The Dawn of Unions

by J P Corwyn

  They melded with the other screams Kaith began to hear, probably from behind the manor house, or worse inside of it. Time seemed to slow.

  To the east side of the courtyard; he saw that there were now peasants trying to attack the armored men. He wondered, and not for the first time, how many of his brothers had fallen tonight. He wondered if his new sister, Marcza, had fallen. He wondered how long it would be until he fell. Even as the red cloud shoved the final inches of its bulk down Lanwreigh’s throat; he doubted it would be long.

  I can stomach fear, horror, and loss. I can suffer through fire, and rain, sleepless nights, and endless days, he thought. I can command a battle line. I can kill men and monsters. I can even kill the dead for a second time. I don’t know how I’d even begin to go about attacking a creature made of fog.

  His arms had grown heavy, his sword nearly ready to slip from his fingers, the strap of his shield already beginning to slide down his relaxing arm. It would be so much easier to just give over. There wasn’t anything more he could do, was there?

  A dull thump jarred him out of the despair that had nearly devoured him. He jerked his head up, looking toward the sound, and was astonished by the sudden silence that seemed to attack him.

  The rain had stopped, as had the wind. The clouds were gone, not retreating or dissipating, but gone. The only song he could hear was that of the crackling fire all around him. Casting about; he saw Samik crumple to the ground, and further to the right the attacking peasants were doing the same. They didn't so much fall, as they collapsed as if they'd all passed out at the same time.

  His eyes next fell on Lanwreigh who stood quivering on the spot a few feet away from him. The eldest son of Eastshadow opened his mouth to speak, and his voice came out in a husky whisper barely audible over the snap of the fires.

  “Lanian? Lanian; I can’t see.” With that; he too collapsed.

  Kaith at once saw the difference between Lanwreigh and the collapsing townsfolk. A quarrel was sticking out from the back of the youth’s head. It had bored into his skull and sunk nearly to the fletching.

  Kaith cast his eyes to the Countess: still framed in the entrance to the manor house. She was still leaning in the doorframe: holding the crossbow, its quarrel spent. Her countenance was that of bidder nobility: of a woman who had done what she needed to and was not for an instant sorry she’d done it.

  “Yes, Sir Kaith,” Ylspeth said. “It is over.”

  CHAPTER 6:

  PUPPETS, PYRES, AND PATTERNS

  ONE

  The carriage trundled along at a goodish pace. It managed to be opulent without being ostentatious: its interior kept cool due to modest linen drapes which hung over every point of entry the light and heat of the day might otherwise find. Its seats (really little more than narrow, overstuffed, high- backed couches) were comfortable enough to sit or to doze upon during the long hours spent traveling from settlement to settlement. It was, by any measure, a fitting way for any noble personage to travel.

  For Ylspeth: Countess of Thorion, however, it always felt like a rolling coffin, or perhaps Skolf’s most comfortable prison.

  She’d been banished to this pleasant purgatory by those who served her, and whom, she knew, truly cared about her well-being. She needed sleep, rest, what comfort could be offered. She knew they’d meant well. They only said such things because it seemed like the appropriate thing for them to do. The appropriate suggestion for them to make to show their gratitude, love, and devotion. She no longer wore the face of a young, vital, vibrant woman, after all. A reasonably polite way of saying she was officially considered past her childbearing years.

  If they only knew…

  They’d banished her so that she could sleep, though in truth sleep had been an art lost to her for almost as long as she could remember. Comfort? She wouldn’t be comfortable until they were back in the county seat. There was too much to be done, and no ability to do it here on the road with so many refugees.

  Still, there’d been nothing for it. If she’d insisted on sitting a horse for the entire trek between Westsong and Ashacre; the act would only have served to agitate the column. After what they’d all been through; she felt they were already shaken enough. So; she resigned herself to shamming sleep for a few hours, eyes closed, breathing steadily as her mind tried to make sense of all that she had seen, heard, and done last night.

  It was necessary, she knew, to replay all that she could recall (which was most of it, blessedly) in order to best determine her next steps.

  She'd begun to formulate a plan, of course. Still; she'd been taught to take as much time as she could, whenever she could, to assess a situation before committing to a course of action. She fervourantly believed in those teachings, and it had served her well for years uncounted now.

  When, at last, she’d decided she could take no more – would take no more; she'd called the carriage to a halt, exited its maddening would-be comfort, and mounted upon a horse.

  She road toward the head of the column where she saw the newly minted Sir Kaith riding alone. As she approached; she allowed the weight of her thoughts to show both in her eyes, and on her face.

  Memory was a powerful tool, and she'd had much to think about since the attack. She would need to recruit others, bring some into her deeper councils – harvest the strength she'd planted to fortify herself and her designs, and soon.

  Though she hated it; she’d also need to send word south, before they were overrun, and wouldn’t that please her once-paramour? After so many years apart; she rued having to welcome him back into her good graces.

  Good graces? No; that wasn't what this was. She would have to ask for his aid, and he would traipse back into her life like the conquering hero of a fairy tale come to rescue the damned damsel in distress. That was the real hellish truth of it!

  As she replayed the night’s events for what felt like the eightieth time; she came to a grim conclusion. Westsong had only been a skirmish. The war, itself, wouldn’t be long in coming.

  ✽✽✽

  TWO

  Yaru and Arafad would have to die. She knew that. It was one thing for people to think of them as distant eyed foreigners, capable warriors, and stoic conversationalists. It was another thing entirely for them to be lauded as heroes. That simply wouldn’t do.

  Now that she’d knighted them, such accolades would mean they would be heralded, toasted endlessly, questioned on their political views …wind and rain; they’d likely be drowning in would-be suitors, be expected to marry into the gentry.

  Hells, she choked back a mouthful of bile, after Westsong; they might be sought after to marry into the nobility, itself!

  It was regrettable. No, that was underselling it. It was a damnable shame! That was what it was.

  Ylspeth cast a neutral gaze toward them. Their arms looked like waterwheels moving in a steady current.

  She watched as each, in turn, reached down to pluck a new arrow out of one of the innumerable quivers laid beside them, knocked it, drew back, loosed it, and repeated the process with an uncanny and nearly inhuman rapidity. What was more; they showed no sign whatsoever of fatigue. Neither of the aged watchmen seemed to have noticed this, but one of the two children they'd been paired with kept glancing over: eyes shining with breathless wonder. One child noticing such skill could be dismissed and overlooked, probably would be by any adult the child happened to speak to. If the girl, on the other hand, drew her aged partner's attention while Yaru and Arafad continued their relentless activity…

  No, they would have to die. It was a miserable, piteous thing, but there was nothing for it. She’d need to find an appropriate way to make that happen. The act itself was accomplished easily enough. The key was finding a way to accomplish it without being forced to kill the quartet that stood watch near at hand, in the process.

  Ylspeth saw that Yaru was beginning to run low on ammunition. She strode over to where he knelt and reached down to pluck a single arrow from his dwindling supply. Turning
; she exited the room, walking down the hall to where she was normally expected to sleep.

  Moving to her small hearth; she reached down to pluck a well-seasoned fagot from the pile.

  She cradled the firewood in her arms as if it were a newborn: laying the arrow she plucked from Yaru’s quiver on top of it as if it were the imaginary infant’s favorite toy. She drew a deep breath down past her navel, held it for a three count, and released it in a slow, measured sigh. Once the majority of the air had been expelled; she turned on her heels and strode back down the hall to where the condemned archers plied their trade.

  Crossing the room; she knelt by Yaru. Without a word; she began placing more than a score of new arrows into his quiver. The log she’d pulled from her supply of firewood was nowhere to be found.

  “How much more ammunition can you render, Mistress?” Yaru’s voice was somehow inhuman, like a tumble of stones somewhere high in the mountains: ominous and distant.

  “Enough, Yaru. I shall bring more once I finish filling this quiver.”

  Yaru merely nodded, continuing to shoot with that same unearthly and unwavering speed.

  Finishing her task; Ylspeth stood, casting an eye toward Arafad’s equally diminishing supply of arrows, and scooped up empty quivers from each archer’s store.

  She hurried from the room; fleeing back down the hall to repeat the process and keep their supply of arrows from dwindling down to dangerous levels.

  She’d no sooner finished converting the first new quiver’s-worth then she’d heard first Robis, then Barnic shouting about horses. This was followed almost instantly by Marcza’s bright, authoritative voice ordering the lot of them to reform.

  Dropping the arrows into the first empty quiver to hand; she stood and ran back to the others.

  Steps away from the opened door; a keening, terrified scream assaulted her ears.

  Entering the chamber; her first thought was that the watchers were all dead. But no; that wasn’t accurate. The remaining watchers were all dead. One of them, one of the children was missing. It was the girl who’d been all eyes watching the archers at their work.

  Well, at least that’s settled, Ylspeth thought. Not the end I'd wished for…but wishing won't return the key.

  Arafad lay on the ground halfway toward the rear of the chamber. He was slowly trying to get to his feet. The two old men and the young boy who’d made up the remainder of the watchers had landed in twisted heaps around the room. Their eyes were open, and they looked as if they’d died from fright or shock rather than violence.

  Yaru, incongruously, stayed at his window and continued firing arrows as if nothing had happened.

  Stood over the bodies of one old man and the boy (Ylspeth believed he might’ve been as old as five, but surely no more) was the youngest son of Sir Cedric of East shadow.

  Lanian was in the center of the room halfway between the sprawling Arafad, and the kneeling machine that was Yaru. He beamed up as Ylspeth entered the chamber: eyes shining with the light, face upturned to her as if awaiting praise.

  “Countess,” he said by way of greeting. “I thought I might find you here.” His tone was that of a child playing at courtly manners. It was the sort of tone one expected a boy to offer to an aunt, older sister, or first love as they entered into the dining hall: full of exaggerated courtesy.

  Before she could speak; Arafad moved to a sitting position, and then to his feet.

  The look on Lanian of Eastshadow’s face was one of comic surprise.

  “What …are you?” Lanian asked this question more to himself than to the newly upright Arafad.

  Ylspeth saw his eyes glaze over, then glow a somehow noisome blue. As Arafad looked down at him with an air of curiosity, but a fatal lack of concern; Lanian mouthed an “Ahhh” before turning his full attention back to Ylspeth.

  “Hello ...acolyte,”

  Ylspeth held her eyes closed for just a moment. When she opened them again; things became much clearer. She saw the small, rock-like anthropomorphs superimposed over the chests of both Yaru and Arafad, just as she’d expected. The boy, too, had something superimposed over his slender form. She could see a tall, willowy, blood-colored creature wearing a long sleeveless tunic of blacks and grays. Belted at the waist; it bore a Bixi (normally a length of cloth attached to the belt and flowing to a stop between the wearer’s knees) made of azure fire.

  "A Sheshish monk?" She couldn't hide her surprise...Made no effort to, in fact. "Why would a T'lendak Devil like you stand arrayed as a monk from the northern deserts?" While her first question had been only slightly more affected than mild curiosity; her next one, however, drew down into a low, dangerous alto tone, accompanied by a narrow-eyed glare of bitterest cold. "More importantly; what is it you want, here in my realm?"

  Both boy and creature moved as one as they leered at her: expressions matching in disturbed mimicry.

  “I knew I sensed the workings of a forge here!” Lanian’s voice was childish triumph: as if he’d just been told he’d been given the last extra helping of pudding. “But you’re only in acolyte…”

  “Little fiend,” Ylspeth began. “I neither know nor care what you’re prattling about.” Her voice was glacial: propelled by decades, lifetimes of nobility. “Before I separate you from the boy-“

  "And what?" He laughed. "Send me back to the Hells? My dear acolyte, you have no idea with whom you-"

  “Send you back to the Hells?” She filled the room with her own laughter: full of scorn and derision. “I won’t be sending you anywhere. No, little fiend, I mean to craft something out of you. Shoes, perhaps a chamber pot… Something appropriately mundane.” She lifted her right hand, fingers splayed, crackling silver energy arcing between them.

  The T’lendak devil – the boy’s keeper - began to twist in on itself. It doubled over as if suddenly afflicted with stomach pains.

  As she walked forward; the boy dipped down for a moment, then leapt into the air. He rose impossibly high: nearly brushing his small head against the vaulted apex of the fifteen-foot ceiling. Before he came down; he landed six open palm strikes to Arafad's head, causing him to stagger.

  As he landed; Lanian took Arafad by his belt and right arm, maneuvering him as if he were a giant doll, and shoved him toward Ylspeth.

  “Patternsmith…” Lanian hissed this with a venom that seemed profane coming out of a child’s mouth.

  Ylspeth dropped her hand at once. She had no interest in trying to separate Arafad from the creature that drove him. Doing so would make his body little more than a statue, and the power she'd employed would only work on a creature in direct line of sight. It couldn't burn through one target to strike the one behind it. Now that the T'lendak had moved, he would continue to do so, playing the child's game of the Willow dance: circling around, always keeping an object between them.

  Alright, little fiend, we'll try something else.

  “Yaru!” Said she. “Hold him!”

  Yaru dropped his bow where he knelt, arrow still knocked to its string, and rose to obey.

  “You won’t have the chance to do that again, acolyte.” Lanian’s voice had been replaced utterly by the deep, guttural sound of his keeper. Once more he spoke the word acolyte with a knowing venom, as if he’d uncovered some misdeed, and were threatening to blackmail her with that knowledge. “Now that I’m certain of the power I sensed; it’ll be a simple enough matter to track down the forge. I’m afraid,” He grinned: voice full of black joy, “…you’re simply not needed anymore, Your Excellency.”

  Ylspeth moved to sidestep the still-lumbering Arafad, but stopped herself in midcareer. He was glowing. She saw the spark of blue energy growing from within his core, expanding outward, filling his every limb like water being poured into an empty vessel.

  “Catch me!” Lanian shouted: his voice once more that of a child.

  She saw him turn and leap out of the window. She had just enough time to glance back at Arafad who bore an expression of pain and confusion that looked
far too human on his face.

  The blue energy expanded within him at a breakneck pace, brightening from blue to blinding white in the time it took her to register what Lanian’s keeper had said.

  “Mistress?”

  Arafat’s explosion turned the top floor into a silvery pyre. The heat was intense, but as the initial blast died away Ylspeth still stood: singed but unbowed.

  Still burning; she saw Yaru, his target now gone, pick up his bow and resumed firing towards the eastern courtyard below. His body wouldn't last long. Already he was slowing: his head a torch above his shoulders.

  She looked down at the full quiver still held in one hand. Bringing it back to her breast, cradling it the way she had the original piece of firewood; she drew in a deep breath of the burning air, closed her eyes, and waited. When she opened them again a moment later; she was no longer holding a quiver full of arrows. In her hand now rested a pristine crossbow, strung and ready to shoot.

  She started to move, then stopped herself. Glaring down at the arrow in her other hand as if it had personally offended her; she gritted her teeth and hissed at it.

  "Untether the fiend. Send him back to the hells from whence he came …with the taste of ashes to comfort him." Before her eyes; the arrow shrunk in length and thickened. Its steelhead had become serrated, gleaming like newly polished silver.

  Fitting the bolt in place; she stalked down the stairs to put an end to this.

  ✽✽✽

  THREE

  Nineteen men and women knelt in the dust before the Westsong manor house that black night. Nineteen men and women received their laurels, then rose to do battle with a foe as old as cradle tales. Fourteen of them survived. Of their original nineteen; Robis, Samik, Yaru, Arafad, and Lanwreigh would not sit in places of honor, not hear men laud their names and their great deeds. They would never rest upon comfortable chairs before the fire, or out in the sun: telling their grandchildren of their glorious youth, and the night they stood to defend their Countess and the unsung small folk of a little village in the northwest of Thorion County from an impossible, implacable evil.