Chapter 55. Pay for it

  Jeremiah mentally checked in with his undead. Absent targets, the abomination patrolled, only occasionally breaking from its route to trample a foolish cult member who underestimated its speed. The zombies and skeletons continued combing through the city, now rarely encountering any living beings. Whatever remained of the cult and their slaves awaited him in the market square.

  He pulled even more zombies to pilfer the room. The sole exception being the journal, Jeremiah grabbed an errant bag from the treasury and took it for himself. As he departed he scooped up as much of the adamantine shards as would fit to fill out the bag.

  The city was nearly silent now. The hundred handed giant stood like a tower, motionless. Jeremiah saw a masked cult member run for the darkness beyond the city, only for the abomination to spring into action the moment the cultist was perceived, kill him, and return to its sentry.

  The slaves were huddled together, having escaped and found each other, slowly gathering in the city center.

  Jeremiah approached the knot of terrified survivors, that cowered at his presence., “There are more in Gurg’s warehouse. Free them and bring them here,” he commanded.

  “Are you going to kill us?”

  “Are we your slaves now?”

  “My indenture contract was-”

  Jeremiah held up his hands, “We’re leaving. All indentures are void.”

  “But my indenture contract says in the event of my master’s death, it passes to-”

  “Any who wish to contest the voiding of the indenture can speak to that thing,” said Jeremiah, pointing to the hundred handed giant.

  Soon enough the slaves were released and gathered. They were in pitiful shape, but the promise of freedom gave them the strength to at least limp their way to the gathering point.

  Jeremiah looked them over, Lyle was not among them. Neither was someone else.

  He sighed, fearing the worst, and went back to where he had last seen him. The streets were a bloody mess. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people had been crushed under the abomination. Those that hadn’t been were torn to pieces by the undead. He came to the stall he had searched for, though it had been trampled to pieces.

  “Masks. Not specific enough,” Jeremiah thought.

  The slaves he had met wore bags over their heads. The undead had not discerned between the masks of the cultists and the bags. Here, chained together, were the bodies of those who could not escape. It appeared they had suffered from the weapons of the abomination, hacked and smashed to pieces.

  And there was the boy. His tiny body lay amongst the others, still masked, a gaping hole in his chest.

  Jeremiah reached down and pulled off the bag that had covered his face.

  The man in the closet.

  “No, this is a boy. He’s his own tragedy, not my old one,” thought Jeremiah.

  The boy’s yellowed, lizard like eyes bulged in confusion.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jeremiah to the boy. “You were an accident, but you weren’t a mistake. I could have done better, but I didn’t. I killed you. I’m sorry.”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  Jeremiah lifted the boy up. He was feather light, small to begin with and now missing the weight of his own lifeblood. Jeremiah had handled many corpses in his day, but this one was different. He carried this one tight to his chest, gently, carefully, and took him to the awaiting slaves.

  There was a commotion, the slaves were gathered around a small figure and shouting. It was a gnomish woman in a red robe, but without a mask. She had apparently escaped the onslaught by guile or coincidence. She was tearful and shouting back at the people that held her in place.

  “Please! I’ve done nothing wrong! I was just selling coffee! I never took slaves or hurt anyone!” she cried. It was Madella, the girl who ran the cafe Jeremiah and Lyle had visited.

  “Where is Lyle?” Jeremiah asked quickly.

  Madella looked Jeremiah up and down, quickly divining the situation, “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him since he left. Please, I just sold coffee, I never did the bad stuff!”

  Jeremiah nodded, “Just running a business.”

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  Madella nodded back emphatically, finding a sympathetic ear, “Yes! I just wanted to make a little money, who doesn’t?”

  Come.

  “I’ll let you plead your case,” said Jeremiah, “the rest of you follow me, we’re leaving. The Empress will extend her thanks to those of you who will speak with investigators to gather more information.”

  The woman Jeremiah had found, the one that had been tortured to death, appeared beside him. She carried a red hot iron poker in each hand.

  “You can explain yourself to her,” Jeremiah said to Madella. Jeremiah lead the survivors of the cult toward the exit.

  Kill her.

  The procession through darkness paused as Jeremiah sensed a trapdoor above. His muscles ached, but he had strength enough for one more death. He reached his will just beyond the trapdoor.

  Rise.

  The slaves gasped at Nascent’s screams, but Jeremiah smiled. He waited until the immense corpse finished tearing Nascent to pieces, then shifted its bulk away from the exit.

  The exodus of slaves was a slow and painful one. There were so many stairs and the slaves were so weak, but with patience and the help of the stronger slaves, they all were eventually able to reach the surface.

  The sun had risen. It felt glorious on Jeremiah’s skin, like it was burning away the cruelty and evil he had been awash in. He could finally release all the undead under his command, save those hauling treasure that still followed their group. The bubbles of the zombies and skeletons popped easily enough, but the solid block that was the abomination clung to its existence. Instead of simply removing his will, he had to focus on it, chip away at the block until it was gone.

  The space in his mind was his again. He carried the boy despite the desperation in his body to set him down, and led the people through the Pit, ignoring the greetings and open-mouthed stares from the Stonefists. The survivors followed him without question. He was their hero, after all.

  Near the crest leading to the slums, Jeremiah turned to the crowd. “I don't have any answers for you,” he said. “I don’t know how you got here and I don’t know where you should go from here. All I can do is give you another shot. There’s enough here for all of you to get a fresh start.”

  He called forward the zombies carrying the coin chests and had them face the survivors.

  Dump it.

  In one motion, the zombies overturned the small chests, emptying their contents into the dirt. The survivors looked at the pile of coins, looked at Jeremiah, then tentatively began crowding around

  “You've all been through the same hell together, try to remember that,” Jeremiah said as the survivors filled their pockets. Then he left, trailed by the two zombies carrying the adamantine and the larger chest between them.

  Jeremiah clutched the boy against his chest as he made his way through the streets towards home. The ceaseless river of people dammed and parted, the sight of a dead child enough to break their ceaseless pace.

  Allison was leaning against the wall of their building, cutting slices off an apple. She saw the boy in Jeremiah’s arms, the zombies in their robes and masks, and the chest they carried, and gave Jeremiah a sad smile. “You okay?”

  “It’s over,” he said.

  “I guess so. You want to take him upstairs?” said Allison, gesturing to the boy.

  “I do. I—” he choked on the words.

  “I know, it’s okay,” said Allison.

  Jeremiah carried the boy up the stairs. Each step felt arduous now, during the journey the boy’s frail body had become intolerably heavy. He staggered at the final landing and caught himself, panting from exertion. His grip was slipping. The last thing he wanted was to let the body fall.

  Allison was there. “Just a few more steps. Let it hurt. Pay for it.” She moved ahead to hold the apartment door open for him.

  Jeremiah gritted his teeth and pushed the pain from his mind. He forced his legs to move, squeezed his muscles till they seized, but didn’t let go. He entered the apartment and knelt down, using the truly last vestiges of strength he had to lay the boy down gently.

  Bruno and Delilah were there, taking chests and sacks from the zombies. Allison knelt next to Jeremiah and put her arm around his shoulders.

  “I know what it’s like,” she said. “I’m going to take you to your room, okay? You need to rest. We’ll talk about it when you’re ready.”

  Jeremiah wanted to protest. He was sure he didn’t deserve to rest right now. But he was tired, so very tired.

  He didn’t bother to undress, merely placed Gus in his bowl and collapsed onto the bed. Sleep took him the moment his head hit the pillow, black and thankfully dreamless.