by Jon Kiln
The search party included an elder named Stone, a pair of strong twins called Dewitt and Trevitt, and a marksman by the name of Gamble. Stone informed Rothar and Peregrin that they had picked up the trail at the head of the tributary of the great Banewood river, and they had followed it west for a whole day already.
“We had better increase our speed,” said Dewitt.
“Yes, there’s more blood the longer we track,” continued his twin, Trevitt.
“And… there is something else we should inform you of,” Gamble said uncertainly. Rothar saw the marksman’s eyes flick up to the sky for just an instant.
“Does it have anything to do with an enormous, flying shadow?” Rothar ventured.
The men’s eyes all grew wide. “Yes!” said Gamble. “So you have seen it too!”
Rothar thought he heard a hint of relief in the man’s voice. He wondered if the group had been considering that they might be collectively mad after seeing the flying apparition.
“We have,” said Peregrin, seeming to fight a smile. “It passed over us this morning.”
The men of the search party glanced at one another. “So you have only seen it once?” asked Stone.
“Yes, why?” asked Peregrin.
“Since we started to follow this trail, it - or something like it - has passed over us a half dozen times. We seem to be traveling on the same route, so to speak.”
Even as Stone was finishing his sentence, the low humming could be heard in the distance, getting closer with each second. The men moved to cover and watched as the specks of light that filtered down through the trees were again blocked out, one by one, until most of the sky was as black as night and the air was filled with a humming like a thousand nests of bees. The brief eclipse was over in less than a minute, and the shadow continued on before the men again mounted their horses and went on tracking their missing brethren.
Chapter 24
Harwin had made certain that the body of Ariswold was tended to. The nefarious previous undertaker was long gone, but Harwin still felt compelled to see to it that the new mortician tended to the old man with dignity.
Inside the undertaker’s shop, Harwin felt unnerved to know that he had once laid, presumed dead, on the very table that now held the truly deceased Ariswold. Harwin excused himself before the young, new undertaker set to work embalming the body, and he started home to collect Esme. He had left his daughter with a trusted neighbor, but he always felt much better when she was with him, and he with her. Since the horrible experience with Duchess Miranda and her gory rites, Harwin had scarcely let Esme out of his sight.
On the way back to the blacksmith’s shop, Harwin noticed that the quiet that had blanketed the streets of Witherington for the past few days was beginning to disintegrate, and along with it, the peace. Wretched looking souls were dragging themselves up and down the streets, intermittently begging and cursing at passersby.
Harwin heard a chorus of low moaning coming from one of the boarding houses on Pittsley Way, and as he looked he could see bloodshot eyes peering through the slat covered windows. The dank smell that had hung in the air for days had all but dissipated. Suddenly, a horrible splintering of wood filled the air. Ahead, Harwin saw a team of powerful draft horses pulling down a high plank fence. The horses were driven by a small group of wasted and crazed villagers.
The fence came down and all manner of panicked livestock came pouring out of the opening. Looters snatched up chickens and chased pigs. The owner of the livery came rushing out of his quarters, wielding a large axe. The liveryman had managed to survive the first wave of riots, by chance alone, and he was determined to not become another victim of the chaos. A tall, bedraggled man loped past the liveryman, chasing a calf. The shop keeper swung the mighty axe and struck the addict in the back of the skull, killing him instantly.
Other looters saw what happened but instead of running scared, they turned fierce, several of them charging at the liveryman, who still wielded the axe. Swinging the weapon back and forth in front of himself, the man began to back himself into his quarters. Other rioters took up torches and began to light fire to the rest of the structure. When the liveryman had backed himself in, the assailants slammed the door and barred it shut. As smoke and flames began to fill the building, the liveryman could be heard screaming and smashing at the door with his axe. The rioters stood about and laughed, still snatching up chickens and stuffing them into bags.
Harwin could take no more. He took up a pitchfork that was leaning nearby and marched toward the band of looters. He shouted, and the group took notice. One man stepped forward, sneering. Harwin took him to be the leader, and gave him no chance to make reply. With one motion, Harwin hurled the pitchfork at the man’s torso with all of his might. The tines found their mark, burying deep into the top of the man’s belly.
The wretch stared down at his stomach, tiny rivers of blood began to flow down his midsection, trickling down his legs and making little pools on the dirty street. Looking back up, the man smiled grotesquely. Harwin was stunned to see him begin to walk forward. The man stepped slowly and with obvious pain, but he continued to come at Harwin. The other looters seemed as stunned as Harwin and stood watching their cohort with rapt attention.
Once the man was halfway to him, Harwin decided that he had seen enough. He charged at the wicked soul and took hold of the handle of the pitchfork, driving it deeper into the man’s stomach and knocking him off of his feet to be impaled upon the earth.
Finally, the man released a long, rattling breath and was still. Harwin turned his attention to the rest of the group, who seemed to be trying to decide whether to attack him or not. The screams from inside the liveryman’s quarters were growing weaker, and Harwin knew there was not much time for the fellow trapped inside. He leapt at the group and hollered loudly. They backed up a few paces and continued to regard him. He charged at them with his arms spread wide, acting as mad as they had become. At last, they scattered and went back to stalking the livestock they had released.
Harwin rushed to the door of the burning building and pulled loose the wedge, flinging the door open and grabbing the liveryman, who was faltering inside. He dragged the man to safety and set him on the ground. The man gasped and coughed, blinking tears out of his smoke stung eyes.
When he could finally speak again he turned to Harwin. “Thank you,” he rasped. “You saved my life.”
Harwin said nothing to the liveryman, just laid a hand on his shoulder as he looked about Witherington. It was happening again. It was as if the smoke from the livery fire was a signal to every desperate and desolate soul in the city to take to the streets and wreak havoc by any means necessary. Everywhere, ghostly souls ran about, smashing windows and breaking down doors. Some worked in groups and others alone, but all seemed to move with the same desperate purpose: to rob, loot and steal, and leave devastation in their wake.
Harwin knew what was happening, the drug had run out again, and the addicts were revolting. Perhaps they were stealing so that they could buy more, or maybe they were simply destroying their own town because their was nothing left in their souls to soothe their agonies. Rothar had said something to Harwin about the drug giving users the sensation of “touching god,” or “reaching heaven.” Harwin wondered what it would be like to walk in paradise and then be returned to the ugliness and squalor of earth. He imagined that maybe one would feel an urge to dismantle the gaudy constructs of man, out of sheer loathing.
Suddenly, he thought of Esme, and he left the liveryman sitting in the street, watching his livelihood burn to ashes.
***
Harwin retrieved young Esme from the house next to his blacksmith’s shop. Pedalma, the seamstress, noticed the worried look on Harwin’s face and asked him what was the matter.
“Lock your doors, Pedalma,” he told her. “It seems we are in for another night of madness.”
The violence had lessened as Harwin had neared his home, but it was evident that the chaos was spread
ing in every direction. Even now, near the edge of Witherington, they could hear the shouting and screaming that foretold the approach of the riot.
Pedalma’s place was made of stone, so as long as she locked up tight, she would be safe through the night. Harwin bade her farewell and left with Esme.
“Not inside, Esme,” he told his daughter as she began to turn towards the shop. “Help me saddle the horse.”
“But, where are we going father?” asked the dark haired young girl. “You told Pedalma it was not safe to be out.”
“It is not. But we have things we must do. Our friend Rothar is away fighting this evil in some other place. It is the least we can do to help combat it here in the City.”
They climbed atop Harwin’s horse, Irontide, and rode off towards Rothar’s. Harwin kept to the edge of the city, and as they crested the tall hills on the southern edge of the King’s City, they could see just how far and how quickly the chaos had spread.
Witherington was again dotted with fires, the black smoke reaching into the sky like infernal fingers, trying to grasp the sun from it’s lofty perch. Here and there, mobs could be seen forming. Clots of people gathered near the larger fires, chanting and cheering, throwing objects into the inferno. Northward, Harwin spotted a large group forming in the wide street that marked the unofficial border between Witherington and the King’s City proper. It was this broad avenue that separated the rich from the poor, the nobility from the working class.
Even from such a distance, Harwin could feel the intent of the staggering mass of humanity that was forming at the borderline. Across the way lay riches and luxuries. Ages of resentment was boiling in the streets, fueled by a white hot withdrawal from some infernal weed. Harwin knew it was only a matter of time before the roiling mass of humanity spilled over into the streets of the privileged, and he realized that there was even some poetic justice to the situation. But he must carry his daughter through those same streets, for his mission was clear: to get to Castle Staghorn.
Chapter 25
It was midday, and Taria was preparing a meal for herself and Allette using some of the meager goods in Rothar’s cabinets. A lifetime in the desert had equipped her with the skills necessary to make a fine meal out of practically nothing, so this was no great challenge. Bread and dates, salt, sugar, some smoked meat. If she had had even these meager delicacies in the badlands she would more likely have been Bakal’s cook than his cup bearer.
Allette had offered to make the midday meal but Taria would not hear of it. Allette had been entranced by a book that she had taken from Ariswold’s shelves - at Taria’s insistence. “Known Remedies of the World,” was the title of the tome. And Allette had not stopped reading it since the women had arrived back at Rothar’s home. Even now, Taria watched from the table as the young woman sat, curled up in a large chair, her lips moving silently as she pored over the natural remedies in the book. How poetic would it be, Taria thought to herself, if a woman, once controlled by a weed, could become herself a manipulator of all herbs?
A sharp knock at the door startled both women from their reveries. It was Harwin, and with him was a young girl that Taria could only assume was his precious Esme. A cloud of concern seemed to hang about Harwin’s countenance, but he proceeded with introductions.
“It is a very fine thing to finally meet you, Esme,” said Taria, habitually grasping the girl by the forearm in the customary Southland greeting.
“And you,” replied Esme. Taria was struck with how self possessed the young woman was, especially considering the ordeal that she had so recently endured. Esme and Allette were introduced and bowed to one another gracefully. Taria decided she must take time to learn more about the social manners of this strange land.
“They are rioting in the city again,” Harwin said abruptly, once everyone had been introduced.
“Then the ladder… the Obscura must be gone again,” said Allette.
“I have come to take you to Castle Staghorn. It is your best chance for safety.”
Taria balked at the mention of the castle. She had only just arrived in the King’s City, a Sounthlander who should be scorned by everyone north of the wall. How could she walk into the King’s fortress?
“I can not see that we have any better choice,” said Harwin. “This uprising has the look of something much more awful than the first little dust up. If Rothar were here then maybe I would think differently, but in his absence I feel the only wise thing to do is to get you all behind the King’s walls.”
Allette began gathering up her few belongings, and Esme went into the house to help. Taria stayed in the doorway, her eyes on the floor.
“You will be welcomed, Taria,” reassured Harwin. “The King and Rothar are very close, and Heldar is aware of Rothar’s devotion to you. He will take you in as though you were one of his own.”
Taria was incredulous. “Me? A Southlander? I even told Rothar as much, that I was not ready to enter the Castle, or even the King’s City itself.” She looked out on Witherington from the hill on which Rothar’s home sat. Smoke from the fires was beginning to make the view hazy and yellow in the midday sun.
“Here though, here it is a little easier,” she said, almost to herself.
Harwin put a big hand on her shoulder. “I understand that, but I must tell you, here is about to get a whole lot more difficult.”
Taria turned to look Harwin in the eyes. “Do you think I am not equipped for it?” she asked, somewhat offended.
Harwin was momentarily embarrassed. “I have no doubt that you are, madam, but I would not be able to live with myself if anything happened to you in Rothar’s absence.”
“Now you are starting to sound like Peregrin,” Taria muttered.
Harwin sighed and joined her in looking out over the burning village. “Perhaps there is just something about Rothar that inspires devout allegiance,” he said, and turned to look at Taria again. “I am certain you know what I mean.”
At that moment, Peregrin’s falcon landed on the grassy square in front of Rothar’s house. The note attached said simply to keep the bird around in case there was need of contacting Rothar and Peregrin. Taria sent the falcon back immediately, with word that Ariswold had been killed. She did not want Rothar proceeding without knowledge of what was happening back in the King’s City. She wanted him to know just how far these mysterious forces were willing to go to keep people quiet.
***
The guard was extremely heavy at Castle Staghorn as word of the spreading riots had reached his Highness. The solemn sentries were equipped with special shrouds to protect their faces. During the last riot, some rebels had taken to throwing stones and dirt at the castle guard, so precautionary measures had been put into place.
Countless noblemen and other high born city dwellers were gathered around the castle gate, all imploring the guards to grant them entry. The mobs were beginning to move through the streets below the castle, and the tide of looters had taken on an even more vicious demeanor as the day wore on. Where there had previously been a drive to steal anything one could carry, the fiends now were hell bent on destruction. Homes were being entered and the occupants beaten and dragged out into the street. Houses and businesses were ransacked before being burned.
Harwin feared that they would not be able to get into the safe confines of Castle Staghorn before the mob arrived at the gates. Then, he heard a voice shouting his name. It was Jenry, one of the castle guard whom he had become well acquainted with during his concealment in Castle Staghorn.
Jenry called him over. “Are you trying to see the King?” he asked, once Harwin and the women were close to him.
“We are, at the very least,” Harwin replied. “But I doubt we rank very well among these people,” he said as he looked around at the nervous crowd of noblemen.
“Piss on them,” said Jenry. “Follow me.”
Jenry led them down a long walkway that skirted the castle wall, away from the clamorous crowd. They came to a thick, twist
ing knot of trees that grew close against the wall.
Looking this way and that, Jenry said, “Come on,” and disappeared into the greenery.
Following him, the group found a small door in the wall, and Jenry produced an iron key to unlock it. On the other side, they found themselves in a small but lavish garden. Rose vines climbed upon every surface, stone walkways twisted through the space and an intricate, guided fountain babbled in the middle of the small courtyard.
“Her Majesty’s private garden,” said Jenry, with some aplomb.
Harwin, Esme, and the women looked around, in awe.
“But why…” Harwin began to ask.
“Because I know you can be trusted, and you deserve to be safe,” Jenry interrupted. “The King trusts your friend Rothar and he has shown favor to you. Besides, those other stuffed shirts out there do not deserve any more special treatment than they have already received. All their lives have been a fancy thing, a little fear will do them good. We’ll let them in before it gets too awful.”
Allette spoke up. “We cannot thank you enough, sir.”
Jenry looked at her and squinted. “Have we met?”
Allette was suddenly fearful and shy. “I am sure we have not,” she said, shrinking behind Taria.
Jenry stared a little longer before shaking his head, dismissing the recognition. “Show this to any guard you come across, they will let you pass.” He handed Harwin an embroidered patch emblazoned with the King’s seal. With that, he bowed and slipped back through the secret door, locking it behind him.
Meekly, the group began to move through the garden, searching for a way into the castle. Upon finding it, they entered into a narrow but well appointed corridor. With Harwin leading the way, they walked deeper into the belly of Castle Staghorn. Taking care to move quickly but not suspiciously, they soon came to a pair of sentries who regarded them with some alarm, spears pointed threateningly.
