Deathless (Editing)

Chapter 2: Waking the Dead

Ice cold shock gripped me. My fingers remained curled in a steely grip around the hilt of my short sword. Only when I found the man staring back at me did my gaze trail down to see that I had plunged the blade deep into the foreign soldier's heart. What I had mistaken for wood had been flesh and bone.

Eyes wide and breath trapped deep in my lungs, my focus shifted to the man's face. He appeared stricken, but very much alive. His horror, however, waned quicker than mine, and, with a small smirk, he quirked a brow and asked, "Would you mind pulling your blade out of my chest?"

Stupidly, my eyes flicked back to the small blade and narrowed in on the place where the steel disappeared into the man's flesh. Twin wisps of inky smoke began to escape from around the blade, weaving together and pulling away from the wound. My hand dropped from the hilt of the sword, like it had gone hot, and I drew back in horror.

A cold sense of jamais vu overwhelmed me as I took in the gory scene. What had seemed so familiar had been broken and unmade, tinged in green and smudged with shadow. I was no longer in the Inn. No. This place seemed like the Inn, but it wasn't. It was darker. There was a gray-green tint to the flames that illuminated the room. The shade lingering at the periphery had swollen, threatening to draw closer and choke us if we lingered too long. All ambient sound had vanished, making the room seem sunken and abandoned.

No, this was not my Mistress's Inn. This was something otherworldly. This was the Un-Inn.

We remained in our respective places in the Un-Inn, he on his flimsy cot, and me kneeling on a cushion that had deflated into the hardwood floor. I stared at my hand. My skin was as pale as starlight, and, where there should have been blood, there was only twirling shadow, spiraling away from my fingers and toward that strange sword of mine, like it was pulling the darkness to it, eating it.

The soldier sat up, weight bracing against his elbows and forearms. Stock-still, he watched me for a long few moments, as my mind worked frantically to solve this strange puzzle.

I was clearly hallucinating. Exhaustion, or worse, heat stroke, had robbed me of what little sense I possessed.

"Ma'am, the sword," the soldier stated smoothly, and then he reached out to place his hand against mine. His touch was light and surprisingly warm. "I think you're supposed to pull it out."

"Won't you die?" I cried, taking his comforting touch and returning it with a visceral grip of my own.

He appeared alive. Assuming that this wasn't wholly a figment of my imagination, it would stand to reason that if I removed the blade, which seemed to be the catalyst of his remarkable revival, he would return to the dead.

An easy smile parted his lips, and he shook his head. "I take it this is your first time in the Shade," he murmured, squeezing my hand.

"The Shade?" I exclaimed. What was he talking about? What was happening?

He gave a firm nod. "Pull it out. You'll see."

He seemed so confident. But why?

Hesitantly, I leaned forward. My fingers grazed the cold stitching of my blade's hilt, and, tentatively, I wrapped my palm around the grip. I pressed my lips together so tightly that I could taste the tin of blood, and I flinched as I pulled the blade out. With each inch that released, more shadows poured forth, pooling around the steel.

The man braced in pain. His grasp on my hand tightened until I could hear my joints pop under its strain.

Once the blade was free, the shadows began to weave around his body. Instinctively, I slashed away the inky binds, and the sword obliged my request, tearing through the shades and sending them skittering to the perimeter of the room.

Then, everything went still. The cold blacks and greens of the room flaked away like dry leaves, and the warmth of the Inn's buttery lantern light returned. In an instant, the world was restored as I once remembered it, alive and suddenly vibrant.

My gaze darted to the soldier, who pulled himself up into a seated position. His attention drifted to my hand, which was still pressed against his. A quiet smile played across his lips, and his eyes trailed up to meet mine.

"Lord High Commander of the Forty and Minister of the Right will want to know about this," he murmured, eyeing my sword slyly.

Lord High Commander of the Forty? Minister of the Right? My heart withered as I tried to piece together who those people could possibly be. The only conceivable answer, however, nearly sent me jumping out of my skin.

"The Lord High Commander?" My Mistress's voice came crashing through the room. There was panic threading through her usually serene tone as she emerged from the doorway. When she saw the foreign soldier returning her stare, the color bled from her cheeks, and she reached for a nearby table to steady her.

"What is the meaning of this?" Her panic quickly morphed into terror, and her knees buckled, causing her to sink even closer to the table.

"My meaning is rather plain, ma'am," he replied, shifting slightly in his seat as he pulled his legs under him and took to his feet, standing squarely in the middle of the floor. He then reached for the sword at his hip, unsheathed it, and pointed it down at me. "As the Lord High Commander's lieutenant, I am apprehending this girl," he declared, fixing my mistress with a stare that dared her to make a move counter to him.

"Riverly," Mistress practically swallowed my name and choked.

The soldier then turned to me and gave a nod of his head, just as firm and as commanding as before. "Riverly, is it?" he asked, voice soft, almost kind.

I nodded back at him, mouth hanging open, heart fitfully beating, stricken at what was to come next.

"Well, Riverly, come with me."