To him. To him.
(We
are one in the machine.)
To
him. To him.
(We
are one in the machine.)
For
the first time in ages, Stalav had a headache. The flesh in his skull that had
not rotted away had mummified. He had no physiological capability of feeling a
headache, but then, there was no physiological way that he could still think or
walk or see. His undeath sustained him, but he had not felt anything quite like
this true and distracting pain since he had been a living man.
They
were getting too close to town. He would have to make his move quickly, or he
would lose his opportunity. It was unlikely that they would stop to sleep for
more than one night. If he got lucky, he might be able to kill both of the
women in a frontal attack in broad daylight, but he did not like his chances. He
was missing an arm, after all, and the headache was always getting stronger.
(All the more reason to strike soon.)
He
knew the forest well, and he could walk silently. Stalav had marched in the
legions of the Icelord for countless years. He had slain many wanderers in the
forest, and they did not see him until he was upon them. The Icelord’s magic
was not limited to mere necromancy. That was his gift – the one that he
bestowed upon his reverent human disciples. But the Icelord’s power was far
greater. Stalav could walk over snow without making a print. He could see
clearly in near-total darkness. Stalav had in the past been used as a vessel
through which the Icelord could do his work, and had effectively raised his own
minions from death.
But
such confidence could in turn become overconfidence. The humans of the northeastern
coast had been strong fighters, and had met the Icelord’s legions with ferocity
and valor. Stalav respected them. And without the Icelord’s song in his mind,
he could not be certain he still possessed the powers that would give him the
edge in a confrontation.
He
kept his distance, following the women’s tracks, though sometimes he would come
closer to peer at them. The tough-looking woman with the military uniform would
be first. And then… and then… and then…
Why? What would that accomplish?
Stalav
nearly stumbled when this thought came to him. The voice that asked this in his
head was his own, but the thought seemed to shock him. It was as if someone
else had been narrating his thoughts until this one.
(We are one in the machine.)
Horrific
pain shot through his head. It felt as if someone was jamming a steel bolt
directly through his temples. He had not felt this level of pain for so very
long. He dropped to one bony knee, and he could hear a small shard of his
kneecap as it chipped off from the rest of the bone.
No,
he thought. This was some sort of interference. Something that was trying to
prevent him from serving the Icelord. Perhaps it was that witch, Giladra…
Giladra’s dead. Has been for months.
Stalav
tried to remember what had happened to the witch. She was a member of the
Stag’s Head Cult, but she stayed out in the forest. The Icelord had commanded
his subjects to leave her be. They had come to some kind of arrangement, but
then… Someone had killed her. There had been some kind of panic amongst his
fellows at Castle Dusk… Stalav struggled to remember the details.
My mind is going.
No,
his mind couldn’t be going. It hadn’t gone anywhere since he died. The Icelord
spoke to him and acted through him, and everything was correct and right.
Stalav, why are you trying to kill these
women?
(We
are one in the machine.)
Because
they would… Because he had to…
The arm, Stalav. Look at your shoulder.
He
moved his head slowly, allowing his eyes to fall upon the shoulder stump. The
stump was pure white, whiter than the snow. It had become square, and only
after a few inches did the upper arm gradually turn into the grey flesh that
was his own.
It’s spreading.
No.
It couldn’t be spreading. He had cut off the arm. He had amputated it. The
corruption was removed. The faceless man had touched only his hand and his
wrist. Both were far removed from his body.
But it’s spreading.
(We
are one in the machine.)
Stalav
shook his head, which was now pounding and grinding and he felt like his teeth
were going to explode out of his mouth.
You couldn’t bear to lose the entire arm.
You couldn’t cut the flesh where it was still yours. There’s still something of
the human being you once were. He left it for you. You were not a simple
thrall, some zombie. You were one of his chosen champions, and you were allowed
to keep your name. He kept you human enough to think and to lead, but now,
well. Now you’re paying the price for that.
Stalav
grabbed hold of his head, dropping his sword and burying his face in the frigid
snow.
You doomed yourself because you were not
willing to cut where it counted. You were afraid. You were weak. And now…
“I
have to kill them!” he tried to scream. But in that moment he had forgotten how
old and useless his vocal chords were. He did not need speech when the Icelord
spoke directly to him and his comrades.
No. Stalav. You don’t have to. He hasn’t
told you to kill them. He is gone, Stalav. You are on your own, and you will
probably be gone soon as well. Cut it. Cut it now, before it…
(WE
ARE ONE IN THE MACHINE.)
(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2014)
