The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle)

by Scroggins, David

  Chapter 4

  PHILIP DISMISSED Alain as soon as he had been prodded for enough information to locate the victims and their attacker. They had been moved from the inn to keep patrons from panicking. Olivar Bastrik, the mystic, had them in his custody now. Alain’s immediate needs had been seen to. He now had thick furs to protect him from the bitter cold; Tomas and Valthian were to escort him back home before the snowstorm got out of hand. Philip had mounted the fastest horse in all of Vintermore and rode off to get to the bottom of things.

  Midnight, the gelding in which he rode was of the highest bred horses raised by Master Nuru, specifically for riding quietly into battle. His refined head and elegant gait bespoke of countless years of selective breeding, and Philip trusted the animal with his life. Though he was not riding into war, he had chosen Midnight for his quick, yet silent step. A distracted soldier would not hear horse and rider approaching until his throat was slick with his own lifeblood, for Midnight was also so black in color that he often blended in with darkness itself. On a night like this, Philip wanted no one to know where he was going until he had already arrived. Any precautions taken to keep more rumors from spreading were more than worth the trouble.

  He dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby post.

  “I am sorry you have to endure the cold tonight,” Philip said, stroking Midnight’s short mane. “It won’t be for long, Old Boy.”

  Shielding his eyes from the torrential snowfall that threatened to blind him, he scanned the area until the mystic’s shop could be seen. Approaching the building proved to be somewhat difficult due to the frozen earth below, but with some concentrated effort he finally made it. Once inside, Philip stripped the extra cloak and scarves from his body and hung them on a hook protruding from the wall.

  “Olivar?”

  The shop looked to be abandoned; the nubs of several candles still flickered, casting an eerie glow all around. Bottles and vials filled with contents unknown to him rested on shelves behind a tall, darkly varnished wooden counter. Philip had only been inside Olivar’s shop a handful of times, preferring to stay clear of things in which he had little understanding. Each time was the same; the various potions and reagents scattered about made his skin prickle.

  “Hello?”

  A hulking figure cloaked in plain crimson robes appeared in the doorway that led into the shop’s storeroom. His face was hidden in the shadows of a deep hood, but Philip recognized him. Olivar was the most rotund man living in Solstice.

  “I did not expect you to arrive so soon.”

  “I make it a point to be prompt always,” Philip answered. “You of all men should know this.”

  “Indeed. Well then, I’m sure Alain explained the situation thoroughly? Where is he, if I might be so bold to ask?”

  “I sent him home with my sons. He was practically delirious. And yes, I have been informed of the situation to an extent. From what I could decipher of Alain’s ramblings, a madman attacked one of the villagers. Is this correct?”

  “Then you haven’t heard much at all,” Olivar whispered, casting back his hood. A fresh, jagged cut spread from his left ear to the tip of his nose. At the widest point, droplets of blood still oozed from the wound. “The same man did this to me. He is not mad. This is far worse than a case of lunacy, I fear.”

  “Gods,” Philip gasped, stepping closer. “Has he been arrested, or at least restrained?”

  “Yes, My Lord. We have him here. If you will follow me, I shall take you to him.”

  “If you need to see to that cut first, I can wait.”

  The mystic shook his head. “There is no time. This shall require a great number of stitches. I applied a salve that should ward off infection just moments before you arrived. Curious that it did nothing for the bleeding, but the wound was created by three rather sharp fingernails.”

  “He did that with his bare hands?” Philip asked.

  “He did. Now follow me. You need to see this with your own eyes if it is to be believed.”

  Olivar led him through the door and into a dim hallway.

  “The door on the right is where I am keeping him.”

  “Are you watching him alone?”

  “There were two other men; now there is only me.”

  Philip tried not to look at Olivar’s face, but did not succeed. He had never been the squeamish sort, but the nature of the wound made his stomach churn.

  “Where are they?”

  Olivar pointed. “You shall see soon enough. Do not be afraid; as I said earlier, he has been restrained.”

  He willed away the lump that was starting to form in his throat and stepped forward, grabbing the dull brass doorknob and turning it. The door was not heavy; it swung open with ease. Just inside the room, a slender man was tied to a long table. He thrashed about, fighting against the thick leather straps that held him fast. Philip took a single step forward and paused.

  “Perhaps you should try to calm yourself. You will never break those straps. It would be better for you to explain your actions to the both of us.”

  Olivar placed a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “He cannot hear you.”

  He turned to face the rotund mystic. “What is wrong with his hearing?”

  “I do not believe his hearing is the problem. You see, there is nothing left of this man that makes him a man. He does not hear you because there is no soul inside of him.”

  “Pure nonsense,” Philip replied. “The hardest and most nefarious of men have souls, as corrupt as they might be. It’s what keeps the blood pumping in our veins.”

  “Not this one, My Lord. I am not even sure that he lives.”

  “He is moving around like a living person,” Philip said. “Besides the obvious insanity, exactly what makes him so different from you or me?”

  “That question is answered easily, Master De’Fathi. Step closer and look into his eyes.”

  He retrieved a small torch that was hanging from a sconce on the wall and held it aloft.

  “I must warn you, flames seem to excite him.”

  “It is noted. His binds look tight; I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

  Philip raised the torch just above eye level and approached the table. The light from the torch’s flame shone brightly, illuminating the tiny room. He bent his head slightly to get a better look, and the prisoner’s eyes shot open. Philip gasped; the torchlight revealed a pair of irises that were black as pitch. Where there should have been color, life, and vibrancy was only the blank darkness of death. But this was worse than death. Staring into those eyes made him feel as though he gazed into a great chasm separating all of creation from the damned. It was the blackness of the eternal void only spoken of by the monks of ages long since passed.

  Philip stood straight and faced the mystic. “This man is unholy. His existence is blasphemy against every god worshipped by every man, woman, and child in Alvanshia!”

  “My thoughts echo yours,” Olivar whispered. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “I do not know. I need time to think. Whatever he has become, he is still a man and should be treated in accordance with the laws of this land.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Philip breathed in and exhaled slowly. “Was anyone else harmed?”

  Olivar nodded. “There were some.”

  “What of the two men who were with you before I arrived?”

  “Yes, about them,” Olivar answered. “They were not as lucky as the rest of us.”

  “Where are they? By the gods, tell me now!”

  “I can do better than that. I will show you.”

  Olivar turned and exited the room, motioning for Philip to follow. He did as he was asked and was again standing in the dim hallway. Olivar pointed to the room just across from the one containing the prisoner. “They are in there.”

  “I thought you said they left! Why are they in there and not guarding that thing?”

  “They would be of no help, My Lord.”

&nbs
p; “And why is that?”

  Olivar shrugged. “Both men are quite dead. You see, while one of them was helping me with the restraints. Our guest in the other room broke free. He charged Jon Wilhelm while his back was turned and snapped his neck clean.”

  “Jon Wilhelm is dead?” Philip interrupted. “I was just speaking with him about purchasing some farmland for his family, and you are telling me he’s been killed?”

  “I wish I had better news,” Olivar said. “But I do not. It gets much worse. As I scrambled to grab the attacker before he could do any additional harm, he began to—I do not know how to put this lightly—he began to eat Master Willhelm. Before we could pull him off, the right side of Jon’s face had been rent from the bone. Most disturbing of all was the sight of our prisoner chewing it.”

  Philip forced himself to speak. “Who was the other one? How did he meet his fate?”

  “The other man was Rodel Willhelm. He helped me tie the binds. I slipped as the final strap was being tightened; he managed to tear out Rodel’s throat and do this to my face.”

  “How could one do such damage to three able-bodied men?”

  “There was great strength present in that one. It was not the strength a normal man possesses. Not by far.”

  Philip drew his short sword. “Well he is tied down and unable to do more harm. I will end this here and now!”

  “I don’t suggest it, My Lord.”

  “You don’t suggest anything useful, Olivar! Your suggestions be damned!”

  Philip stormed back into the room housing the prisoner and approached the table, lifting his sword high in the air. “You are a creation of evil!”

  He brought the blade down hard, piercing through the creature’s chest. Philip smiled, knowing that the blade had landed true, destroying its heart.

  “Whence you came, now you shall return!”

  The thrashing continued, the creature ignoring the sword that now penned it to the table. Its dark eyes scanned the room, unseeing.

  “My suggestions were based on experience,” Olivar whispered. “I have already attempted to kill the thing.”

  Philip turned to face the mystic. “I need you to take a message to the chapel at once!”

  “Isn’t that old place abandoned?”

  “It was; I have a guest staying there. He is a priest. Fetch him without haste!”

  “What can a simple priest do that we have not already done?”

  “No more questions; please do as I say!”

  Olivar shrouded his face once more in the deep folds of his hood. “As you command, my lord. So it shall be done.”

  “I will wait here for you to return. I want to keep my eye on that bastard. May I sit in the main room?”

  “Of course. We’ll lock him in to be on the safe side.”

  Philip’s body disobeyed his attempts at achieving some semblance of calm. His arms were crawling with goose pimples, and he shook in the way a small child would upon waking up from a terrible nightmare. But he did not have the luxury of waking to find that he was swaddled in blankets, lying comfortably in a soft bed. No one would run into the room to reassure him that nothing was waiting under the bed to harm him. Both of his parents were long dead; Philip had been so young when they passed, he now struggled to remember their faces.

  He walked slowly, each step a deliberate effort, until he reached the room with the vials and potions, and sagged into a stiff chair.

  No man could wake from this nightmare, for it was not a dream.

  Chapter 5

  THE SNOW showed no signs of easing up, but Alain’s small cottage was only a short distance away now; Valthian could almost make out a tiny square window through the giant white flakes that blocked his vision. Even wrapped in thick furs, he shivered. He couldn’t remember a single time in his life when autumn’s twilight had given way to such a cold winter.

  “We need to get these horses to the stable,” Tomas shouted. “They can’t stand this weather for much longer!”

  “I can get them there,” Alain replied. “You boys get inside so Elyna knows that we made it back safely. I am sure she is worried sick.”

  Valthian nodded and handed over the reigns. He motioned to Tomas to follow, and they struggled against the knee-deep snow to reach the house. He turned to see how Alain was faring with the three horses, but could see nothing through the wall of elements separating them.

  “Come on Val,” Tomas said. “I’m freezing. He’ll be fine!”

  “I know. I just don’t like leaving him out here alone like this.”

  He turned back to the door and tried the simple brass knob. It turned and the door swung open, hinges screeching in protest against the sudden change in weather.

  “Who goes there? Papa? Is that you?”

  Elyna’s voice had a noticeable tremble; she was standing in the sparsely decorated main room, holding a large iron-wrought scythe in both hands.

  “It’s us! Everything’s fine!” Tomas shouted as Valthian turned to close the door before too much snow blew into the room and put out the crackling fire that was already burning.

  “Valthian? Tomas? What are you two doing here? Where’s papa?”

  “Alain is seeing to our horses,” Valthian replied, stripping off his heavy fur-lined cloak. “He sent us ahead of him to tell you that all is well.”

  She smiled. The lines of worry on her brow smoothed. “I should go to him.”

  “That is not a good idea. The snow is quite deep. You could catch your death out there.”

  “It isn’t going to stop, is it?” Elyna asked.

  Valthian shook his head. “Not tonight, I fear. Perhaps in the morning with some luck.”

  “I’m glad to see the both of you,” Elyna said, taking their cloaks and hanging them on sturdy iron hooks. “But how did you come to be with my father? He told me to keep an eye on things while he went into town to pick up supplies. That was more than four hours ago!”

  “He hasn’t told us anything,” Valthian replied. “All I know is that he practically knocked down our door in the middle of supper to speak with my father about a pressing matter. The next thing I know, we were being asked to see him here safely.”

  “It is quite a mess out there,” Alain said as he threw open the door and stepped into the cottage. “Thank the gods we’re all safe and sound now!”

  Snow pushed its way around the blacksmith and into the small sitting room.

  “Hurry and shut the door, father,” Elyna called. “You’re going to put out the fire and it took me almost an hour to get it burning properly!”

  Alain laughed; he turned and shoved against the wind that was threatening to take away their only source of warmth. Once the door was closed, he slammed down a heavy iron latch to lock it into place.

  “I thought I taught you how to start a fire. A blacksmith’s daughter should not need the better part of an hour to warm a single room!”

  “Perhaps if you would have remembered to bring a few dry logs in before you left, it would have been easier for me,” Elyna said.

  “You are mistaken, child. I never forget to bring in fresh logs.”

  She placed both hands on her hips. “You also misplaced the tinderbox.”

  “Well then,” Alain said, running gloved fingers through his long, untamed dark hair. “I will have to do better next time.”

  “I am sorry to interrupt this exchange,” Tomas said, returning from the kitchen with an apple in his hand. “But how are Val and I getting back home in this? Oh, and I hope you don’t mind. I was starving!”

  “Not at all,” Alain said. “And you aren’t going home in this unless you fancy freezing to death. It’ll be much safer if you wait until morning. It won’t be warmer then, but hopefully the storm will have calmed enough for you to find your way back.”

  “Well I’m getting tired,” Tomas said, stretching his arms. “Can you show me to one of your guest rooms?”

  Valthian was surprised at how quickly his brother could adjust to a
situation such as this. He was old enough not to be called a child by most, but he regarded being stranded in a winter storm the same way a toddler would regard a sleepover with a schoolhouse friend.

  “I think you’re far too used to luxury, My Lord.”

  Elyna spoke the words playfully, but Tomas still cringed. “I didn’t mean to insult anyone’s—I mean—Look! All I asked for was—”

  “I was only joking,” she laughed. “We have a storeroom that’s plenty big enough for a bedroll. Come; I’ll show you where we keep the linens.”

  Valthian shook his head, trying not to roll his eyes as Tomas followed Elyna through the kitchen and down a short flight of stairs.

  Alain sighed. “I’m glad I decided to have that cellar built when I did. It’s good for extra storage, and can accommodate the rare visitor. You’ll be sleeping down there as well, young one. I trust your family with my life, and I suppose someday you’ll wed my daughter, but we would do well to keep things proper until then. I hope you understand my angle.”

  “Oh,” Valthian answered, blushing. “Of course! I wouldn’t dream of bringing dishonor to your home. I thought you knew better of me!”

  Alain placed a hand on his shoulder. “I do, my boy. I trust your honor. But I also remember what it was like when I was a young man. I would have done anything to steal a few private moments with Elyna’s mother. I even managed to do it once or twice. I don’t think her father ever forgave me!”

  Valthian smiled. “I never got to meet her. From the stories you have told in the past, she seemed like a wonderful woman.”

  “She was,” Alain replied. His smile faded; his stare seemed more distant. “Childbirth was much more dangerous in those days than it is now, even if it still comes with its own set of risks. If only we had a mystic to assist us when Elyna came into the world. But that’s in the past, and now is not the time to think of such things.”

  “I’m sorry,” Valthian said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  Alain’s laughter was somewhat strained. “Think nothing of it. You should go warm your bones by the fire. Elyna will be back in a moment; I have a few work related items that require my attention.”