by Aaron Bunce
Teague’s face softened, before finally breaking eye contact with Tilith and looking away. There were words passed between them. Even the man holding Roman against the stump chimed in, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying, not over the wind.
“Take him inside, now!” Teague said, before turning his back and walking away.
The soldier’s boot lifted away and he was roughly pulled up to his knees. Roman cast his gaze down at the ground as Teague rounded and walked back in their direction. The soldier’s hand slid off of his shoulder, and was immediately replaced by the cold, ice covered blade of the axe. The message was clear. Don’t move.
The cleric stood a few paces away. Her arms were crossed before her, and her foot danced a slow, methodical cadence in the snow. Roman dropped his eyes to the ground as the young woman looked over at him. He felt judgement in her gaze. She was the sole reason why he was still alive.
Roman heard the crunch of boots in the snow, and looked back up as Teague approached Tilith. He stood so close Roman thought he might embrace, or attack her. Both figures locked eyes, their faces drawn tight.
Teague gave the cleric an almost imperceptible nod. “If this town riots and burns us all, be it on your head!”
Roman felt the soldier’s grip on his neck loosen, and then he was standing. As soon as his feet were beneath him the crowd exploded. The small group of soldiers clustered around and pushed Roman and Dennah forward.
People from the crowd howled and spit. Rocks, ice, rotten vegetables, and firewood flew out of the throng of people, striking Roman and the soldiers around him. They pushed, punched, kicked and beat Roman and Dennah with sticks. A stick swung in and lashed Roman in the face. The soldier to his right ripped the makeshift weapon out of the woman’s hand and kicked her back. The woman cried out and fell back, flailing her arms and knocking a number of people to the ground with her.
In the heartbeat before the mob filled the angry woman’s place, Roman saw a pair of figures standing just beyond the crowd. The man was tall with dark hair and a hooked nose. His face, which Roman had only ever seen wrinkled into a scowl, was now twisted in a macabre smile. The shadowy form of a little girl stood next to him, her hand wrapped around a single, extended finger. They were there one moment, and in the next, the crowd pushed back in, and they were gone.
It was all the armored men could do just to push through the crowd, which seemed to get bigger and more violent by the moment. Roman felt his stomach lurch as he struggled to catch sight of Alina and her father.
A memory bubbled back up into his mind, of a haunting face floating amongst the rippling grass of the orchard. The realization hit Roman like a club. It scattered his wits, and his surroundings started to spin.
Garon! He thought frantically. Roman’s feet struck something solid, and he wasn’t expecting it. He tilted forward, and had it not been for the man standing next to him, he would have fallen face first into the stairs of the White Crowe. They muscled him up the steps and shuffled back into the Inn. The men pushed Roman and Dennah into a corner, where they were dropped into chairs. Teague paced before the fire as he brushed snow from his hair.
“Where is Ador?” Teague growled, not looking up from the glowing depths of the hearth.
“He is in town. You sent him out to go house by house, looking for the girl,” Tilith replied curtly from the door.
“Ready the horses. We leave as soon as they are back. We stay here much longer and these people might burn this inn down around us,” Teague said, lifting his gaze from the fire.
Roman cleared his throat, and tried to speak, but a soldier pushed through the front door of the inn and stomped his boots loudly. “They aren’t for going home. They mean to see those ones,” and he gestured Roman’s way, “punished.”
Roman knew that he needed to say something, that if he waited any longer, he might not have the chance. He glanced over to Dennah, and they locked eyes.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her forehead scrunched up. She searched his eyes for a long moment, and then looked back to Teague. Roman took a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, he spoke.
“I saw them. Both of them…they were outside watching. He had Alina with him. He has the girl,” Roman managed, his voice shaking.
Teague froze in his tracks before the fire, his hand coming to rest on the smooth mantle, “wait…who has the girl? Where? Just now?” He looked to Tilith and immediately took a step towards Roman.
“It was Garon, it was her father. He had her, across the lane. He was there!” Roman said desperately, hoping that the man would believe him.
Tilith’s hand immediately dropped to the door handle. She locked eyes with Teague and froze for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something, but then ripped the door open and ran out into the blowing snow.
Teague took several weighty steps toward the door, but changed direction and settled before the heavily fogged window instead. He didn’t look to Roman, or speak. He reached up and rubbed his eyes and then cupped his hand around his chin. The room fell into an eerie quiet, broken only by the shouts and cries of the gathered town outside, and Roman’s heart hammering in his chest.
The agonizing moments ticked by, until finally, Roman heard boots stomping up the stairs. He felt Dennah go tense next to him, and only then realized that they were leaning against each other.
They had eased together slowly, both exhausted from the long night as well as battling against their tightly wrapped bindings. He took a small measure of comfort from the tactile contact.
When the weather-beaten door cracked open, more than just wind and snow rushed in. Tilith and several other soldiers toppled inside, their arms held high to shield their faces from thrown projectiles.
Teague took several steps toward them and stopped. Tilith turned as he approached, and reached up to pull her snow-encrusted hair out of her face. Roman watched the cleric’s every move, desperate for her confirmation.
“Well?” Teague prompted.
“We found no children,” Tilith started hesitantly, and cleared her throat as she glanced toward Roman and Dennah. “I spoke with those in the crowd that would speak with me…many would not. They know of the man, and the child he speaks of, but no one saw them.”
The other soldier that entered with Tilith stepped around her, and cut in.
“Captain, we finished our door to door search. We found no signs of the girl anywhere. I had two on horseback circling the town, surely they would have seen if anyone approached or left the town. Someone couldn’t hide their tracks, or move quickly in this storm.”
A hard look pulled at Teague’s features before he spoke, “The snow, and wind. Perhaps they slipped out of town. One can hardly see his nose before his face in this mess.”
Ador shifted his feet, and more caked snow slid off of his armor and fur, falling in a slushy mess. He glanced to Tilith quickly before speaking, “It is a wicked storm, true, Captain. But surely the men would have seen two people’s coming or going, and if they could not, then surely they would see their tracks in this deep snow. If they could not leave town, we would have found them sir.”
Teague looked between Ador and Tilith, before turning to Roman. “Unfortunately it appears your mysterious figure has disappeared. Or, that you have lied to us yet again, and you saw no one,” he growled. “We’ll know the truth of him and the girl soon enough. Prepare our horses. We leave for Falksgraad, now.”
A short while later Teague’s men bustled into the room and dropped a pile of garments to the floor. They pulled Roman and Dennah to their feet, and wrapped them in heavy traveling cloaks and furs. Once they were bundled, the men ushered them down the back hallway, passed the small room Dennah had shared with Tadd, the old, toothless wagon driver, and out through a small storeroom, and the creaky back door.
Thankfully, the angry mob from town was still clustered around the front of the building, so they were only greeted by frigid winds and whipping snow. Dennah sounded relieved w
hen a solider walked up to them out of the blizzard, leading her spotted mare, Freckles. The young horse tossed her head excitedly as they approached.
Roman felt a swell of hope as another man materialized out of the white, leading a large dark horse his way. He felt his stomach drop as they drew close, realizing that the horse was not General. Roman struggled with the realization that the horse was lost, and most likely did not survive the storm. It was just another small piece of his father, and his family, lost forever.
The soldiers cut the ropes binding his ankles but refused to remove the heavy chain looped around his body, as well as the ropes binding his wrists.
Roman struggled, but with the aid of the two soldiers he was finally able to settle into the saddle. The men led their horses back and away from the inn, where Teague and the others waited in the shelter of a small grove of trees. The remaining men stowed their gear on their horses, and then returned to Roman and Dennah. They cinched the heavy furs down so tightly Roman almost couldn’t see, and then lashed them firmly in place with leather straps and thin rope.
Teague walked over to Roman’s horse once the others had mounted, and tugged on his hands and feet, testing to make sure that he was properly bound to the horse. Tilith appeared out of the snow behind him, and although Roman couldn’t see her face under the heavy fur hood, he could clearly hear that she was upset.
“Markus, I should stay. Someone should be here looking for the girl. We should not leave this to the caravan’s guard. What if she is hurt, this town has no cleric,” she shouted through the roaring wind.
Teague turned his back to Roman, but his response was swept up in the furious wind. Tilith moved to argue, even stepping forward with her hands balled up next to her, but Teague stopped her with an upraised hand.
Teague’s response was lost to Roman, lost to the wind, and the strange disembodied thunder rumbling overhead. With only a slight hesitation, Tilith backed away, and mounted her own horse. Teague mounted his massive black charger, and unraveled a rope from his saddle tied to the bridle of Roman’s horse. With a quick kick and a tug of the rope, they headed off into the storm.
They plodded through the back lanes and fields of Bardstown, the ghostly shapes of buildings and their glowing windows floating like fiery-eyed specters in the storm. The warm light was abruptly swallowed up by the storm and Roman quickly lost track of which direction was which.
He turned in his saddle as they passed the mill, and crested the last hill. Roman looked back towards where he knew the Hopbarrow’s small shop stood. They were perhaps the last people in Bardstown he shared any real connection with, and he didn’t remember seeing their faces in the crowd. He wondered what they were busying themselves with at that moment.
A stab of longing gripped Roman as he turned back towards the solemn road before them. He conjured up a memory of his small cabin nestled in the birch and pine trees, a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney, twisting and churning in the air, moving like a hand to bid him farewell.
The weather made the ride miserable. Snow coated him completely. It stuck to his face, melted, and refroze into ice. The wind surged in through the trees, whipping across the roadway in one direction, only to swirl back and batter the horses and riders from the other a moment later.
Teague refused to stop for food or rest. He pushed on, even when the blowing storm completely blanketed the path. He rode in the front of the group, and at times his plumed helm and billowing capes were the only part of him they could see. He continued on like an unshakable figurehead, breaking through the swelling waves of white.
The storm didn’t relent, but neither did Markus Teague. It felt to Roman like a battle of wills, and even when darkness enveloped them, neither relented. Teague’s men lit torches, but their light was no match for the wind and snow.
They arrived at a crossroads, Roman’s hands and feet having gone numb long ago. He knew the spot well enough. It marked the juncture of the southern Falksgraad road and the eastern road to Bargeron, and then Ogre Springs. To the west lay the mountain pass to Nordson Bay.
Roman watched the Trodden Traveler appear out of the storm. The small inn and stables sat just off of the crossroads, nestled lovingly in a copse of large, shooting trees. The windows glowed warmly, and he caught occasional whiffs of wood smoke on the breeze. Yet, Teague pushed on. They rode for a short while longer and the road dipped into a small valley.
One of Teague’s men, Ador, Roman thought his name was, turned in his saddle, his flickering torch held close. The man looked longingly back in the direction of the inn, before finally turning around and settling back to the task of keeping his horse moving forward.
The slope of the land along with the tightly clustered trees effectively sheltered them from the worst of the storm, and for the first time in a great while Roman could see properly.
They crossed a short, wide bridge. A post stuck out of the ground a short ways off in the snow. The sign hanging from the weathered crossbar flapped back and forth, screeching eerily on corroded hinges.
The words painted on the sign were unreadable in the storm. The snow formed a thick blanket under the bridge, broken only by the branching, weaving tributaries of Falksgraad creek.
The trees crowded in as they cleared the bridge, and when they opened up, the snow cut back in forcefully. A solitary dark shape towered before them.
Without its torches and braziers burning, Roman would have been unable to distinguish the outer wall of the fort from the forest around it. Earth and stone were built up in a massive hill, upon which sat the fort’s walls and battlements.
A horn sounded as they approached, resonating from somewhere behind the mighty wall, and in response the gate started to rise. The iron portal started to descend again once the last of their group passed through, lowering with relatively little noise.
Roman looked to the soldiers clustering around him, trying to glean some hint to their fates, but there were no answers to be found. He turned and locked eyes with Dennah. For a painful moment all of their fears, doubts, and insecurities spilled forth between them.
Dennah’s composure broke, and a single glassine tear slid down her cheek and disappeared into the corner of her mouth. Banus’ face bubbled up in Roman’s thoughts as the heat and angst welled up. His hands shook, digging the ropes deeper into his skin.
The chain wrapped around his chest reacted, swelling and growing hot as the Ifrit pushed out and tried to fill him with its presence.
Dennah reached up and wiped the tear from her cheek, but only managed to smear the snow covering her hands across her face. Roman wanted to embrace her, or reach out and take her hand. He wanted to tell her everything was going to be alright, even if he knew it was a lie.
The whole of the fort was dark and quiet. It was a haunting spectacle set before the backdrop of the nighttime storm. Teague dropped from his horse as several figures appeared from a darkened building a short distance away. He handed them the reigns to his horse and then turned back towards Roman and Dennah.
“What we doing with these two tonight?” Ador asked, appearing next to Roman’s horse.
Teague tromped through the snow, pulling off his gloves to wipe away the accumulated snow from his beard.
“Lock them in the day cell. Tie their ankles, and keep their hands bound. Make sure his chains are tight. We’ll deal with them in the morning.” He looked to Roman as he spoke, his gaze a harsh and penetrating stare.
Roman couldn’t return his gaze, and when he lowered his eyes to the ground, Teague snorted.
“On second thought, bind them to the bars of the cage as well. We don’t want her loosening his chains in the middle of the night. Who knows what dark horrors he would bring down on our heads while we sleep,” he added without turning, and then stomped off.
“Get down off of there,” Ador growled as he wrestled to pull Roman from his horse. They pushed Roman and Dennah through the parade ground. They passed racks of battered sparing swords, wooden dummies d
raped in mail, and other bits of armor.
Ador pushed them through a short archery range and pulled a lantern from the wall before kicking open a large rickety door. They stepped into a dark hallway, stepping around a small, three-legged stool and moved through a door off to the left.
“They put the day cell back here, so if little piss ants like you lot try to escape, we can get a bit of target practice,” Ador said with a snicker and pushed Roman into the darkness. They unlocked the day cell and swung open the heavy, caged door.
The larger soldier pushed Roman, sending him toppling head first into the dark cell. Dennah tumbled in on top of him, crushing him into the bristly straw covering the ground. He heard her breath catch as she landed. She flinched and went rigid as the soldier pulled her back up again and slid her roughly to the far corner.
“Damn the vile bastards that birthed you…you…you,” Ador cursed, kicking Roman before pulling him back against the bars.
Ador’s larger companion wove chain through the lengths already wrapped around Roman, winding it through the ropes holding his wrists together before securing it tightly to the cold iron bars.
The men finished, cursing Roman and Dennah, but also the cold and anything else that came to mind. They slammed the cage door shut. The lock turned over with a heavy click.
“No mischief, you little harlot, best stay in your corner,” Ador’s counterpart whispered crudely through the bars over Dennah’s shoulder.
“Yeah…no funny business,” Ador added, guffawing in time as the larger man stood and stretched his back.
“Don’t talk to her like that! None of this is her fault,” Roman growled, but the two men laughed, jingling the keys before turning to walk away.
The rickety door slammed shut, casting the day cell into a smothering darkness. For the first time in a great while, Roman and Dennah were alone.
The moments crawled by, and Roman didn’t dare speak. The storm continued to wail outside. Dennah sniffled and coughed, but then she started to cry quietly. Roman could tell that she was trying to hold it back.
