A great deal of mumbling followed his words. Not everyone agreed with his actions. Their pesky objections taxed him greatly, and he was eager to be back in the silence of his private tower.
Once there, he poured himself a goblet brimming with his most potent drink, a strong dark mead from north of Squall’s End. There he sat, drinking his fill beside the firelight, surveying his surroundings. The room was orderly once more. At last he had righted it as a first step towards regaining his composure, but healing was a long way off. He could not begin to traverse such a path until all loose ends were tied. Such tidying started with this mysterious woman. Who was she, and why had the gods cursed him with such a burden? Entering his kingdom illegally, upsetting his Council, creating more problems than he was ready to take on—he despised her for it. Handling the death of Cyrus was terrible enough. Now this? Still, he couldn’t help the curiosity that tugged at him.
Saffra said she was beautiful. But even beauty was deceiving where magic was concerned. Yet he wondered about her, what she was about, what she might look like. He pictured golden hair and green eyes, an alluring combination any man might warrant. Then he shook his head and rid himself of such distractions. He had done away with women long ago, and even the most beautiful maiden would not tempt him.
Instead, he considered the matter at hand. By morning—which was adequate time for someone on the Council to leak the information—the entire city would be in upheaval. His citizens would demand penance for Cyrus’s death, and rightly so. This woman was the only culprit—she would stand no chance. When the time came, justice would be their demand. He would be the one responsible for dealing it, and deal it he would.
20
Landow
Mikkin took his wife Mardra into his arms, burying his face in her red hair. With his eyes closed, he could outline her features in his mind. He saw every freckle upon her skin. He saw the way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and the way her gaze danced with mischief. She smelled of lavender and charred wood, evidence of many hours spent before their hearth. That simple thought—knowing how hard she worked—drove him to tighten his grip. He couldn’t let her go.
“But you must,” she whispered, gently stroking his hair. “My time has come.”
No! Curse the gods, he would deny their wishes. She was not theirs to take. “Take me instead,” he begged. “Let her live.” The void beyond their entangled bodies gave no answer.
“Mikkin, my love, you must let me go.”
“I can’t. Please, Mardra. I cannot lose you—I cannot lose Devden and Thomas.” Hearing their names, their sons materialized, running to him, clinging to his legs.
“Don’t go, Da-da,” Thomas said before Devden burst into tears. Two sets of brown eyes gazed up at him in earnest, glistening.
“Please don’t cry, children.” Mardra patted their heads as any mother would. “We go to a better place now. We go to the gods.”
“But…I want to stay with Paaaa.” Devden tightened his grip. Mikkin’s heart constricted, strangled by ropes of despair. How could the gods be so cruel?
Mist crept towards them, tendrils outstretched like eager arms, lapping about his ankles like lake water. His heart quickened. “Don’t leave me…” His words—his prayer—died on his lips. The world around him was nothing more than blackness. His arms flailed, grasping at the emptiness where Mardra disappeared, where the boys ceased to exist. There was nothing but the void, and tears left behind upon his cheeks. The emptiness engulfed his mind until he remembered—he remembered everything.
The sting of physical pain returned to his body. He felt the ailment like an afterthought, dwarfed by his torment. He dared not open his eyes, for if he did, his torture would be real. Tears leaked from beneath closed lids. A sob escaped his chest as reality manifested. “Mardra…” he whispered her name like a prayer. “Mardra…” It was all gone, everything he ever knew, everything he ever loved. It was taken from him—taken by beasts.
In a sudden jolt, his eyelids flew open. Taken…everything was taken. The fragments of his memory reoriented themselves, until consciousness returned in full. His mind roved over the killers stalking his memory, spewing their flames of death. Hopelessness twisted about his gut like a serpent’s body, forcing him to gasp.
His gaze darted about his surroundings, unseeing, until settling upon the ceiling above, wooden and aged. His raw fingers twitched, grasping, clawing at the bedding beneath him. The linen was soft against his burns. Where was he? This was not the wilderness he tried to die in. This was not his grave.
“Mary!” A woman’s voice cried out beside him. “Mary, he be waken’ up. Go and get thee Tynen. Hurry, quick like!” He struggled to turn his head, his movements slow and stiff, his eyes still wide from the horror replaying in his mind. He found a dark-haired lass sitting at his bedside. She smiled kindly.
“All will be well, mister. You’re in Tynen’s house—good hands to be sure.” Her words swept through him faster than a river, in and then out, with no meaning. “Gods above though,” she cried, “If I might be sayin’, sur, you gave us a fright, you did! We wasn’t sure you’d wake.”
He never intended to wake. Curse these people for trying to save him, from trying to take him from his family.
“Here, drink this.” The woman held a cup to his lips, reaching her hand under his head. He turned away just as the water rushed forth, spilling all around him. The woman swore, “Gods above!” Once more she tried to set the cup at his lips. Again he turned. “Come now, mister. Cooperate.”
“Let me die,” he hissed. The croak was hardly audible, but she heard it.
“No one be lettin’ you die today, mister. Drink.” This time, she held fast to the back of his head and forced the cup to his lips. Cold water rushed into his mouth, gushing down his parched throat.
Several people burst into the room. He coughed and cleared his throat as his sights settled upon two men, one old and grizzled, the other a strapping young lad, and a woman, similar in appearance to the lass beside him. The older man stepped forward and crouched beside his bed.
Their eyes met for several moments before the man spoke. “Ho there, mister. I’m Tynen, and this be my home. We aren’t accustom’ to findin’ unconscious strangers on the outskirts of our little village. There’s been terrible rumors circulatin’…” The man shook his head. “We seen the smoke on the horizon.”
Blazing orange flames leapt into Mikkin’s mind, followed by the strong scent of smoke. His stomach lurched. He threw himself over the side of the bed and began retching. Only water came up, and then nothing. Tynen let him finish before hoisting him back into bed.
“You look as though you seen death, mister.” Tynen spoke again. “What happened?”
His throat was raw, his tongue more so. He tried to speak, but only one word pierced the silence, rolling from his tongue like a curse. “Dragons...”
“Dragons, you say?”
He gave a jerky nod. Tynen’s eyebrows pulled together before the man glanced back at the others. The lass beside him covered her mouth, stifling a surprised hiss.
His gaze returned to the ceiling. He cared little for their shock. Swallowing, he tried to regain his voice. Countless screams and days without water left talking nearly impossible. “More water,” he croaked at last. The dark-haired lass lifted the cup to his lips. This time he drank deeply. Again, he tried to speak. “They came from the mountains.” His voice cracked from disuse. “They burned everything. Belnesse is gone. It’s all gone.” Those last words came as a sob, cutting him like a knife. More tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. His gaze remained fixed upon the ceiling.
Panicked whispers met his ears. Then Tynen spoke, “We saw the smoke on the horizon and wondered…” A slight pause followed. “Jamie, how quickly can you get to Belnesse?”
“If I take Lizzy—a day. I might make it by nightfall if I be leavin’ now.”
“Off you go then, lad. Make haste.” The door closed with a thud. Still, he gaze
d at the ceiling. “Jamie is a right lad. He will return to us on the ‘morrow with confirmation of your claim.”
“Little good it’ll do you,” Mikkin muttered bitterly. “He won’t be findin’ anything but ash.”
The room fell silent. In the wake of that silence, new sounds arose. An argument took place somewhere without. It was a man’s voice, and a woman’s. “Please, sur!” she said. “If you wait here, I shall be gettin’ him for ya.”
“No waiting, miss. I must speak with him now.” The man’s voice was rich and proper, each word spoken with perfect enunciation. “My time here is limited.”
A door slammed and moments later, two more people filed into the little room. He turned his gaze upon them. The female was shabby. The man however, was of a princely appearance, with a large frame wrought of thick muscle, fine traveling clothes, and a mane of golden hair.
Mikkin looked the man up and down before his gaze settled on the long sword strapped to his waist. The likes of this weapon were something he had never seen before. It was finely crafted, and covered with gems and jewels.
“Beggin’ your apologies, Tynen,” said the untidy woman with wide eyes. “This man refused to wait when I be askin’ him to.”
“No matter, Kera, you may leave us.” Tynen rose from his crouched position and presented himself before the stranger. “I ain’t seen your kind in Landow, Drengr, since I was a boy. How can I be helpin’ ya?”
“I was informed that a man was rescued—a man who knows something of the smoke rising from Belnesse. Is this that man?” The golden-haired stranger peered around Tynen until his eyes fell directly upon Mikkin.
“Aye. This be him. What be your name, Drengr. I am Tynen, the elected village leader here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Tynen. I am Reyr the Gold, King’s Shield to King Talon the Black.” The Drengr held forth his hand to clasp Tynen’s forearm in greeting. “My time here is short. I must speak with this man immediately.”
Tynen nodded. “Very well. He sings a strange tune, this one. Mayhap you be makin’ more sense of it than me.”
The others retreated as Reyr moved forward, leaving Mikkin and Reyr alone. Mikkin watched Reyr suspiciously. For a moment, his mind was rebellious and his body in need of revenge. What was the difference, truly, between a Drengr and a dragon? Both breathed fire. King’s man or not, he could inflict the same destruction those wild beasts did.
The Drengr pulled up the now vacated bed-side chair and took a seat. He straddled it, resting his arms atop the high back. Then he leaned forward, his strong body towering over Mikkin’s weakened form. “Tell me of Belnesse,” he said. “The city was burned to the ground. I have seen it with my own eyes.”
“Then you know of the devastation wrought. So what need have you of me, Drengr?”
“More need than you can imagine. Tell me what happened.”
It was no small request. This Drengr required him to relive every harrowing moment as the words of explanation tumbled from his lips. He told the king’s man of the dragons, of the way they swept in with their fiery breath, igniting everything in their path. As he spoke, he saw his sons in the flames, screaming, writhing in agony while their skin melted from their bodies. He tried to save them, but he was too late. He was forced to watch as a red dragon, scales darker than the flames themselves, snatched his beloved Mardra into its maw. The sound of Mardra’s wails echoed in his ears. “I cannot go on,” he cried at last, a fresh wave of tears pouring from his eyes. “Forgive me, Lord Reyr, but I cannot.”
Reyr placed a hand upon his shoulder, affording him a nod of understanding. Then the Drengr’s eyes closed tightly. “I too lost someone I loved to evil. Long ago though it was, the pain has never departed. My condolences for all that you have endured.”
Mikkin said nothing and his gaze returned to the ceiling. The Drengr spoke once more, “You have confirmed my worst fears. I must get this information to the king immediately.” With that, Lord Reyr gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
When Mikkin next looked over, it was to see Lord Reyr exit the room. Tynen returned shortly thereafter with a pitcher of water to refill his cup. “Mary,” he gently called, “make our guest some food.” Then he turned back to him. “What be your name, sur?”
“Mikkin. My name’s Mikkin.” Already he felt his consciousness slipping away. He hadn’t the energy to tell Tynen of his conversation with Reyr, or that Reyr had already seen Belnesse with his own eyes. By this time, Jamie was well on his way to Belnesse—now a wasted effort—but he could not say the words that would call the lad back. He hadn’t the energy for anything but the slumber that forced him to drift away until there was nothing left but blackness.
When he next woke to the fragrant smell of food, even the conversations he had had with Reyr seemed dream-like. The light seeping into his small room from the tiny window was dim—nightfall was upon the little cottage. He was alone, but he could hear sounds of movement outside his door. Pulling back his covers he sat up. Even such simple movements took a great deal of effort: evidence of his weakness and the hardships he had been subjected to. Several days had passed since his last meal. Despite his desire to die, food was the only thing he could think about. It was the smell of sustenance that had woken him.
He swung his legs over the cot, and his bare feet touched the dirt floor. Using what little strength he had, he managed to stand and steady his shaking limbs. He made his way to the door. It opened into a large main room. Mary was hovering near the hearth stirring the contents of a large cauldron. In the center of the room, there was a wooden table with benches, and off to the side were several dingy looking wooden armchairs. It was a homey place, both warm and inviting.
Mary turned to see him. She wore a weak smile. “Just in time for supper,” she said. In her voice he heard her failed attempt to sound cheery. “How are you feeling?”
“Like hell,” he answered. He shuffled to the table and sat down upon the bench, letting forth an exhausted sigh. Mary dished up contents from the pot and brought them to him in a bowl. He thanked her with an emotionless voice.
Hungry as he was, he observed proper manners and used the spoon to eat, though he was tempted to lift the bowl to his lips and drink the soup down quickly.
“Tynen will be back shortly,” Mary said as she studied him. “He has called a village meetin’ to explain who you are. Everyone’s been wanting to know…” She trailed off, returning to the hearth muttering.
Tynen returned just as he finished his soup. The man’s face was grim. He nodded at Mikkin as he entered, then went straight to Mary, wrapping her in his arms. Mikkin could not hear what was whispered. He did not care to. Their show of affection made him uneasy. It reminded him of what he lost. A fresh wave of grief resurfaced.
Standing quickly, he fled them. The sky’s stars were beginning to show. The small cottage was set much further back than the others. He walked to its rear, locating a grassy place to sit. There, he doubled over and wept.
He remained there a long while—now just a shell of a man. By the time he went back inside, it was long into the wee hours of the morning. A still and silent cottage greeted him. All that was left of the evening’s fire was now embers. He made his way back to his room and went to sleep, praying that it would be dreamless. His prayers were in vain. Flames consumed his nightmares until he could no longer subject himself to them, at which point he rose.
Dawn light was only just spilling in through the windows. He sat at the wooden table in quiet reverie, watching the sky grow brighter. Mary and Tynen emerged not long after, greeting him. Mary quickly cooked and served breakfast—porridge with sausage—and they sat around the table eating.
Now that he had the energy for it, he told Tynen and Mary of the conversation he had with Reyr the Gold. When he finished he added, “It is a shame the lad wasted his journey, for Reyr saw all that I spoke of and more.”
“And you are sure of it?”
“Aye, he said he saw it with his own eyes. Did he not
tell you?”
“Reyr spoke no more than a few words once he finished with you. Nothing was said of Belnesse. He appeared in a great hurry to be away.”
“Then I hope you will take my word for it—Belnesse is gone.”
“Aye. If the Drengr saw it with his own eyes, then I suppose we must believe it. Do not fret about Jamie. The trip will do him good, wasted effort or not.”
Mikkin nodded before saying, “I thank you both for showing a stranger like myself kindness.” Despite thanking them, he silently hated them for helping him stay alive.
“It is the least we can do. If you have your strength about you,” Tynen said, “the south fields be needin’ work. I wouldn’t mind a helpin’ hand.”
For a moment he said nothing, then he nodded, glad to be given something to do.
They passed the day in the fields, uprooting large weeds, plowing the dirt, and preparing it for mid-summer crop. It all seemed so dream-like. He felt himself out of place, like a ghost in the world, misplaced and wrong. For all he had hoped, there was no hiding from faces that refused to leave his mind, no matter how much he busied himself. Red hair, smiling lips, brown eyes—these were the images that followed him everywhere.
Jamie returned late that afternoon. From the fields, they heard Mary calling to them, so they rushed to the cottage. They arrived just as Jamie dismounted from his horse. The look on the lad’s face said more than words could. Mikkin did not want to hear of it; whatever the lad might have to say was unnecessary.
“It is gone.” Jamie’s voice was choked. He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of what he had witnessed in Belnesse. “We rode as fast as we could, little Lizzy and I.”
Mary reached for his horse, Lizzy, escorting her to their barn. Tynen clapped him on the shoulder in an effort to comfort the boy. “Let’s get you some food, son.” They escorted Jamie inside.
“What did you see? Were there any survivors?” Tynen asked once they were indoors.
Talon the Black Page 15
