Chapter 5 #2
Beside us, Fenric glances at me, then back to the action. He shifts from side to side, unable to stay still. Even from where I’m standing with Thorian, I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
Just a ways down the perimeter of the cemetery, the vampires stand and watch the warlock’s progress, too. I fight to keep my gaze from lingering on Talon. I can’t deny my happiness at seeing him alive, even knowing it doesn’t make sense… since we're competing against each other.
I suppose I’m still grateful to him for saving my life in the gardens. And… and maybe I still can’t ignore the strange pull I feel towards him.
Magnus shouts something angrily from the side of the field, but doesn’t make any move to follow his teammate. Ulric keeps walking, and we watch him, and it truly feels like he might make it through. That the act alone, just to face such a thing so bravely, might be enough of a trial.
Dusk is completely gone, the soft purples and blues completely replaced with that blanket of dark that I’ve come to know as the standard night sky here.
There are no stars, but the moon shines almost eerily, casting a white-blue glow over everything, diffusing through the fog like a spotlight in a theater.
When Ulric makes it nearly halfway through the cemetery, some of the other groups begin talking again, arguing among themselves.
They clearly don’t want to be overtaken. But I suspect they don’t want to move through the graveyard either. Slowly, a few of them begin trickling into the field, taking tentative steps, their caution and haste battling for precedence.
Thorian makes no move, gives no orders. We stand unmoving. Waiting.
Then, faintly, I see something shifting. A great, yawning veil of sadness rolls over me, and I rock forward with the impact of the feeling. Grief and agony and despair suck at my throat, making my insides feel hollowed out.
“There’s something there,” I say, and when I point, Fenric and Thorian follow the gesture.
Fenric lets out a sound of panic just as the other warlocks cry out, trying to warn Ulric.
The figure multiplies in a rapid cascade, splitting again and again until Ulric is surrounded by them.
Still not seeming troubled, he starts to fire, bright, violet lightning bolts stemming out from his hands, reaching for the figures that encircle him like his power alone can vanish them.
Which, somehow, I doubt.
Although the light from his casting is bright enough that it blinds me for a moment, it does nothing to the shadowy forms, which continue to multiply, spreading outward from him like dark water finding the cracks in a floor, tendrils of shadow reaching in every direction until he's barely visible at their center.
This isn’t going to end well.
Something bad is about to happen.
I can feel it in my gut so strongly that I can’t help but shout for him to run, even if I’m not sure he’d listen.
As much as I don’t like the warlocks, I can’t witness whatever is about to happen next, so I turn instead and meet Thorian’s eye. His expression is as unreadable as always, but I’m getting slightly better at reading his tells.
And right now, he’s concerned.
“What will we do?” I ask, glancing over at Fenric, whose eyes are locked over my shoulder, following Ulric’s battle with the things. “And what are those?”
“Those,” Thorian says, letting out a deep sigh that’s equal parts trepidation and disappointment, “are the Ashen.”
I’ve heard of the Ashen before, perhaps read about them in one of my father’s books, but I can’t conjure any information about them. Not with the wave of nausea rolling through my stomach, not with the grief clawing and heavy, sticking to the backs of my eyes and dripping down into my throat.
And, as if all the inner turmoil over this wasn’t enough, Ulric lets out a blood-curdling scream that snaps everyone to attention, dozens of heads turning in his direction.
Those at the very edge of the graveyard backpedal, more than ready to watch whatever is about to happen to him rather than have it happen to them.
Magnus yells something else, lifting his hands, purple light starting to pool around his palms as he steps forward to help his friend.
The other warlock, Antone, grabs him and yanks him back.
Ulric screams again, falling to his knees, and the dark apparitions surrounding him back away, widening the circle enough that we have a clear view of him.
“I’m sor-ry!” he screams, the words ripping from his throat violently, echoing through the air toward us. Every person watching the scene is frozen.
The figures aren’t even near him. How are they affecting him? Is he apologizing for tromping through their resting place without a care?
“I’m sorry!” Ulric pulls his hands away, and I gasp, realizing he’s been digging at his eyes, drawing long streaks of blood down his face, his nails ripping at the flesh again and again, like he's trying to carve his eyes out with his very hands. “I’m sorry!”
“Ulric!” Magnus yells, throwing his hands up, circling back around, then walking to the perimeter of the graveyard.
He stops, his hands in his hair, his robes fluttering in the breeze.
The moon still shines brightly over the scene, and the fog grows denser, flattening to the ground as though it actually has a weight to it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” gasping the words, Ulric pulls his blood-drenched hands away from his bloody face and fumbles inside his robes, smearing them with the stuff, and eventually manages to pull something from under the folds.
I bring my hand to my mouth, fighting the temptation to turn and bury my face in Thorian’s chest. Ulric holds a dagger, and when he turns, trying to get to his feet again, the blade glints in the moonlight.
“I’ll make it right!” he screams, coughing and managing to stand up straight. The fog pools around his ankles, and his hands shake mightily as he flips the dagger, holding it away from himself and angling the tip toward his torso.
“Ulric!” Magnus screams holding out a hand to him, but Antone drags him back.
Ulric buries the dagger in his stomach. We all hover, stunned at the sight playing out in front of us, a collective gasp suspended. Then, groaning in pain and agony, Ulric draws the blade out slowly, blood pooling under his robes and staining the green silk a deep, growing burgundy.
Magnus has turned, falling to the ground. Antone stands beside him, seemingly unsure how to offer comfort for what’s just happened.
The groups around us are quiet, watching.
With a frantic, growing energy, Ulric pulls back his hands, then buries the blade in his stomach again, grunting with pain. He does it again and again, until he falls to his knees, blood bubbling out of his mouth, mixing with saliva, turning a light pink as it dribbles down onto his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he cries, a deep sob rolling out wet from his lips. “I’m sorry.”
When he falls to his side, the fog conceals him, until nothing is left but the sound of the dagger plunging into the mess he’s made of his intestines.
And, eventually, even that stops.