger off Lucien. He’s from Earth.” She shouts again, but neither Rhapsody nor Fourey seems to hear her.

“Emmet, help me with her,” I say over my shoulder as she continues to push towards the gazebo. Why is she so strong? We eat the same food. Emmet – apparently having run out of his earlier usefulness – does nothing to pull her back in the hole. She shouts again but is drowned out by the clashing of steel as the knights reach the cultists and the two forces start fighting in earnest.

Reynard’s knights hold the obvious upper hand when within swords reach, but the cultists don’t make it easy. The screams of both sides rise up as swords cleave through robes and electricity arcs through armour. The fighting soon spreads out into several smaller duels and the short reprieve from missile fire is threatened as combatants from both sides draw closer to the gazebo. I notice, while dodging an elbow from Evelyn, a few enterprising fellows who seem to have identified Rhapsody as a strategic asset. The occupants of the gazebo tense up as a knights and cultists converge on the blue building. All the while, the vulgarity of my cursing increases as Evelyn drags us closer and closer to the encroaching conflict.

Fourey screams something at Rhapsody as the swordsmen draw closer. In the distance, Reynard shouts something at his soldiers. Valorie tries to shout something, but stumbles and falls amidst the chaos. Evelyn shouts at me, I shout at her, Emmet shouts at both of us. Then Sable shouts something while holding a glowing arrow.

A shadow falls over the courtyard as a thousand arrows fill the sky. Sable throws his hand and the sounds of battle are suddenly drowned out by a whistling that turns my blood to ice. A second stretches painfully as my mind catches up with what’s going on. A dull impact echoes through the courtyard and is quickly followed by an awful mockery of rainfall. As one, Evelyn and I throw ourselves backwards, blessedly rolling into the trench. The rain barely lasts a few seconds, and the tinkling of arrows is quickly replaced with the screams and moans of both sides.

I find myself lying at the bottom of our trench, with Evelyn on top of me. I wriggle me toes and take stock, nothing hurts and I don’t feel anything foreign poking out of me. If Evelyn had gotten me shot, I’d never let her hear the end of it. I reach up to roll her off of me but catch a glimpse of red as my hand passes my view. Evelyn moans and the arrow sticking out of her stomach scrapes against my leg. The cold damp of the soil contrasts sickeningly with the hot red stain that drips off her and spreads over my shirt.

“Emmet!” I hear him stumbling over to us, already muttering his healing spell. I look back up and meet Evelyn’s eyes. Her face is pale and sweaty. Her breath comes out in pained gasps and she begins to cry as I feel the arrow shaft shift again. I wipe my hand and it just comes back redder – the blood keeps pooling.

Emmet skids to a stop and pulls the arrow out with practised hands. Evelyn cries and sobs as the arrow is pulled – sticky with blood and dirt. Those same hands glow with warm white light and are inches from the hole in her side when the courtyard fills with music.

The wonderful, impossibly pure notes spill out from the gazebo. The tones of a flute – with both endless depth and sublime simplicity – spread across the field, leaving only transfixed silence from those gathered around the performance. Every armoured limb is frozen – locked in place as the music demands attention. Rhapsody steps into the courtyard, his flute pressed to his lips and begins weaving through the paralysed audience. Fourey and his mercenaries follow, eyes glittering malevolently as they approach the imperial lines.

That music crawls into my ear, worming its way into my skull as I lie powerless to escape it. Evelyn’s limbs lock and she collapses back against me. A breathless gurgle is all that escapes as her jaw sets tight.

Emmet kneels parlayed. His hand stops inches from Evelyn’s stomach, the magic slipping from his frozen grip, the white glow fading away. His eyes are left free from Rhapsody’s melody. They stare out from a face still stuck in a sympathetic wince from removing the arrowhead. His eyes dart from the wound, to his hands and then to me. Those two glistening spots buried in the unnatural stillness of his face communicate something – though I don’t know what.

Evelyn continues to gurgle. Her sobs pushing through teeth that are clamped shut. Her eyes meet mine unblinking, tears streaming uninterrupted down her cheeks and I feel warm, red patch on my shirt spread further.

A sword slides through a soldier’s stomach and he stays standing stiff, even as his blood pools around his feet. The mercenary whips the blade out and sends it swinging at another frozen imperial. The helmeted head thuds softly into turf. The body stays upright, Rhapsody’s flute demanding attention even without ears. Fourey walks on with Rhapsody at his heels as his mercenaries entertain themselves by clearing the way.

That awful beat continues. The periodic heat pulsing slowly against my chest as Evelyn’s blood continues to leak out. The red bloom grows just outside my vision – the spreading stickiness painting a picture in my mind’s eye. I try to lift my hand, to jerk it towards the wound. It stays motionless, buried in the mud, the music still heavy in the air. I push with unmoving muscles and the music only grows louder in my mind. Those lovely notes morphing into screams and shrieks across my brain and I remain imprisoned, staring at Evelyn’s pale face. My side feels slick as her blood trickles down my ribs.

I cast a spell as her gasps grow ragged. Nothing happens. Formless grunts come from Emmet as he tries something similar. The blood just keeps pooling and the music drones on. The air starts to sting and the scene turns blurry as my eyes are forced to watch unblinking. Is that pulsing getting slower? Why can’t I hear her? The pumping in my own ears fails to drown out the flute, but roars over everything else. Seconds stretch as I focus around the cacophony. Evelyn lets out a strained gasp and I deflate against the magical bindings.

Fourey steps confidently passed our trench, his hands clasped comfortably behind his back. The worthless cad glances down at us – if I could just move, I’d be able to reach up and pull him down here where he belongs. A look of disinterested recognition crosses his features as our eyes meet, but he doesn’t even bother with a snide remark, leaving us with a half-formed smirk. Rhapsody treads carefully after him, his cheeks rosy from playing the flute. His own gaze is fixed on Fourey’s back, careful to avoid looking at the statues around him. Evelyn sucks in a short breath, her chest refusing to move as the music pushes on.

Then that melody falters. Rhapsody’s fingers ghost mechanically across the silent instrument as the performer runs out of breath. There’s maybe two seconds – literally a breath – as Rhapsody is forced to suck air back into his lungs. Evelyn’s jaw unlocks and she lets loose a pained sob as my hand darts out and presses against her stomach. The blood dribbles between my fingers and I dig my palm harder against the wound – that’s what your meant to do, right?

The reprieve ends as those baleful notes dig their way back into my brain. A white glow in my periphery splutters out again and Emmet sobs in frustration.

The space of a breath isn’t long. The standing corpse managed to unbalance, my arm moved about a foot and Emmet moved maybe a hands breadth. The notes return to the air, shaky to start, but quickly returning to that haunting drone. The dropping of bodies and stamping of the mercenaries form the chorus as Rhapsody walks forward. From amidst the dull percussion, I hear a whistle join the refrain, a soft rushing of air.

Someone had apparently used those seconds better than us as an arrow sprouts from Rhapsody’s throat and he tumbles wordlessly backwards into our trench. The spell snaps and Fourey disappears beneath a maelstrom of swords and fists. Imperials and cultists alike falling over themselves as I push Evelyn upright, keeping pressure on her stomach.

Emmet just starts muttering his prayers so I assume I got that right. I grab her hand in a way that I hope conveys some comfort. Her grip is weak or non-existent and I look back at Emmet. What’s taking him?

Emmet rushes forward, hands aglow and aimed at Evelyn. The wound spurts and she groans as I pull my hand away, giving Emmet room. The seconds are dragging again as her stomach seeps weakly, the red somehow finding more shirt to stain red, but Emmet still hasn’t healed her.

I whirl around to find Emmet staring fixedly at the other figure in our trench. Rhapsody spasms weakly, the blood flowing from his neck already slowing to a crawl as the ground around him is churned into a sickening maroon. His limbs pat feebly at Emmet’s arm and I see the conflict pass across his brow. As if it were a choice. I lurch, stuck between grabbing Emmet and pressing my hand back on Evelyn’s stomach. In the end I don’t do either.

Emmet gently, but firmly, pushes Rhapsody’s arms away and finally casts a spell on Evelyn. She gasps and begins sucking in air as the rent in her stomach is swallowed with bubbling flesh. Emmet keeps on casting, even while Rhapsody’s limbs keep impacting his back, a muffled moaning slowly fading behind us. Glacially, the glow subsides and the hand I’m holding presses back. Evelyn reaches out and meets Emmet’s hand as well, words apparently beyond her for the moment. I’m fine with that, honestly.

Emmet gives a fragile smile, but his attention keeps straying to Rhapsody’s now still body. I’d check the guy’s pulse, but the glassy eyes I’m met with make the effort pretty pointless. He’s dead. Good riddance.

“Thanks guys,” Evelyn coughs, her voice a bit raspy. We nod in return and Emmet mutters something vaguely spiritual – he’s got this.

I pull the arrow out of Rhapsody’s throat with a wet splutter. Whoever fired this was either lucky, or knew what they were doing. Also, they aimed and fired in like, two seconds – I definitely do not want to stick my head out of this trench.

I catch my reflection in his glassy eyes. A filthy serving boy is reflected back at me – even in death, this guy is pissing me off. I catch a golden glint in the corner of his cornea and find his flute sticking out of the mud next to us. I consider snapping it in half, would that be satisfying enough?

“So, do we have any idea of how to get out of here?” asks Evelyn. Her voice still a bit wavery, but thankfully with a little more strength to it. We listen as the sounds of fighting start back up in earnest – even louder than before. Maybe Sable and the cultists realised that their target got perforated.

“I don’t have one,” says Emmet quietly, while trying not to look at me poking Rhapsody. “Maybe they’ll leave us if we stay here,” he mutters, sounding unconvinced even as he says it. Imperials aside, those cultists seem to be simmering at the ‘fire and salt’ stage of devout fervour. Maybe we can just beg for our lives or something. Trade off Evelyn? I silently chuckle, but with no real humour.

Rhapsody’s eyes keep on reflecting that blood covered farmhand and I turn away. My face is mirrored waveringly in his golden flute, a faint white line traces my jaw and I watch the muscles clench.

“Lucien, what are you doing?” asks Evelyn as black smoke starts to seep from my hands. The stable hand’s eyes go inky black in the flute’s golden reflection as death mana pools behind them – that’s more like it. With a satisfying mental push, I flood Rhapsody with magic, his body twisting in rigor mortis. That mind magic of his is too useful to just leave to rot.

“Stop it Lucien!” shouts Emmet, catching on quickly as always. He grabs my shoulder but jerks back as a wisp of shadow brushes his arm. “I won’t let you defile a person’s body like this.” Rhapsody’s veins bulge out grotesquely and take on a sickly bruised colouring – which I take as a good sign.

“But what are you doing that for?” asks Evelyn, lacking the hysterical element that Emmet’s voice has adopted. I nod towards the flute as I try to keep the mana inflow steady. She makes the connection and looks back at me. “The music? Would that even work?” she asks doubtfully and not without a tinge of trepidation. I can’t help but sympathize with her being against hearing that melody again.

“It might work – that’s better than just sitting here,” I say. Rhapsody’s eyes cloud over and his skin turns ashen in the exact way I’d seen it happen hundreds of times back home. Looking good so far – best it’s ever gone really.

“It’s not better!” Emmet shouts. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

“You’re not part of this!” I growl back, the magic spluttering like a disturbed flame. “He went out there, someone shot him and now there’s a body lying in our trench. I’m just trying to use it to get us out of here, why are you being like this?” I exclaim, exasperation obvious in my voice. My words just seem to wash off of him, his scowl not shifting an inch in the face of my perfectly clear logic. Evelyn looks uneasily between the three of us – Rhapsody’s quickly desiccating body included – not looking that convinced either.

“It’s immoral,” Emmet shouts. “Don’t roll your eyes at me!”

Emmet blinks back tears and I’m suddenly reminded of the dungeon with Evelyn. As if there was something more going on with him than the standard pious outrage at necromancy.

“You two can stay in this hole if you want but I’m getting out of here.” I say, turning my attention back to Rhapsody. I press my hands into his chest to get a better connection and they sink as if I was pressing into a bag of porridge. I curse silently, it’s happening again.

“That’s not a choice Lucien!” says Emmet as I pull away from the body, leaving handprints in his ribcage. I clench my jaws together to stop myself screaming in frustration and whirl around to face the whingeing idiot. His stricken look and running nose draw me short and I swallow the profanities at the tip of my tongue. “I let him die Lucien. He was asking me for help and I ignored him. I at least owe it to him to respect his body, don’t I?” he whispers, voice hoarse from the shouting.

I don’t call him an idiot. I don’t tell him that he doesn’t owe Rhapsody anything. I don’t jump into my lecture on the ethics of death magic.

“Emmet, you chose to heal Evelyn, yeah?” I begin haltingly. “This guy might not have made it anyway. I think that you made the right decision, yeah?” I gesture vaguely to Evelyn who gives a stilted nod. “So yeah, it’s just a bad outcome – I just want to use some more magic to help us get out of here. No one’s compromising any morals,” I finish lamely. Emmet looks unconvinced, his eyes downcast, but not arguing anymore.

I turn back to Rhapsody to find his cheekbones sagging and his skin turning translucent. I scramble to pump more magic into him and it seems like his skin stops cracking like a dry river bed. Then his ear drops off and yellow slime starts leaking from his pores.

“Evelyn, help me keep him together!” I cry as I try to shove his arm back into its socket. She starts, then scoots closer and reaches out timidly for Rhapsody’s leg. Her finger sinks into his shin and she gags. It’s happening too quickly, why is the bone disintegrating this fast? Rhapsody gives no answers, but the skin of his hand does slough off like custard. Useless idiot.

“I’m going to be sick,” mutters Evelyn, shuffling away from the corpse. I ignore her and keep channelling – as if I have any other ideas. The flesh at his throat liquidises and starts bubbling. I recognise the signs from my earlier experiments. Why couldn’t this work – just one time?

A pair of glowing hands appear from my periphery and bury themselves in Rhapsody’s rapidly destabilising abdomen. I turn to see Emmet with a resolute set to his face, casting his healing spell with enough determination to offset the obvious revulsion. I feel Rhapsody’s bones regain their rigidity and his features set like cold wax. Black necromancy catches flesh and begins soaking into the body once again.

“I’ll figure this out when we’re safe,” Emmet says softly. “I still don’t like this,” he continues, looking me in the eye. “But I guess I appreciate the effort,” he mutters, looking away. I nod in recognition and feel the death mana pool off the saturated corpse. I kneel back while maintaining the connection. I take a deep breath and savour the moment.

“Arise.”

The body trembles and an invisible shock contorts its appendages towards the ground. With shuddering, awkward motions, Rhapsody jerks upwards on uneven limbs. His jaw hangs loosely and black mana whisps around him, smoky tendrils catching on flesh and drawing it down like it were cottage cheese. Emmet sees it and redoubles his channelling, magically grappling the flesh into vague functionality.

“Alright, stick the flute in his mouth,” I say, my voice trembling with anxiety. Evelyn shuffles forward and gingerly places the flute in Rhapsody’s mouth. It drops out of his slack jaw and Evelyn tries again. With a shudder she grips his spongey jaw and forces it closed around the instrument. Skin and slime slowly trickle down her wrists as she presses her hands into his face, her expression contorting beyond a mortal understanding of disgust.

Now, the moment of truth. I snap out of admiring my handiwork – successful necromancy, finally. Celebration can come after we get out of here. Doubts flit through my head and I try to ignore the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing. I shake my head, take a breath and send my command through the mana streaming into my construct.

“Play.”

A note peals out from the golden flute and silence falls once again over the courtyard. Rhapsody shambles onto his slightly melted legs and Evelyn follows, her hands gripped tightly around his mouth. Emmet stands, his hands still buried in Rhapsody’s side, white healing magic struggling to stabilise the body as it desperately strives to reduce itself to a puddle. I rise last, connected to the corpse by a stream of black energy. My head clears the trench and I take in the dozens of paralysed combatants.

Their eyes focus on us, glistening with a myriad of emotions. Rhapsody is revealed in the evening light, his skin sloughing off a little more with each step. Disgust, anger and fear race across each stilled face, their eyes boring into me with each step that we take towards the frozen melee.

Rhapsody steps heavily on a warped leg and lists precariously forward. I step up and grab his shirt, pulling him back upright. The shirt digs into his clavicle, boring a furrow into the curdled skin. This is definitely not a perfect casting; we can’t have too long before he just falls apart – Emmet’s healing be damned.

The ground before us is littered with bodies and rents from magic bombardment. Rhapsody’s foot drags against someone’s leg and it takes a concerted effort from Evelyn and I to keep the corpse walking. I shake a clump of hair and scalp off my fingers and try to aim the body over flat turf as much as possible. We thread carefully through the crowd of stilled imperials and cultists.

I reach forward to push a knight out of the way and I see tears flowing from a face frozen in excitement of battle. My reflection stares back at me from his shiny breastplate. My hair sticks out all over the place, ridiculously set with blood and dirt. My clothes are baggy, brown and covered in necrotised flesh, and my face is plastered with ash and mud. But my eyes glow black and contrast wonderfully with the few uncovered clumps of white in my hair – working just as I’d always hoped it would.

The flute’s single note continues to thread around us, this time without that awful bewitching edge. Now that it’s being played for us, it sounds completely mundane – worse than normal even, considering that it keeps warbling as chunks of tongue and spittle spray from the end. My hand reaches the imperial and he gasps, the sound strangled by his unmoving chest. I’ve seen that look before, in the eyes of those left in the wake of my family, a look that I’ve so long looked forward to – a look I’ve seen in myself. I push him away and he topples softly into the turf.

With each statue we pass, a breath of relief follows us, and I feel the tension peak with each that we approach. Rhapsody shambles forward uncaring, the arrow wound splitting open down his throat and peeling away his sternum. Emmet grimaces and moves a hand to the other side of the body’s rib cage, hoping to clamp it shut. Evelyn gags as she readjusts her grip on his face, her hands leaving prints as Rhapsody’s skin turns to slime and begins running down his chest. Their eyes, too, look back at me with exhaustion and sickness, and that previous lightness flickers painfully in my chest.

“We’re nearly there,” mutters Evelyn as the three of us half lead, half carry the melting corpse past the densest group of fighters. Emmet only nods, sweat running lines through the grime on his brow. I grunt in agreement, the main gate growing blessedly in front of us.

We pass a now pockmarked tree and catch Reynard’s gaze. He glares at us, Rhapsody’s song still somehow freezing him upright and back straight, his eyes holding steady with duty and other knightly crap. I turn away and ignore him, not even bothering to pick out his goons from the thicket. The dull thump sounds from below us and I step over Rhapsody’s stomach and try in vain to avoid his entrails swinging into my legs.

The fountain comes up beside us and Sable’s gaze bores into my back. His black robes are grey from dust and sprinkled with singed holes. An unformed bolt of magic churns angrily in his hand, spitting and visibly searing his palm as it burns in his frozen grip. Even amidst my exhaustion, I quite easily find the energy to grin spitefully.

We trudge past the fountain, Rhapsody losing cohesion by the second – thank the gods his lungs still seem to work. I turn away from watching Sable’s pinkie turning black but then I stop dead, Emmet almost rips off Rhapsody’s arm as he’s forced to stop with me. There, lying in the dirt behind the fountain.

“What the hell Lucien?” Evelyn squawks.

“It’s Valorie,” I say. “Sable’s assistant or whatever,” I specify at Emmet’s tired, questioning look. Evelyn looks like she’s about to complain again. “She’s got my book, Darke Mag’kx, I need it,” I continue, listing Rhapsody around awkwardly with a tug on his magical puppet strings.

“Lucien, stop! We’re almost out, just leave it,” says Evelyn, stumbling to keep the flute in Rhapsody’s slack jaw.

“I can’t leave it, I can’t learn magic without it,” I snap back, trying to pull the corpse without ripping it’s shoulder out. “I need it to be a mage.”

Emmet slaps me with a glowing hand. “Just leave it Lucien,” my cheek stings, the shock stilling the air in my lungs.

“But I can do magic when I read it. It’s the only thing that’s ever worked,” I say quietly, Emmet’s expression softens back to his earlier lines of exhaustion.

“Look at what we’re doing right now. It’s magic, you’re doing it. Don’t fuck it up just for that book, it’s rubbish anyway,” says Evelyn. Rhapsody lurches once again and his ribs begin to poke out below his billowing shirt, the bones loose and running in the molasses of his chest cavity.

I let Emmet guide me back towards the gate and pull Rhapsody with me. I feel the book beckoning to me as it falls behind us. Puddles of congealing flesh pool as we pass, Rhapsody’s form quivering with unstable magics. One of his glassy eyes falls loose from his skull and slides slowly down his face like a fly trapped in honey. I let out a huff at that. Maybe Rothmore was onto something with all those food metaphors.

We reach the entranceway of the manor and Rhapsody’s legs finally give out. One foot falling off and the other leg bending, boneless, in half. Evelyn struggles with the flute while Emmet and I stoop to carry the undulating body between us. We enter the entrance garden and hurry awkwardly to the gates. Rhapsody’s music gurgles piteously as his chest sinks into his diaphragm but still echoes unnervingly, spreading through the flowers and bushes as we hurry into the front garden and towards the outer gates.

The inevitable crowd of onlookers freeze with a staggered gasp as the flute’s melody floats over them. Emmet stops his healing completely as he pushes the bundle of rancid flesh into my arms and rushes to open the gate. I struggle to contain Rhapsody in my arms, his legs have fallen off completely at some point and I endeavour to just keep the lungs working no matter what. A few pedestrians fall to the curb, immobile, as Emmet pulls the heavy iron gate open. The body continues melting between Evelyn and I, the flute dribbling yellow slime, somehow still managing to produce enough sound to keep the spell going.

“Where do we go?” whispers Emmet, weary of our frozen onlookers hearing our plans. I hadn’t thought of that being a problem – it would be best to leave without a trace.

“Main gate,” I whisper back and the two of them nod.

My grip slips and my arms go right through the pink jelly. Rhapsody’s pelvis falls to the ground and seems to deflate against the cobbles. Even I gag at the sensation and the body slips even further in on itself. Right, that’s it.

I let go and the flute’s music cuts out as the pile of fetid sludge impacts the street. A wave of sound ripples over the crowd as the surroundings are freed from Rhapsody’s song – for good this time. Our immediate neighbours whirl around and astutely identify the three of us as the probable perpetrators. I stumble away as one of them – neurons afire – tries to lunge at me and the three of us tear down the main road, the manor burning behind us.

O – O – O – O – O

I crest the hill, gasping for breath and collapse against a tree. Evelyn and Emmet drop down beside me. From our perch, the valley spreads out before us; Havale in its centre, glowing in the dusk. Usually, it would be torchlight and lanterns, but right now the centre of the town glows with the light of a burning city block. The manor, which would usually be pretentiously visible even from here, is no longer standing. The fires long having consumed it and moved on to the surrounding townhouses.

The wind turns and carries the smell of ash and smoke. It mixes wonderfully with the stench of calcified flesh and rotting bone that covers the three of us. Rhapsody’s blood and offal have started to dry and itch. I try not to think about the coating of slime, or how deep it’s gotten into my hair. I’m sure I’ll be finding bits of it in my fingernails for days to come.

Evelyn sits, picking idly at the congealed mucus that covers her arms. Emmet looks dully over at the burning town, not bothering to do anything about his stained robes as he watches.

“I think I want to go home,” says Evelyn. Her voice quiet, but ringing clearly in the silence of our hilltop.

I say nothing in response. Her voice is just so tired and sapped of any emotion. Emmet sniffs quietly beside me, his knees curled up into his chest and his eyes looking unfocused into the valley. A wave of exhaustion hits me as I sit between them. The events of the day finally catching up to me. There’s a burning in my lungs, I’m filthy and itchy, and it’s starting to get cold. Evelyn doesn’t say anything else; she just leans her chin against her knees and picks at her sleeves.

The sun falls behind the distant hills and the sky fills with dull purples. The wind picks up a little and I shiver at the chill – maybe we should start thinking about starting a fire. I don’t know what comes over me, but the thought tickles and my mouth opens before I can think twice.

“We’re going to end up flameous for how we keep leaving the towns we visit.”

There’s a moment of silence when the two of them slowly raise their heads and look at me. Then Emmet lets out a horrified snicker and Evelyn cracks a reluctant grin. And somehow, that makes it all a little better.

The end (of book one)