“My quarters are at the end of the hall. There is plenty of light there and a clean bed to place him in.”
Abytheos nodded.
Olivar feared that the priest’s words were true; this would be a much longer night than he thought.
Chapter 7
COLORS SWIRLED all around, threatening to drag Philip back into the darkness with each attempt to open his eyes, but he struggled until the fog lifted and his vision cleared. He was lying in a soft bed, blanketed in white sheets that stopped at his chest. Aches and pains shot through his body; his face felt the worst. Upon further inspection, Philip realized that his nose had been broken, but that was the least of his problems. What had knocked him off his feet and tried to kill him? No one else had been there when Olivar left to fetch the priest, yet someone had grabbed him.
He tried to sit up, but a nagging headache intervened. He sagged back to the pillow and groaned. The door opened; both Abytheos and Olivar entered the room. The priest’s face was set with a grim expression. The mystic’s face was again hidden in the folds of his deep crimson hood.
“You were lucky,” Olivar said, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. “You could have been killed.”
“Or worse,” Abytheos muttered. “You are a damned fool for allowing him to stay behind. And you, my lord, are a damned fool for poking around where you shouldn’t have.”
“I—I didn’t know there was any danger,” Philip replied. “What in the name of the gods happened?”
“And now you know that there are many dangers.” Abytheos sighed. “One of your mythical Vel’Haen attacked you. What exactly where you doing in there by yourself, and without a source of light might I add?”
“None of that is important now,” Olivar said. “There is one more creature that we must deal with. How should we proceed?”
Abytheos turned to face Philip. “I want to show you how to kill it. As soon as you are strong enough to rise from the bed, of course.”
“I am starting to feel better; I think I can walk—slowly at least. If there is a way to kill these foul beings, I must know of it immediately.”
Olivar stood from the bed and stepped back a few paces. Philip braced himself against the soft mattress and hoisted himself to a sitting position. He waited for the dizziness to subside and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Are you sure that you are feeling well enough for this?” Olivar asked. “You don’t want to introduce any unnecessary strain if it can be avoided.”
“I think I can manage,” he replied, standing slowly.
He felt light on his feet, but managed to stand without his knees buckling. The colors threatened to swirl again, but Philip fought them off until his vision cleared.
“You are probably feeling groggy,” Olivar said. “Your nose was broken, and I fear that you twisted your wrist quite badly. I had to give you a potion to ease the pain, which will also cause some dizziness. How well can you see?”
Philip dismissed Olivar’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Thank you for your concern, but as I have said, I am fine.”
“That is good, but please try not to make hasty movements with that hand for a few weeks. I can assure you that when the potion wears off, the pain will be excruciating.”
“Will the two of you stop bickering? It will soon be morning and there is much work to be done before I can rest. Take me to the creature at once!”
Abytheos turned and left the room. Olivar shrugged and held out a hand. Philip smiled and shook his head, indicating that he would walk without help. The two men followed the priest into the hall and through the door to the storeroom housing the prisoner. Abytheos used the stub of his candle to light others that were sitting upon sconces on the walls.
“The creature awaits us,” Abytheos said in a hushed tone. “There are only two ways to kill it, but the method we are using can be achieved through multiple techniques. In this case, we shall insert a sharp object into the brain, directly through the ear.”
Abytheos flipped his wrist and a flash of steel glinted against the candlelight. Philip blinked to make sure he had not imagined the priest’s dagger appearing as if from out of thin air. There was almost certainly more to this man than meets the eye, he realized. He would have to take measures to get to know Abytheos Haym as well as possible before he could ever begin to trust him.
“Take notice of the blank look in its eyes. It is the same stare one sees in the eyes of a dead man. There is no soul inside. Whatever once made this lifeless shell a man has long since died. The only thing remaining of its humanity is the desire to hunt—the urge to feed. It is worse than an animal, for there is no longer a mind to control those most primal of desires.”
Abytheos approached the table. “Whatever you have done to the soul of the man who used to reside in this body, I pray that it is returned to the realm of the One-God. May this body—this perversion of nature—rot in death!”
With another quick flourish of his wrist, the priest plunged the dagger into the Vel’Haen’s head. The sickening sound of steel carving into meat echoed in Philip’s head as the blade entered through the ear and found what had once been the living brain of a man none of them had met before. Abytheos jerked the blade free and its eyes closed. The Vel’Haen lying before them was dead. His family, friends, his very life was unknown to any of them. He would never return home to his town, nor would he ever embrace his wife or children—if he had had them in life—and comfort them with a kind word. He was damned. Some sort of curse or magic spell that only a blade through the head could dispel had possessed his body. And now, with the priest’s own caring hands, the curse had been lifted. This man would hopefully find new peace in death.
“That is the only way to kill them?” Philip asked.
“If you mean by harming the brain, then yes. My tiny blade will do the deed, but there are other ways to kill them. Fire also works, but that tends to be somewhat messy.”
“Name them all,” Philip said. “I fear that they will soon fall upon us in much greater numbers. I want to ready the villagers.”
“That is a wise decision, My Lord. To fully answer your question, your Vel’Haen die when the brain is pierced or otherwise becomes damaged directly. The easiest—and safest—method is severing the head completely from the body. Cut it off with a sword or destroy it by other means, including fire, and it simply dies, the same as any man. This is the only way to cause the creature harm. Nothing else will affect it.”
“If they are no longer men, exactly what are they?” Philip asked.
Abytheos smiled. “Why, they are Vel’Haen! You said so yourself.”
Philip scratched at the stubble jutting from his chin. “Vel’Haen—Those who are arisen from below to conquer by night—it is only a rough translation, although it seems fitting. But those are nothing more than legends. My father told me stories of them when I was a lad. My mother would shake her head in disapproval and scold him when I could not sleep and begged to hide under their covers in the middle of the night. If you will forgive me for saying so, I find it difficult to believe in the existence of those legends. Surely these creatures must be something entirely different.”
“Those stories must be specific to your family,” Olivar said. “I have never heard of them. Tell me, from where did these legends originate?”
“I do not know how widespread they were. There was a storybook that was passed from family to family in the place where I was raised. Our copy was passed between the noble houses for the children to read. If I remember correctly, it was titled, Tales of the Winterstone.”
“What did you say?” Abytheos asked, eyes wide. “The title—what was it again?”
“Tales of the Winterstone. At least, that is how I remember it. I could be wrong; it has been many years. The book was filled with stories about the great horrors and adventures of those who lived in the towns along Winterstone Wall ages ago. Why do you ask?”
The priest lowered his gaze. “No reason. I
thought it was familiar; but I am mistaken. The only thing of great importance now is that you stop doubting the legends that were imparted to you as a child. Stranger things have happened in Alvanshia than a man discovering that the frightening stories plaguing his dreams were based more in truth than he once thought. We must prepare for what lies ahead. Solstice must be defended from further infection!”
“You actually think that this could become a widespread issue? I know what I just said, but isn’t it also possible that we have killed the only ones?”
“Philip,” Abytheos said, placing a hand on the lord’s shoulder. “You seem to be a man of intellect, but clearly you have forgotten our earlier discussion already. I am afraid we did not eradicate the Vel’Haen with a single dagger plunged into the heads of three dead men. There are many more awaiting us! Did I not promise to show you more of these beasts tomorrow?”
Philip nodded. “Indeed you did. My apologies. I need a cup of fine brandy and a good night’s sleep after all that has happened.”
“I am sorry, My Lord, but it may be many nights before any of us receives a good night’s rest. I suggest getting as much as you can for what remains of this night; tomorrow you must gather your best guardsmen. We shall visit a place with a much greater number of those who have arisen from below, as you so eloquently put it. As for the people of this village, we shall have to pay close attention to all injuries and deaths. Those who are afflicted must be put into their graves the proper way before they have a chance to do harm.”
Philip swallowed hard. He gazed into the priest’s eyes and saw a look of steel determination. “Are you saying that this is some sort of disease?”
“Philip De’Fathi,” Abytheos said, his voice unwavering. “It is my guess that this particular winter has brought with it a great and damning plague. As lord of Solstice, you will witness a great many deaths before it is done. Some of those deaths will be the people you have cherished and even loved for generations! Without immediate action, Solstice shall fall and only the dead shall rise from the ashes to spread the sickness throughout the land of Vintermore and beyond! It is my feeling that the whole of Alvanshia shall shift until the world becomes nothing more than a great ruin among the stars!”
The priest took a step forward, standing close enough to make Philip uncomfortable. He was tall, his frame thin, but Abytheos Haym still managed to be an imposing figure.
“But the future that I see does not have to come to pass.”
“How can we change what has already been set into motion?”
Abytheos smiled. “Do as I say. Take my advice and I shall rid Solstice of this plague forever. In doing so, I shall keep it from spreading to the rest of the world.”
“What assurances do I have that you can be trusted?”
“Have I not saved your life? Without me, you would have been killed—or worse. Are the words I have spoken since our first meeting not all true? My lord, I have only known you for a day and a night, and I have been nothing if not forthright with you. Tomorrow, I shall keep an additional promise. If you cannot trust me, who can you trust?”
“If you can truly help us as in the way that you claim, I am inclined to give you a chance to prove your worth,” Philip said, sighing. “However, you should know that not every villager will listen to you. You are an outsider to them; many shall resist. I will also not allow you to prance around Solstice as if you own her. It is my belief that you have been honest thus far. I should hope this honesty continues.”
“You have my word,” Abytheos said, smiling. “It is not my place to turn your people against you. I only seek to provide help in any way that I can. I will spread the words of my faith—this is true—but I will also use what little experience I have with the Vel’Haen to prepare your village. Although I have no extensive knowledge of them, I have spent more time around them than you or any other man in Solstice. My method of killing them is the only one that has worked. I only ask that you heed my advice to keep your beloved village from being destroyed.”
“Your words are wise,” Philip agreed. “I will take what advice you have to offer.”
“Good. Now let us rest until sunrise. Tomorrow, we shall brave the elements and send more of the dead back to their graves!”
* * *
“There are far more of these devils than you said there would be. I do not appreciate misinformation, as you are already aware. Are they all dead now?”
Balin of Dor, captain of the king’s guard walked among the rubble that had once been a merchant’s covered wagon. His men had found the merchant and his wife only twenty feet away, gnawing on the remains of what might have been one of their children. Balin had been able to identify the merchant’s sigil, a small pin typically worn on a bright green vest. A good peddler was rarely seen without his vest and sigil, and this man still wore his even as soldiers tore him from his victim, placed his head on an oaken stump and severed it from his body. The same courtesy was provided to the wife; Balin of Dor was a man of compassion. It pained him to think that the souls of even those as low in position as these two might never transcend into the plane of the gods. Now that their bodies were granted the rest they deserved, Gehash the Beloved would welcome them into the kingdom that lies beyond the clouds.
“Johak, did you hear my question or does it bear repeating?”
“No, Sir. And yes, we have killed them all. The merchant’s family we saved for last, as you requested. We wanted to make sure there weren’t more of his kind wandering around, so we could take care of them all at once.”
“Good. See to it that they are given a proper burial. They were different from the rest of these. In all likelihood, they were ambushed on the way to one of the surrounding villages. Their sacrifice should be recorded; their traditions honored. From the looks of their wares, they are originally from the eastern realms. See to it that their death rituals are carried out in accordance with the laws of their homeland. If I know this merchant’s kind, you will probably find a religious document somewhere among the wreckage. See to this task at once.”
“And the rest of the ones we beheaded? What of their traditions?”
Balin glared at the short, middle-aged, balding man standing before him. “Johak, most of the others have been out here for weeks. Some of them appear to have clawed their way from rather old graves, judging by the rate of decay of their flesh and burial garbs. If you can find among them more men who deserve burial rites, by all means carry them out.”
“Yes, Balin. As you wish.”
The old man turned to leave, but the captain stopped him. “One more thing.”
“What is it?”
Balin scratched his thick red beard. “What is the nearest village called? How far away is it?”
“According to the maps, Solstice is an hour’s march from where we stand; maybe two hours’ march at most. It is a small farming village, not remarkable in the slightest.”
“Yes,” Balin replied. “I know of the place. My father and I passed through Solstice when I was but a small child. It has been many years, but I can still recall the taste of the roasted lamb chowder I was fed in the inn where we lodged for the night. When you are finished with the merchant’s final affairs, send no more than two men to the village. Tell them to stay until they uncover enough information to aid us. Have them dress as peasants. Tell the men to arm themselves with weapons that can be concealed easily, for their own protection of course. We do not want to raise too many eyebrows. Not yet.”
“Aye.” Johak bowed and waddled towards the wagon wreckage.
Balin scanned the horizon; the clouds had parted, and the snow was quite deep. He quickly dismissed the urge to shiver against the bitter-cold breeze that blew back a generous length of his deep crimson hair. Wrapping himself tighter in his flowing alabaster cloak, he set his warhorse to a gallop. There was little time to waste.
A message detailing his findings had to be sent to King Randil at once.
Chapter 8
HE FLOA
TED in a great void. It was everything, and he was a part of it. Valthian did not have a body at first; he was nothing more than a series of memories echoing through an unseen chasm, but then the void disappeared and he was himself. He opened his eyes and tried to blink the sleep from them, but quickly realized that he was not tired.
Valthian was surrounded by darkness. There was nothing to grasp; he could see nothing regardless of the direction in which he looked. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a faint buzzing that reminded him of the sound a honeybee makes as it travels from flower to flower, only the sound that he heard was more like a thousand of those bees flying in unison. He tried to walk, but his legs felt as though they were submerged completely in a great tub of molasses. His muscles would not respond, so he remained still, listening to the distant buzz drawing ever closer, until finally the noise reverberated through his skull, threatening to drive him mad.
"Please go away," he thought, for he could not speak. "Leave me alone!"
Just when Valthian thought the droning buzz might just drive him mad, it stopped. The silence was almost worse, for at least it had been something. He tried to recall the buzzing, but he could not force his mind to cooperate. It was as if a great fog had invaded his mind, devouring each of his memories.
"It shouldn't be long now."
The voice was familiar, yet he wasn’t sure that he knew the speaker. She spoke in a melodious tone, each syllable almost musical.
"I am very close to finding you."
The speaker stepped out of the darkness and stood tall before him. She had a slim figure; her movements were lithe, not unlike the dances performed by the young maidens of Solstice during special celebrations and the yearly harvest day festival. The comparison made Valthian realize that the fog had lifted; he was himself again.
"Who are you?" He asked.
"No need to speak," she whispered. "I am so close to the one who will rise."
The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) Page 6
