The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle)

by Scroggins, David

  “Yes,” he replied. “And yes, I know that rumors are spreading. They are true, and not just the part about the fires. The reality is that it is all true. It all happened just as you heard. From the massive funeral pyres to the dead men rising from the ashes and attacking those who were once their neighbors, it is all bloody true.”

  Valthian laughed. “Are you making some sort of joke? I shouldn’t laugh; I know it is not funny. Those poor people were killed in their homes—and on the streets—because of some silly superstition. Making light of the situation is not appropriate!”

  “When have you ever known me to make light of death?” Philip asked. “I thought you knew your father better than that. Although as grim as this might sound coming from my lips, there is a part of me that wishes I were joking.”

  Valthian said nothing at first; he simply sat in his chair and gazed into his father’s eyes. Philip imagined that the boy was searching beyond his tired expression, perhaps looking for some sign that he had had too much too drink, or maybe that he had finally lost his mind from keeping such long hours over the years.

  “You must forgive me, but I find rumors of demons and bloodthirsty men somewhat hard to swallow.”

  “As did I, at least, until I looked one of them straight in the eye just last night. You must understand, Valthian, that I speak the truth. Also know that these are not demons we must face, but men who have been cursed with some terrible affliction. We know not what causes their bodies to function once the spark of life is gone, but we do know that these creatures must be stopped.”

  Valthian leaned in closer. “And just who will help us stop them?”

  “The mystic is offering as much help as he can,” Philip said. “As is the priest.”

  “That charlatan?” Valthian blurted. “He is a liar and a criminal at best! At worst, his ideas are dangerous to our way of life! How can you sit in that chair and tell me that he is to be trusted? You did not see how he nearly incited a riot amongst the villagers!”

  “That criminal, as you call him, saved my life last night.”

  Philip fought against the urge to blink the sleep from his eyes; the entire day still spread out before him like a long and winding road, and it would be many hours before he could close his eyes and rest. He sat, staring at his son, waiting for the young man to say something more. After a moment of awkward silence, he continued.

  “I spent most of the morning wondering if I should make a request of you; I have finally come to a decision.”

  “And what is this request?”

  “I wish for you to accompany me. It shouldn’t take long to verify the priest’s claims—and it is no longer a request.”

  “There is nothing I can do to convince you to stay away from that corrupt wolf of a man, is there?” Valthian asked.

  Philip sensed more than a drop of venom in the young man’s reply. It was understandable. He had raised his children to be cautious, and it was good to see years of upbringing put into practice by one who would eventually inherit his father’s property and station.

  “No. I am tasked with keeping us safe. I will form a party and seek out that which threatens our way of life. It is fair that you do not trust Abytheos, and that is why I have asked you to come with me. If I need a trustworthy man on the field, who better to have with me than my own son?”

  “If I cannot persuade you, then I suppose that I must accompany you. What should I do to be ready?”

  Philip smiled. “That’s my boy. Have your horse saddled and bring nothing but rations and your sword. We have much to accomplish today. We leave in two hours’ time!”

  * * *

  Olivar sat on a sturdy stool, holding a small looking glass in his right hand. The fingers of his left hand brushed across the open wound on his face.

  It still oozed blood.

  “Bastard oil is taking too long to work!”

  He flinched as a fingernail became caught on a small chunk of flesh protruding from the gash. The wound was too new to show signs of healing, but the bleeding should have subsided at the very least. He was well aware that the beast responsible for inflicting the damage to his cheek was something the world had not seen before; perhaps he must resort to new measures to keep infection from spreading. No living man truly knew anything of these creatures, and that was what frightened him the most.

  The wound looked ghastly. The blood slowly dripping from it was darker than he liked; any darker in color meant first symptoms of heavy infection had set in, which also meant that he would have to resort to nasty surgical methods in which his knowledge was limited.

  “It shan’t come to that,” he whispered. “Only once have those ridiculous tools been needed.”

  Olivar quickly realized that he was talking to himself. Maybe it was the pounding headache that refused to go away, or perhaps he was simply nervous about gallivanting through the woods with Philip and that fool holy man. Sure enough, Abytheos had been responsible for saving Philip’s life the night before, but there was something unsettling about him, and that was only the beginning of it. If the fog wasn’t so thick in his mind from lack of sleep and a throbbing face, Olivar would withdraw from the outing in which he was about to take part and concentrate on investigating the priest’s background. There was no time, and the mystic was simply not feeling up to the task.

  He took a deep breath and stood. His face throbbed with each heavy step that he took, but he did his best to put it out of his mind. There were many things to do today and he would not allow what concentration he still possessed to slip, not even for a moment. No one must be allowed to die out of carelessness because he had a few cuts, scrapes, and a missed night of sleep.

  Chapter 10

  ABYTHEOS GLANCED around the dusty chapel of the abandoned church and sighed. There was much work to be done before this place could be considered passable. There was no rhyme or reason to the decorations, nor was the building itself erected with any discernable theme in mind. It was easy to see that the people of Solstice had been allowed to worship whichever gods they saw fit—a dirty habit that he intended to change sooner than later. Of course, he would have to take care not to offend the powers that be, for that could prove disastrous. No, special attention must be given to the people of this village—if he bothered to stay long enough to make a difference.

  At least Philip had not commanded armed men to escort him from Solstice. It was more than he could say for a few of the other towns he had visited.

  The priest reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the small, ancient book he was never without. The leather cover was simple enough; it was the contents that many would consider peculiar. This was a book that must have been handled by countless men over the thousands of years it had already existed; yet the pages were new and crisp as if it had just been crafted. The words inside had been written cleanly and were easily decipherable; even the ink still smelled fresh. It was all the proof he needed of the One God’s existence. He had been unable to take his eyes from the tome since first discovering it.

  That pull was why he had resorted to somewhat barbaric measures to obtain it.

  “Those unclean fools were not worthy of the message,” he muttered, surprised that his voice still echoed through the sparsely furnished room.

  Light flooded into the room as the thick, arched double doors of the chapel swung open. Abytheos felt a strong urge to shield his eyes, but he resisted. Not wanting anyone else to lay eyes upon his prized possession, he put away the book, stood straight and brushed the dust from his dark breeches. The doors slowly creaked closed and a young woman stepped into view. Her hair would have been quite long if it had not been matted with dirt; her eyes were dull, and her nose ended in a sharp, jutting point. She stepped forward and did her best imitation of what he thought was a curtsy. It more closely resembled a drunken stagger, he mused.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” He called, forcing warmth into his voice. “I do not believe we have met.”

  “No, Sir,” s
he replied. “We haven’t. You’re the new preacher, ain’t you?”

  He scratched his chin, briefly, with a long fingernail. “I am, if all goes well, of course. I am called Abytheos. What is your name, child?”

  “I’m Jentha.”

  “What is your family name, Jentha?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Beggin’ your pardon, reverend. Never met a man of the cloth before; I only heard about them from my momma. I weren’t sure how to pay the introductions to a holy man.”

  “Reverend,” Abytheos said with a slight grin. “I rather like that. And it is quite all right; there is no need to grovel at my feet, for I am no lord. You still haven’t answered my question. What is your family name, my dear?”

  “Lonigan,” Jentha answered. “My name’s Jentha Lonigan.”

  “That’s much better, child. You have an interesting name, Jentha Lonigan. Now I must apologize, but I am a very busy man today. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I—I don’t reckon I know just now, reverend. I’m not sure I know how to ask.”

  “There is no need to ask for assistance. The One-God demands that his disciples help everyone in need, provided that they are open to receive his guidance. What is your dilemma?”

  She took a deep breath, but did not raise her eyes to meet his.

  “You need not have fear.”

  “It’s my husband,” she whispered softly.

  “Ah,” he replied, his smile widening. “Matters of the heart. I will provide guidance, but you must promise to hear the word of the one true god if my advice fixes what ails you. Do we have a deal?”

  Jentha shrugged. “I ain’t never had a god before, but I don’t mind worshiping one if he can fix my husband. I just don’t know if he can.”

  “He can fix anything if you have faith. Now then, what of your husband? Does he mistreat you?”

  Jentha shook her head. “No. He’s a good man; always done my family right, he has.”

  “I see.” Abytheos took another look at her, his eyes narrowing in search of the secrets that were hidden within. She had the look of distress about her, though not even the One-God himself would reveal more. He would have to prod her. “Does this husband of yours provide the essential needs of your family?”

  She nodded.

  “So he is not a lazy man; he keeps a roof over your heads and supper on the table. Has he taken to looking at other maidens?”

  “No,” she said, sighing. “He’s always been faithful to me. I—It’s none of that!”

  She began to weep, tears forming heavy pools and flowing down her cheeks. Abytheos wanted to find pity for this woman, but her stubbornness and simple mind made it difficult. If anything, her tears brought him more confusion than empathy.

  “My dear,” he said. “I cannot help you unless you are perfectly straightforward with me. Now I demand that you tell me what is bothering you, for I have many tasks awaiting me on this day and very little time in which to accomplish them. Speak now or be gone!”

  She lifted her eyes and met his gaze. Though simple Jentha Lonigan might be, there was something far more complex buried deep within the woman than he had initially seen. Her eyes, although full of tears, burned with a white-hot mixture of fear and grief.

  “My husband is gone away, reverend.”

  He reached out, placing a single finger under her chin. “Where is he?”

  “Why, he’s in our home, only it ain’t him, so to speak.”

  Abytheos felt a lump take hold in his throat. “What in the name of the One-God are you saying, child?”

  “Father.” She gulped. “My poor husband died two days ago. My boys dragged him out into the woods when his heart didn’t beat no more; we had no tools for burying him and little coin to spare. I woke this morning to find him standing over me, but when I said his name, he growled and attacked me! I got away and came here first thing!”

  He seized her shoulder, squeezing hard to fight against the dizziness that suddenly threatened to overtake him. “Where are your children, Jentha?”

  “I didn’t see them, reverend. I just ran here, fearin’ for my life!”

  “Did he put a single scratch upon you?”

  “N—no. I got away before he touched me!” Jentha said, her voice trembling.

  “You truly are a simple woman, but you did well to come here! You must do something for me—promise that you will not fail!”

  “I’ll do anything you ask,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “Good. Run to Philip De’Fathi, without haste! Bring him to your home, but do not go inside until I arrive!”

  “But what about my boys?” She asked.

  “Do not attempt to save them! You will yourself be killed! You must trust me in this, Jentha.”

  “I—I trust you.”

  “A wise choice. Now go!”

  She nodded her head quickly and turned from Abytheos. She ran from the chapel without haste, leaving Abytheos alone in the barren room. He took no longer than a handful of seconds to gather his own thoughts before stepping out of the chapel, into the heart of winter. The old injury in his leg began to sting from the cold, but he refused to succumb to the limitations of the flesh. Instead, he breathed deeply of the chill air, holding it in his lungs for some time before expelling it. He ran his fingers through long, white hair and gazed at the sky. Despite the cold—or perhaps in spite of it—the light of the sun glistened brightly against the thick bed of white snow spread out as far as the eye could see. Perhaps Solstice would stumble upon a stroke of luck and the snow would melt sooner than later. A lone starling flew high above, its tiny wings flapping with vigor.

  “May your perseverance echo in the hearts of everyone in this cursed land, little bird,” Abytheos whispered, almost smiling.

  He forced his eyes away from the starling’s glorious feats and concentrated on more immediate matters. The lord of Solstice was about to receive some very unfortunate news.

  The sickness could be spreading.

  * * *

  The fat, middle-aged man known only to his lord as Johak had been walking for some time before reaching the outskirts of the small village. As he had told Balin, Solstice was quite unremarkable in every possible way. His master had not meant for him to come to this place alone, but he found that things got done much faster when a man saw to them himself. Although his years upon the land were higher in number than most men he knew, Johak preferred the hustle and bustle of a sprawling city over the tranquil silence of the country. He liked strong drink and avoided the watered down ale typically offered in smaller, poorer towns whenever possible. It was for this reason that he had not yet entered Solstice. He also wanted to survey as much of the surrounding land as possible before the residents of this place noticed his presence.

  He leaned against a sturdy tree and pulled a hunk of bread from a pouch that was tied to his belt. The sun was shining, but the snow showed no signs of melting. Johak had not eaten in quite some time and still faced many hours in the bitter cold before he would know the comforts of an inn, a warm fire, and the stale drink he knew would be offered up. The middle-aged, balding man broke off a small piece from the hunk and popped it into his mouth. It was crusty and lacked the softness of the freshly baked bread his late wife used to make, but it was perfect for travelling with. Not only would it be safe from mold for weeks, it also served as a formidable club if one happened to possess an entire loaf of the stuff.

  Johak finished his meager lunch, not bothering to concern himself with what might be lurking in the woods around him. The bastards moved slow—even slower than he did—and he imagined that even walking dead men must be affected in some way by the steadily dropping temperatures. On second thought, he wasn’t so sure about that last point, but he was more than prepared should one of them lunge for him. These men—these shells of men—were rather clumsy; at least that was his impression of them. They limped more than they walked; fell upon their victims more than lunged at them.

  He allowed
himself a final minute to enjoy the comfort of the tree, his back thankful to have some of the burden of his generous weight removed, and then stood straight, brushing the remaining breadcrumbs from the thick cloak that was wrapped around his middle. It was already midday and he had much more land to cover before he would permit himself entrance into Solstice come nightfall.

  Chapter 11

  RANDIL, HIGH Lord and King of Vintermore, sat upon his throne in the very top of the north tower in Castle Stravlish. He had spent most of the morning poring over documents from informants across the land, and now he could not help but to wince at the splitting pain surging through his head. The day had already been long, but the young ruler still had hours to go before he could retire to his private dining quarters for supper. There was only one throne in the dimly lit room; upon assuming the crown, he had demanded the queen’s chair be demolished and used as kindling in the servants’ quarters. His father, King Richart of Lonsley, had been poisoned by his mother, Queen Isa. Richart’s father—Randil’s grandfather—had fallen to his death in old age by an improperly shoed horse. Many suspected the woman he was to wed, for he had gone against tradition and purchased her from a master slaver. Randil would not allow their fate to become his own; he refused to take a wife despite assurances of added measures. After ordering his own mother executed for the crime of regicide, he vowed never to trust a woman, noble-blooded or otherwise.

  He waited impatiently for the man who entered the throne room to drop to one knee and bow.

  “Your Majesty,” he called, his gaze locked on the stone floor below. “It is an honor to be in your presence.”

  “Enough of the formalities,” the king replied, motioning for the man to stand. “What news have you brought from the East?”

  “I have returned to Vinter’s Edge with a great deal of news, my king. If it pleases you, I should wish to read you the reports myself.”

  Randil nodded. He had been reading all morning, and Jaren—this particular messenger—was far more detailed in his written accounts than any man currently employed in the kingdom. Reading over one of Jaren’s documents could prove hazardous to the health of both men, should the king’s headache—and his impatience—grow stronger.