by Aaron Bunce
The gull didn’t fly away when it was rebuffed by the window. Instead, it scrabbled against the glass and planks of the house for a moment before surging back into the air. Luca continued to press the pillow over his head, but the animal’s cries cut through the fabric and feather buffer. With a grunt, he heaved the pillow towards the window, but his twisted body possessed little strength, and it landed in a plume of dust on the floor.
The gull continued to bounce against the window as Luca painfully rolled to the edge of the bed, and as he picked up his crutch he realized what tormented the bird. His plate of food, left over from his supper the night before, still sat upon the small table perched before the window.
“Shut up!” Luca hissed as he wedged the small crutch into the crook of his shoulder, but the bird continued to scrabble and bounce against the window, its piercing cries a torment to his aching head. He hobbled forward a painful step, and then cast the foot of the crutch forward with a thunk.
The window was not far away, yet any distance felt like a journey anymore. He pressed his eyes shut as he took a step forward, and then another. Luca leaned against the small table for a moment, only long enough to gather up the stale breadcrumbs in his hand before hobbling towards the window.
The gull crashed into the window again. It was now so close Luca thought his eyes might burst from the pain. Desperate to be free from the noise, he let the crutch fall free to the floor and staggered the remaining paces to the window. He fumbled with the simple latch and in a moment it was free.
His arms buckled from the strain, but his weight was enough to break the frame free of the ice and snow, and with a groan, not unlike an angry cat, the window spread wide.
Luca reared back and cast his arm forward as hard as he could, scattering the handful of bread into the swirling lake breeze. The gull, intent on his every movement, snagged one of the pieces of bread right out of the air, and a heartbeat later it swooped towards the ground after the rest.
With the piercing cries of the lake bird gone, Luca leaned heavily onto the windowsill to catch his breath. The mere act of the walk, accompanied by opening the window and throwing the bread, had taxed him severely. In truth, it was more than he had been able to do in some time, but he knew there would be a price.
The pain in his head continued to throb, flaring with every beat of his heart, but as he willed his breathing to steady, his heart eventually obliged. He held his face up to catch the salty lake breeze. Although quite cold, he found it incredibly refreshing.
The gentle murmur of the water filled the silence and in that moment of peace Luca’s pains subsided a bit. He longed for the freedom to jump and run like all of the other children. At this point, he would consider getting out of bed to use his chamber pot without pain a milestone worth celebrating.
Luca opened his eyes. He lifted his hand and shaded his face from the morning sun, taking in the bay. The bright rays glittered off of the clear blue water, and even at this early hour, dozens of ships dotted the water, their white sails like listless patches amongst the tapestry of blue-green.
Great docks stretched out into the lake, built strong and tall from monstrous trees. Fishing shacks and packing shops kissed the shore, but the wonder of Pinehall was not in its pristine water, but the sloping perch of the city all around him.
From the water’s edge, reaching as far up the mountainous slopes as men were willing to build spread the heart of the city. The morning sunshine spilled over the rocky bowl that contained the lake and gilded the buildings. Long bunkhouses, built of stone and mortar sat perched on stilts, hanging out over the water far below. Up above him, almost beyond the limit to which he could tilt his stiff neck, the slope leveled out.
Upon that massive stone shelf, lifted high above everything else, was the massive hall to which the city was named. Luca knew the Hall of Pines was the home to the city elder and provincial magistrate. The resident priest also told him that it was the home of a priceless relic, rescued from a hidden cave not far away on the coast. Part of Luca was fascinated by the idea of something old and reclaimed, although, he wasn’t quite sure why it interested him, as if it was a part of him still locked away deep inside.
He looked out over the city longingly, wishing for the freedom to run down the wooden catwalks and bridges with abandon. He yearned to jump and cartwheel his way through the streets and explore its many rocky bluffs. In that moment of fancy he shifted his weight and those wishes were washed away by his painful reality. He turned back towards the bed and his gaze automatically dropped to his crutch on the floor. It was only a few paces away, but it might as well have been on the other side of the city.
“Stupid legs,” he groaned, leaning back against the wall, rubbing the ache from his stiff lower extremities.
For a moment Luca’s eyes went unfocused and his head drooped. He tried to pierce the veil covering his mind, hoping beyond hope that some glimmer of his previous life would break free. He blinked away a tear that escaped his eye. The weight of not knowing was simply too much.
Since waking up in Pinehall, he was prone to having fits. Sometimes he would black out, other times he would fall down and lose control of his body. When he would wake up again his mind would be awash in all sorts of disorienting thoughts and feelings.
At other times, during his sporadic rest, he would have horrible dreams. Faceless, shapeless monsters would stalk him through dark passageways. He would hear people screaming out to him, yet their voices were far away, and near to him at the same time. Their voices sounded familiar to him, but he could never remember why.
Luca, Luca where are you? The voices haunted him again as he troubled over the vivid dreams, but even now he felt his skin go cold and he started to shake. With trembling lips Luca pressed his hands over his eyes as he willed the wretched visions away. He tried to drown out the voice calling his name, but it always grew louder when he tried.
“Luca!” someone shouted as strong hands clamped around his shoulders and shook him. “Luca, are you alright?” the man asked as he pulled his hands apart.
“Father, I…didn’t hear you come in,” Luca said, startled by Father Thurstan’s presence.
“Yes, today is the day. Did you forget?” the robed man asked as he straightened.
“Not really. Well, yes. I think I did,” Luca admitted sheepishly, standing up a little straighter.
“Well, who could blame you? Considering what you have been through,” the priest exhaled deeply.
He looked Luca up and down, his usually happy face weighed down with concern. It made Luca uncomfortable how everyone looked at him, like he was a pathetic and pitiful thing. Part of him wanted to crawl under his bed and be alone, to be rid of their gaze, if just for a while.
“I am surprised to see you out of bed. Is your pain any better today?” Father Thurstan finally asked after catching his breath.
Luca wondered if the young priest had run, he seemed winded.
“The pain is better. I almost don’t need the crutch anymore,” Luca lied. But he knew that his face gave him away. He simply couldn’t hide the discomfort.
“Grand,” Father Thurstan said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Shall I fetch your coat for you?”
“No I can get it,” Luca cut in and moved to walk towards the wall next to his bed, but as he tried to take a step his leg went stiff and he started to fall. Father Thurstan lurched forward, and just managed to catch Luca before he fell.
“Perhaps this will help today,” Father Thurstan said. He held Luca with one arm and stretched out, scooping the small pine crutch off the floor.
Luca stuffed the crutch under his arm and steadied himself, while the priest fetched his coat. He struggled into the warm garment and hobbled towards the door. He cleared his throat and gave the young priest a nod, before stepping out into the hall.
Chapter 2
Nowhere left to run
The heat and cold mixed together like a swirling vortex. Roman became lost to it, consumed b
y its confusing and often violent duality. It had neither a beginning nor an end, a seamless fog of confusion and pain.
He felt something, nothing more than a slight pressure on his hand, perhaps the gentle warmth of fingers. The haze fractured. He felt his thoughts start to congeal, forming and flashing through his mind in a broken and disorienting rush. They surged in like prodding knives, poking deep inside where he was ill prepared to protect himself.
The biting cold solidified and his mind sharpened. A pain flared in his fingers and toes, and he suddenly rationalized it, he was cold, very, very cold. Flashing memories continued to assault him, each one more tactile than the last.
“Roman! We need to move!”
He opened his eyes as Dennah squeezed his hand and then promptly pulled him forward. They left the shelter of the bushes and moved into the blinding storm. Roman could barely see through the swirling snow, and without her hand to guide him felt as if he might fall away and become lost forever.
He ran until he could barely breathe and only stopped when Dennah stumbled and fell. Roman hoisted her off of the ground and took the lead.
Flickering pinpoints of light appeared in the storm before them. He could scarcely make out dark, moving shapes.
Roman considered them for a moment before trudging off to the side and pulling Dennah under the bowed branches of a dark tree. The thick branches snapped back in place behind them, enclosing and briefly protecting them from the stinging wind and snow.
Roman sat in the dark, unable to form words. His muscles trembled from the sheer effort of holding up his head, but he dare not lie down.
“Are… ” he mumbled, fighting to ask Dennah if she was okay, but he was terrified of what she would say.
She squeezed his hand, seemingly understanding his intent, but remained silent. They sat in the darkness, their fingers interlocked, their ragged breathing the only sound.
“Roman,” Dennah finally whispered. “Where is it, Roman? Where is the monster?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer.
Roman parted the branches and stared out into the storm, holding his breath while searching the darkness. His focus moved from shadow to shadow, each shade of gray and black deeper than the last.
A surge of heat broiled up inside him a heartbeat later and Roman felt the Ifrit. He shifted in the snow, but didn’t dare turn.
“What is it? What do you see?” Dennah asked him, jumping and practically crawling up his back.
But Roman didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to tell her that the monster was behind them. Somewhere close, hidden within the violent folds of the dark and chaotic storm. He could feel the Ifrit, and its dark thoughts.
“M…m…moving, get moving,” Roman mumbled finally and struggled to his feet.
Dennah was at his side before he could pull on her hand, and together they moved forward and started to pull apart the boughs of the tree. The branches pulled apart, sending a shower of snow down upon them.
Roman was halfway out when Dennah tensed up behind him. His skin started to tingle, just before he felt the telltale flutter in his ears. The Ifrit was moving toward them, and it was moving fast.
He heard voices, swirling in the surging winds. They were there one moment, but then the roar of the storm swept in and grabbed their shelter, shaking it and whistling violently. When it died down again, the voices were gone.
Dennah suddenly pulled him down closer to her and clamped her hand over his mouth.
“Someone…out there,” she whispered harshly. Roman pressed his eyes shut, and didn’t dare open them again. He tried to calm his heart, even if only to keep its raging beats from filling his ears.
The wind died down again, and then they heard it. The voice was so close that Dennah actually flinched. It was a man, and he was separated from them only by the snow-caked branches of the tree. Roman and Dennah pushed together, trying as they might to become as small as physically possible.
Roman was keenly aware of the man moving through the snow next to them. His boots crunched, squeaking intermittently between the howling gusts of wind. He held his breath as they heard the man move around the tree. They both followed his progress, watching in the darkness, afraid to move, too afraid to breathe.
The sound of boot-steps abruptly stopped, and Roman cursed under his breath. Silently, he guided Dennah away and started pushing against the branches behind them, clawing against the weighted thicket, desperate to be free.
Light broke into the confines of their hiding place, filtering in as branches peeled back and splintered. The soldier appeared through the branches before Roman or Dennah could move, first his head, then his shoulders. He groped around in the darkness, tearing at the branches, reaching for them. He wore shiny, metal armor, and a scarlet tunic. He was one of the soldiers from Fort Falksgraad.
“I got you! Don’t you move!” the soldier howled as they pushed away. The soldier scrabbled forward, his hands crawling across the ground, but he was only halfway through the skirt of the tree. Roman tried to push out through the opposite side, but the weight on the branches was too great.
“I got…” the man growled again as his hand came down onto Roman’s leg, but the rest of his words were lost. Something monstrous crashed into the snow just outside the tree, shaking the ground and sending snow raining down all around them.
The soldier twitched, and in the faint light cascading in, his face locked in a mask of sudden and horrible realization. A heartbeat later he was pulled clear of the tree, and as the branches snapped back into position, Roman and Dennah were cast into complete darkness.
The wind howled and shook their tree, but even its fury couldn’t mask the man’s screams of horror and pain. Roman felt the Ifrit’s murderous rage peak as a light flared outside, so sudden and bright that it blinded them both. The man’s anguish cut off with a horrible crack, one as sharp and sudden as a dry branch. The light, which had quickly filled the air, flickered and faded away.
Roman and Dennah were up and running again in the blink of an eye, scratching and clawing their way through the tree branches. He heard her growl and curse behind him, the cold tempered branches scratching and digging at them in a hundred different places.
They trudged through the calf-high snow, finally free from the tree’s confines. The fog of their labored breathing swirled behind them before being swallowed by the ferocity of the storm. They ran until their legs burned and continued on, too scared to turn and face the Ifrit haunting their steps, but also too scared to stop.
Trees materialized from the storm, mere finger widths from their faces. They leaned against them for a moment to catch their breath. Roman wiped crusted snow from his face, clumsily pawing at his eyes with frozen hands. No matter how much he tried to clear away the snow, he couldn’t recognize where they were. He felt panic rise, not knowing where they were, or where they were going.
It didn’t seem to matter which way they turned, or ran. He had an unmistakable feeling the Ifrit was always there, just beyond the limits of his sight, watching them. Finally, after neither of them could lift their feet out of the snow anymore, they stopped in a small grove of trees.
“What…is…that…thing?” Dennah huffed, her voice ragged and hoarse.
Roman choked on the words as he struggled to catch his breath, and did not immediately speak. Instead, he pulled the cowl of his cloak lower over his head, and tried to make sense of his thoughts.
He took a deep breath as his heart slowed, and pressed his fingers over his eyes. He tried to block out the confusion around him. Roman tried to push away the ravaging memories of his terrifying power, the fractured barn, and Banus’s burnt husk of a body. But most of all, he tried to block out the sight of his friend’s battered face.
The sight of Dennah, bruised and bloodied, made him uneasy. And with that unease, he felt a simmering hatred burning beneath…one he was not sure that he could absolutely deny if it grew stronger.
Her bruises, cuts, and scrapes threatened to
unhinge him, yet it was the invisible wounds she carried that bothered him most of all. They made him think of Banus, which flung him to an immediate and startling connection with the Ifrit.
“Frenin,” Roman finally spat out, forcing his thoughts onto anything else. The elder was wise and sympathetic. He would listen. Roman managed to meet Dennah’s gaze, and held his breath.
“Do you think he can help us…?” Dennah shouted back.
“Frenin will know what to do,” he said again. Although the wind howled in and stole away his voice, Dennah nodded. Honestly, Roman didn’t know how they were going to get themselves out of their current mess, or if there was a way out, but he figured Frenin was as good a place as any to start looking.
Roman reached out to help Dennah stand, but she recoiled from him. When she realized what she had done, her eyes instantly went to the ground. Roman backed away and turned. He didn’t blame her for the act. After all, what she had been through was enough to scar a person, break them even. And deep inside, he had to admit that he didn’t entirely trust himself anymore either.
His body felt sluggish as they started to move once again, but now he had a direction, and a semblance of purpose. They backtracked and found the tree they had sheltered in. Nearby, they found a crater blasted into the snow, and the charred, twisted remains of the soldier who had found them at its center.
Dennah pulled Roman away from the scene, and together they followed the man’s relatively fresh tracks in the snow. They had reached the same conclusion: he had come looking for them from town.
Roman’s feet had become numb and heavy, like frozen blocks in the deep snow.
“I miss my boots,” he mumbled as he glanced down at the burlaps sacks he had hastily wrapped around his feet.
A gust of wind pulled the heavy cloak apart, reminding him that he was bare to the world beneath the garment.
Are you sure this is the right direction? Roman thought frantically, fear and doubt his only certainties.
He couldn’t deny that following the soldier’s footprints put them in danger. Where there was one, there would be more. Would Teague be with them? Would he let them talk, or just strike them down? The idea of getting lost almost seemed preferable to facing the intimidating man again.
