War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  “Fuck,” whispered Ham. “Smells like someone took a shit on a wet dog.”

  Rom looked back at him and held a finger to his lips. Ham clamped his lips around his prepared retort and took a breath through his nose that he immediately regretted.

  “Rom,” said Ham, “I think I have a really bad feeling about this.”

  Rom looked back at Ham in agreement then turned back to the door. He moved cautiously forward, much to Ham’s dismay. The two of them made almost no sound on the old hardwood, but no matter how cautiously Ham stepped he could not stop the floor from creaking entirely.

  Rom reached the door and turned back to him with an aggravated face. He mouthed several words that Ham could not make out in the darkness, but the general understanding was present: WILL YOU STOP MAKING NOISE!

  Ham returned a rude gesture and mimicked with his hands and fingers the two of them running away: WE SHOULD GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!

  Rom shook his head and waved Ham forward vigorously: WILL YOU JUST COME ON? YOU’RE WASTING TIME.

  EXCUUUUSSSSEE ME FOR NOT WANTING TO TROT AROUND IN A “MURDER MANSION!”

  HAMSEY FRILL! MAG IS PROBABLY DEAD IN THERE!

  WE’RE GOING TO BE DEAD IN HERE, ROMLIN TERCH!

  WILL YOU JUST GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT!?

  Ham gritted his teeth and balled his fists, but he padded to the door, causing Rom to flinch at every step, and leaned into his ear.

  “What?” Ham whispered.

  Rom shook his head. “Nevermind. Listen.”

  They held their ears to the door and listened.

  Silence.

  A glance at each other, another silent disagreement that Ham lost, and Rom turned the doorknob. The smell assaulted them physically now, an unpleasant mix of sweet rot and relieved bowels and the sharp metal tang of blood. The room they entered was lit with low candles and a single torch, but it was enough. Red spiderwebs and long strings of sausage-like worms spilled from three barely human forms nailed to the walls, their arms and legs spread wide and their chest cavities open to their navels. The floor was clotted mess of old and new blood, and a slow rain of viscous fluid fell from the rafters. Ham stared in horrid fascination as he realized the webs that stretched from the ceiling to the floors were in fact veins and arteries pulled from the bodies that had once been their housing and were pinned into an intricate pattern in the middle of the room.

  “I…I think those are their guts,” said Ham softly, indicating the thick sausage like ropes that pooled in spirals at the feet of the victims. He looked at his companion and saw Rom fighting the urge to vomit. He quelled his own when he recognized the faces in each bloodied mess and knew them to be the missing women. A grunt and a thump on the ground drew Rom and Ham to the farthest corner of the room. Arne struggled to unwrap his newest acquisition, his hair askew, his skin pale. The body he struggled to unwrap was one that Ham knew as the cloth fell from her face.

  “Mag…” he said. By the gods…what the fuck is going on here? What is he doing?

  Arne stopped all movement as Ham said her name. He dropped the body gently and turned around. His eyes widened at the sight of them before he shook his head violently.

  “Nononono. What are you doing here?!” Arne cried.

  “Us?” said Ham, “Us?! What the fuck are you doing here, Arne?! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

  Rom raced across the room, grabbed Arne by his shirt and threw him against the wall. “What have you done!? Ham, get Mag.”

  “Y-y-y-you have to go!” Arne stammered. “You have to leave! It’s coming back!”

  “What? What is coming back?”

  “You can’t be here! You can’t…oh fuck.”

  “Arne, sweetie, who are your friends?” Ham watched Rom freeze in recognition as a pressure in his head rose. The walls of the room seemed to bend around them, shadows lengthened, and candles dimmed. It was a voice Ham had not heard before, but one that Rom had described. The man from Mag’s place. The one with power. Ham felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach turned upward. He held a palm to his temple, trying to relieve the pressure. Rom let go of Arne and slowly turned around, one hand on his belt knife. Ham turned with him, slowly backing away to where Arne had laid Mag. The creature stood before them in party regalia, a large plumed hat, tight trousers, and a face that was nearly human but stretched far too thin.

  “T-t-they mean no harm. They were only curious,” Arne started.

  “Curious?” it said. Its voice was deep and nearly painful to hear. “Well then, perhaps I can alleviate any burning questions.” It stepped over the pattern in the center of the floor and approached the bar. It poured a drink then turned back around to the boys, an elbow on the bar. “Ask away.”

  Rom looked to Ham, who was gathering Mag in his arms. Ham could feel his friend’s eyes, but he could not look away from the thing that was now sipping bourbon.

  “We…we were just leaving,” said Rom.

  “Hmm,” the thing nodded. “Was that a question? If so, yes. But not alive, I think.”

  The drip-drip of fluid was the only sound in the resulting silence.

  It sighed. “Listen boys, I’ve put a lot of work into this little…spell. It wouldn’t do for you two to go about speaking of it. Not that it would matter, I don’t think anyone in town would believe you. But there are those who just might.”

  Ham spoke quickly, “We won’t say anything.”

  The creature turned its dark gaze to Ham. It drained the rest of its whiskey. “I know.”

  The creature did not move. Cold steel and a sharp pain raced across Ham’s neck. Time slowed. He turned to see Arne, crying, holding the knife. Ham looked down as he fell to his knees. The blood from his throat spilled to Mag and raced across her face and hair. Ham dropped Mag’s limp body and his hands came to his throat. His eyes met Rom’s as they widened in terror and pain. Rom had just enough time to register Ham’s fall before he could think to get an arm up as Arne plunged the knife into his shoulder. Ham watched as Rom went to the ground with Arne atop him. Rom shouted and fought in panic; his arms and legs flailing and kicking, only to have Arne bat away the useless attacks in a show of unnatural strength.

  “I. Told. You. To. Leave,” Arne spat. He removed the knife forcibly and plunged it near Rom’s heart before Rom could get his arms up. Rom spat blood as he grabbed Arne’s arm, pulling desperately as blood filled his lungs and fear found his heart. He threw weak punches into Arne’s impassive face. Arne lowered himself and brought his arm across Rom’s throat, putting all his weight to it. As Rom’s breath dwindled, blood filled places it should not have, Ham’s vision darkened and faded as he watched his friend go still. Eventually there was no pain at all, nor light or hope. Fuck.

  The would-be rebellion arrived home long after night had taken the valley, winter fully grasping the air in the absence of the sun. Irving, having travelled a full day and half a night hauling a cart with three people, was barely winded. Once the old man and Jon detached him from the cart, he and Isca trotted to the barn, seeking warmth and rest. The Wolf was nowhere to be seen. The old man grunted before finally breaking a day’s worth of silence.

  “I’d better brush them down and get their blankets on. Leave the wagon. We’ll deal with it in the morning,” he said before following the Lord and Lady of Horses. Dax barked from somewhere around the house and raced to greet him. The old man bent down and rubbed the dog’s ears, audibly chastising him for waiting outside when there was plenty of warmth indoors.

  Jon, now alone with Ana, helped the girl off the cart, but their eyes never left each other. Her look held a thousand secrets, but in her eyes there was an urgency that told Jon there was one that she desperately wished to tell him. Jon thought he knew what she had not spoken.

  “I, uh, should probably wash,” he said.

  She grinned. “A warm bath perhaps?”

  Jon visibly grimaced. The thought of hauling buckets of water from the well and slowly heating them over a fire caused him
more pain than a god kicking him. Not to mention it would be well into the morning before he was done. She smiled.

  “I am joking,” she said. She kissed him softly, her lips enfolding his for a long moment Jon could have lingered in. When she pulled away, she smiled again and walked into the house. Jon waited outside, watching her through the window as she shed her blanket, her torn and haggard clothing showing her desirable skin. She made to warm herself by a fire already lit and burning comfortably. Jon shook his head as he realized the house had been empty for the better part of two days; there was no reason a fire would have already been lit. More god stuff, I guess. The first flakes of snow began to fall softly on his bare shoulder, and he shivered. The warmth of the blanket had quickly faded, and his own torn and weathered clothing was hardly a comfort. He should have made his way inside, sought the warmth of the house, his home, the woman within it, but instead he turned and made his way into the shorn fields. He needed to think. Or rather, he needed not to.

  The thoughts of earlier in the day had stuck with Jon, and no matter the effort, he could not bar them from his mind. He made his way to the center of the field and folded his knees beneath him, assuming the meditative state his father had taught him and the old man had helped him master. He breathed through his nose slowly, emptying thought by fixing his gaze on a set point in the darkness, letting the sounds of the coming winter filter the mutter and stammer of his mind. He took another breath, feeling the cold on his skin and beneath his knees, where the soft soil had turned solid in the cold. Another breath and he could feel the warmth of the house behind him, could hear the careful brush strokes as the old man took his time with the horses while singing a slow song in an ancient tongue. With another breath, he could hear trees creaking and swaying in rhythm with the season, having enjoyed the temperate summer and autumn now resting in a colder embrace. Another breath. There is no thought. There is only he. And silence.

  The darkness enclosed him completely, clouds laden with snow covering the moon and stars, making the night absolute. He closed his eyes, breathed, and opened them.

  The forest around him was not the field. It was his home. Towering houses wrapped around gargantuan trees, bound together in a web of bridges and ropes that swayed gently in sunlight filtered, by a high and crowded canopy. He felt the sun on his face, and it was warm indeed. Somewhere, children were laughing, men and women dancing with swords or gathering low hanging roots and fauna for meals yet to be prepared. People swung from long ropes to high platforms carrying goods from one home to another. Every one of them wore a sword in their sash. Even the children who climbed high wore swords of wood or bone.

  He blinked. He was resting high on a platform, his legs dangling over the edge. The house behind him was the one he had shared with his parents. He did not need to turn to know his mother was busy over the fire and his father was coming to sit with him. A pair of familiar legs stretched out over the open air as Jon’s father sat, carefully maneuvering his sword as he sought his pipe.

  “You haven’t been here in some time,” said Sen.

  Jon nodded. “I’ve been…distracted.”

  Sen lit his pipe. Jon did not look in his direction, for fear the face of his father would drive him from what happiness he had found here. Here, the sadness was never far away. The belief that he had driven it from his mind had never been completely true.

  They sat a moment, listening to the sounds of cooking and the riffling of the leaves. “Is it the girl?” his father asked.

  Jon smiled. “Yes.” He could feel his father’s knowing nod. “Father?”

  Sen waited and puffed his pipe.

  “Why was the Lord of War not here at the burning?”

  Sen blew smoke. “Who’s to say he was not?”

  “But we lost.”

  Sen shrugged. “He’s the Lord of War, not the Lord of Victory.”

  A moment passed, and they laughed. After a long time of laughing with his father, Jon shook away his giddiness with a smile. “Well, that answers that.”

  Sen took his pipe from his mouth. “To be fair, he was outnumbered on most occasions.”

  “That, and the enemy cheated.”

  Sen grunted. “The only ones who say the winners cheated are the ones who lost. The Lord of War may have offered a code, but war as a practice rarely follows one.”

  “Do you think he was maybe picking the wrong battles?”

  “Right battles…just…poor timing.”

  Jon nodded. “It’s strange…I can’t recall any time, other than legend, Nathera actually fought a war.”

  “The war with the Empire was the first and last we fought. To think it lasted a single day and night…”

  Jon turned to his father at this. The older man’s face was just as Jon remembered; gently aged with wisdom and humor, long hair tied back, a short beard, and kind eyes. Seeing Sen, who was not much older than Jon was now, was like looking into a mirror. “They…they told me he came here to raise an army,” said Jon.

  “He did.”

  “To wage war.”

  Sen nodded. “He did.”

  “But he spent centuries here. This place is peaceful…happy even.”

  “It always was. Arthen was not the first man to look in the mirror and dislike what he saw. Not the first to find love and endeavor to keep it. Perhaps he preferred the alternative to his namesake. We were always prepared for war. Every man, woman, and child wore a sword, ballista hung from every platform, our arrows were plentiful and close at hand. That does not mean we reveled in our practices, only that we were prepared to fight should the worst come to pass.”

  Jon was quiet a moment. He looked downward at the spiral steps of the adjacent tree. Children feigned battle and ran the steps with endless energy. Some adult chastised their lack of safety, however most passers-by laughed with them and gave encouragement. “Dad,” Jon said at last, “they want me to fight. But there is something…wrong.”

  Jon’s father placed a hand on his shoulder. “There always is.”

  “This is different. The Lord of Fate wants me dead. What’s more, I feel as though I am being…pulled. I do not know what is true.”

  “Your battlefield is not one that I envy,” Sen said gently. “You must trust your heart if that is all you have left. You are of Nathera, Naven. Know your enemy and strike quick.”

  Naven. That is my name. I have not heard it aloud in a long time. “Will you stay for dinner?” his father asked.

  The boy smiled. “I should go.”

  His father nodded with a wide grin. “Nonsense. Your mother won’t have it. If you don’t at least say hello, she’ll have your hide. Come on.”

  Another breath. Jon opened his eyes to find the dark of night, the lights of the house burning brightly behind him. The barn was dark, and the old man was already inside, warming by the fire. Jon rose from his place in the field and smiled at the memory of his mother. He touched his heart and kissed his fingers, knowing the weight of his home remained in him. He walked to the house, the chill of the night sinking into his skin. As he entered the old man turned from stoking the fire and regarded him. A moment of sadness crossed the old man’s face before he nodded, knowingly.

  “Did you find them well?” he asked.

  Jon nodded. “I did.”

  The old man returned the nod and gestured up the stairs. “Go on then.”

  Jon made his way up the stairs and found Ana waiting for him at the door of her room, wearing one of his clean shirts and nothing else. Her gaze was one of longing and full of questions. He did not immediately go to her as he desired, but the pull to do so was unnervingly strong. He waited.

  She spoke. “Did you wash?”

  “Uh…no.”

  She nodded but her expression did not change. They stood there awkwardly, waiting for the other to speak, and when neither did they spoke together.

  “Ana I—”

  “This is real—”

  Jon quieted his inner dialogue and nodded to her
.

  She took a breath. “This is real. We are. At least…that is how I feel. If you do not feel the same, tell me now. We can…cancel the wedding…we can rescind the betrothal. If that is what you wish.”

  Another breath. Jon made his decision. “No. That is not what I wish.” The faintest of moments passed before he rushed to her and pulled her into his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, gathered his head in her hands and kissed him deeply. Jon brought them into the room and kicked the door shut.

  13

  The Old Man and the General

  Ana extended her hand and called forth Galeblade, the familiar shaft finding her palm. Light and lethal, she turned in her hand several times, remembering the countless times the blade had saved her life. The cloudless day did nothing to stop the cold, and she could almost smell snow perched on the distant mountaintops. The old man watched from the porch, smoking that pipe of his that stank up the rafters and yet also smelled of safety and home. She gestured and the Wind answered eagerly, lighting a breeze under her arms and carrying her a few feet above the fields. She smiled. She could feel the air and the warmth of the sun and knew that if she dared, she could fly to the stars and back. Her mortal body was growing more accustomed to the world, and the power within her was starting to surge.

  The old man had allowed her this practice, but only under his watchful eye. The powers that welcomed her could not go unnoticed by those in Anu paying attention. Assuredly, they were many.

  “Your focus has improved,” Noahsaid from under the awning.

  She smiled. “The Wind responds differently here. As it is made of something else.” She felt the old man nod his agreement. “It does not bend so easily.”

  “It must be coerced,” Noah offered.