He had known the young barmaid his entire life; indeed they had grown up together and even attended the same classes until Harel, her father, decided that it was time for her to take up a trade and provide for the family. Harel Deros had never been a hardworking man, and when his wife passed from the world, he resorted to using his children as wage earners. He also beat them regularly; it was the reason Elsa had lost most of her teeth. Tomas begged his father on many occasions to stop the abuse, but the king’s laws regarding the rights of parents kept even the highest authority in the village from taking action until the girl reached adulthood.
Now she would never reach that age. She would never taste freedom.
People made jokes about her looks, but she never cared. Tomas hadn’t cared either, for even the ones who knew something of her plight were still unaware of the beautiful person contained within her battered and overworked body. None of that mattered anymore. The only thing to do now was wander the village in search of the only man he knew who could make sense of the situation. Even then, nothing could be done to bring Elsa Deros back from the dead.
Tomas was underdressed for walking in such terrible weather, but he barely noticed the cold. Not wanting to return home, and sure that it was still too early for his father to have retired to his study anyway, he took the main road through the heart of the village. It wound around the marketplace, just avoiding the old church that hadn’t seen a worshipper of any gods ancient or otherwise in many months. As he walked, an old tune came to mind; he had learned it from a grizzled old mercenary he met a year ago at The Hound’s Rest. He distinctly remembered that the man tried to pay for his room and supper by performing the song for the few patrons who weren’t too drunk to listen.
Thrice it comes into the fray
To wipe the deeds of men away
A cycle of flesh and bone will start
A sea of blood from rotting hearts
A wave of fire to cleanse the land
A shattered world, destroyer’s hand
Of dark-eyed desire, one now is born
Deliver us from Carrion’s cycle by morn.
He was not sure of the song’s meaning, but one thing in particular always caught him off-guard about the words—they didn’t seem to go with the music; it was as if the words had been taken from someplace else and made to fit an entirely different tune altogether. The innkeeper had also been so put off by the words that he escorted the traveller outside and asked him not to come back. Now, thinking back to that time, the memory of the performance gave him shivers, forcing him to bring his arms closer to his chest, crossing them for warmth. The clouds above had parted and the sun had already disappeared over the horizon, replaced by a giant red moon. Tomas always wondered why the moon sometimes changed colors; his mother told him it was the gods sending the world a message. What sort of message they would bother to send after all that had transpired today, he did not know. Indeed he was starting to doubt the very existence of gods.
The youngest De’Fathi lord turned toward the schoolhouse and kept walking, hoping that the entire day would prove to be nothing more than a hallucination—or maybe just a terrible dream. If he was only dreaming, he thought, it was the worst nightmare anyone had ever conjured.
The silhouette of a man kneeling in the snow just in front of the schoolhouse that came into view as he rounded the old path’s final bend made him feel as though his day was about to go even further downhill.
* * *
Balin rushed from the tent to greet the soldier that had just ridden into the camp on horseback. He left his assistant behind without so much as a nod of thanks, and now was standing before a hulking man wearing full armor that must have been customized to fit someone of his size. The soldier carried his helmet in the crook of his arm, his long, black hair glistening and silky smooth, even against the dimming light cast by the fading sun. He wore a close-cropped beard, perfectly trimmed to give the appearance of five or six days’ scruff. The soldier gave a half-bow and handed over the scroll that he had been holding in his left hand.
“What is this?” Balin asked.
The soldier spat. “It’s orders from our king.”
“Your name and rank, if you please?”
“I don’t please,” he growled. “But if you must know, I’m Calron, an initiate of King Randil’s Third Band.”
Balin cast a sideways glance. “An initiate? Do you know who I am?”
“Sure I do. You’re captain of the king’s guard. It don’t concern me who you are. My only responsibility is seeing that the scroll you’re holding reaches you in one piece. Now my job here is done.”
Balin squeezed the scroll. It would only be right to teach this imbecile a lesson, but perhaps it was wrong to waste the resources such an act would take. He needed every man at the ready. Besides, times were changing with each hour that passed, and there were more pressing matters than some ignorant young soldier who thought he could earn a reputation by talking back to his superiors. He noted the man’s name and quickly decided to have something done about his attitude soon enough.
“You’re a hard man, Calron. The world needs hard men now more than ever. Return to your master and let him know that the king’s message has been delivered to the right person.”
“As you wish,” Calron replied. The soldier laughed, stepped back a pace, and curtsied.
Balin did his best to hide the disgust that he felt toward the outright insolence of the soldier. Still, it surprised him. When had the king started to allow such men to gain position in the royal army? This fool was someone that he might have to share a battlefield with someday; he did not relish the possibility.
Once Calron was back on his horse and riding away from the camp, he looked at the scroll that was now wrinkled from his tight-fisted grip. The soldier had not been lying; the seal of King Randil was present and there were no signs of tampering. He hastily broke the seal and opened the rolled parchment paper. The words were written in a hand that he did not recognize, but that was not uncommon for the king; he employed many servants, and most of them could read and write. Anyone could have written the note in place of the royal scribe, especially if he was out of the city on official business. Straining his eyes against the lack of sunlight, he read the entirety of the scroll twice to make sure that he understood the commands contained within.
Balin of Dor gasped and let the scroll fall.
“Johak!” He called loudly, peering back at the tent whence he had came mere moments ago. “Johak! By Gehash, if you are still in there, I need you now more than I have ever needed you before!”
“Perhaps you could also use some advice from someone with firsthand experience in the issues with which your men are faced?”
He whipped around and found himself standing before yet another visitor to the camp. This was a man he had never seen before. The new visitor dressed from head to toe in black, save for the white collar around his neck.
“You don’t have to say anything just yet. I arrived moments ago by horse from a village just to the north—the very one you have been spying on. You must be wondering how I got past your men without being spotted. I have my ways, and I prefer not to reveal them. Come now, for we have much to discuss before you march.”
“We approached silently,” Balin said. “And we did not travel the usual path. How did you know of our presence in these woods?”
The man drew his thin lips up in a cold smile. “I make it my business to know many things. Besides, a throng of soldiers travelling anywhere is never truly silent, if you know how to keep your eyes and ears open.”
Chapter 16
PHILIP WAS on his knees, his body half-frozen from the cold and the shock of what he had just seen. He didn’t even try to fight the tears back that now stung his eyes. Why had those children been in the schoolhouse in the first place? The day’s lessons had been called off due to the weather, but perhaps they didn’t know; now they would not see another day upon Alvanshia, nor would they ever grace
their mothers and fathers with their young, innocent faces.
“It’s this damned curse that has come to Solstice,” he cried, peering down at the snow. “And it is only going to get worse unless we do something about it now!”
Philip had promised the priest that he would do as the man asked from now on, and perhaps it was true that could help him do something to keep the rest of the villagers safe from what might come. But could he really? Could anyone? Philip did not have the answers, but he hoped that he would gain insight soon enough.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts and the effects of what he had witnessed that he did not notice the person that had approached and was now just a few steps away from where he knelt.
“Father? What happened? Why are you on your knees?”
Through the fog permeating his mind, he still recognized the voice. “Tomas? Is that you, my son?”
“Yes father. Please tell me what has happened—and get up before you catch your death!”
Tomas reached out and he seized the boy’s hand, using it for leverage to stand. He made as if to brush the snow from his breeches and truly saw his youngest son for the first time since he approached.
“Gods! Your clothes, they are covered in blood! What happened to you? Please, tell me!”
Tomas looked at his feet; it was what he always did when he did not want to talk about something important.
“You can tell me, child. I cannot imagine it is any worse that what I have seen with my own two eyes today.”
“I saw a man—I was at the inn—he killed her, father! She’s dead; I couldn’t save her.”
Philip grabbed his son by the shoulders and pulled him into a warm embrace. “There, there. Who was it?”
“The barmaid,” Tomas replied, his voice somewhat muffled by his father’s cloak. “Elsa Deros. She might not have seemed important to most people, but I knew her better than anyone; now she’s dead and gone!”
Philip gasped. The threat was much worse than he realized. Jentha’s husband was still on the loose. Could it have been he who killed the young woman? Had the curse spread to more villagers? Perhaps everyone had already turned. No, that couldn’t be true; He was still himself; so was Tomas. If they weren’t cursed, others could still be safe from it.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Philip whispered into his son’s ear. “You could not have saved her. I know it is difficult to believe, but I have seen these beasts; I know how they work. She was damned the moment one of them was close enough to grab at her.”
Tomas pulled away from his father’s embrace. “Do you think I don’t know it? But gods it hurts knowing that she’s gone!”
Philip sighed. “That isn’t what I meant, Tomas. I am sorry—I am not myself—please forgive my harsh words.”
Tomas nodded. “Of course, father. I am also not myself. But you still haven’t told me why you are standing in front of the schoolhouse, kneeling upon the frozen ground.”
“There are more creatures inside the building—young children.”
“What do you mean, father? Children?”
Philip nodded. “Yes. At least, they were children; not anymore.”
“Gods! They turned into those things?”
“It is much more horrible than that, Tomas. There are dead inside as well.”
“Who?” Tomas asked. “Who are the dead?”
“Son,” Philip replied. “I could not recognize any of them, but I am sure that they are citizens of Solstice. I just do not know why they were in the blasted building in the first place!”
“A few of the younger ones were working on writing lessons yesterday,” Tomas said. “Even with lessons cancelled, there is a chance they wanted to come and finish up what they were doing. It is not uncommon—but gods—they are dead? You’re sure of this?”
“As sure as I have ever been of anything in my life. And they will soon rise from their resting places, creatures of the damned themselves. But I could not bring myself to do what was necessary. They were only children, Tomas! They did not deserve this fate!”
“What did you say, father?” Tomas asked. “About rising up? You mean—”
“Yes, my boy. Those who were massacred by these creatures will become one within mere hours of dying. The easiest way to stop them from turning is to remove the head—you could also burn their bodies, but taking the head is fastest. I have seen too much of the damage they cause for one lifetime, so I recommend doing both.”
“Damn it, Elsa!” Tomas shouted. “I left you to become one of them!”
He drew his sword and pushed Philip aside with his free hand.
“Stay here, father.”
“What are you going to do, lad?” Philip asked.
The young man looked him in the eyes, his expression grim. “What I must do to free those children from their curse. And then I must also take care of my own foolish mistake. Do you have a tinderbox?”
Philip felt around in the pocket of his trousers. “Yes; why do you ask?”
“Once I am finished with the bastards inside, we will need to burn them. Now wait here.”
“Are you sure you can do this alone?” Philip asked.
“I shall do what I must to keep this curse from spreading,” Tomas replied.
Philip looked on as his youngest son stepped into the building, leaving him shivering in the snow.
* * *
Valthian stopped just short of killing Alain. It would not have been hard; the man was large enough to defend himself in a barroom brawl, but he had no weapon in his hand. The sword Valthian held would have cut through him with ease. Time was wasting; it wouldn't be long before the blacksmith fell ill. Once that happened, well, it would be mere hours before he became one of those soulless devils. The young lord knew this, yet he lowered his weapon.
"So now you don't want to kill me? Why the sudden change of heart?"
Alain spoke bravely for a man who had almost lost his head. He deserved respect for that.
"How do you feel?" Valthian asked.
"How do I feel? Well, a boy I have known since he was a newborn babe just threatened me with death—"
"No," Valthian said. "Your health! Do you feel well?"
Alain paused, looking thoughtful.
"Do you feel sick?"
Alain looked down at his arm. "Now that you mention it, the wound is beginning to throb. Also, my head is aching something fierce."
"It's changing you," Valthian said. "The bite. I do not know how or why it happens, but anyone who is bitten by one of them changes."
Alain's eyes went wide. "Change? What sort of change?"
Valthian stepped closer. "The victim becomes like them—soulless and bloodthirsty."
"Are you sure of this? This is true without fail? Every man bitten meets the same fate?"
Valthian nodded grimly.
"What if I choose not to believe you? You have to understand why I wouldn't simply take your word for it."
"It matters not what you choose to believe," he replied. "The truth of it is that by nightfall, you will be one of the Vel'Haen, as father calls them. To make matters worse, your daughter depends on your good judgment. Please try to think of Elyna!"
"Of course," Alain whispered. "My darling Elyna. Suppose you are right about this, and by tonight I am one of those things. Who will look after her? You? The man who, as far as she knows, killed her father?"
Gods. Valthian hadn't thought about what he would do once he took the life of Elyna’s father. No one could forgive such an act; he couldn't even ask for such a thing!
"What do you suggest?"
The blacksmith shrugged. "I do not know. Could we wait until the sickness worsens? I do not think it is so far-fetched to make sure that I am doomed before—"
"It is risky, but I am willing to wait. I will allow no more than a few hours, and when it does begin to take hold of you—"
"Then I will end my own life," Alain interrupted. "You will not have to lift a finger."
; "How do you expect to do such a thing? No man can take his own head!"
"No, but I can throw myself from the ravine at Willow's Call. No man—living, dead or otherwise—could survive such a drop."
Just having this talk with a man he had respected deeply his whole life was unnerving, but it was a reflection of the times in which they now lived. He wasn't sure if the events that were unfolding in Solstice were represented throughout the world, but how could they not be? Why would the gods choose to pass judgment upon a village full of people who mostly minded their own business? Besides, other villages had already burned to the ground, and many of the people who lived in those places had also been innocent farmers, fisherman, and shepherds.
Valthian nodded. "I can accept that, if that is the death you wish to choose."
"It is," Alain said. "If the symptoms take hold. But what do we do about Elyna?"
"I intended to come to you and beg you to leave this place with her, but clearly that cannot happen now."
Valthian sighed and continued. "I will take her to my mother and escort the both of them out of this place. We will find somewhere safe to stay, until whatever has happened here passes. If you will allow it, I will keep her safe. Do you trust me?"
"I do," Alain said. "But we will have to convince her to leave me behind."
"Tell her that you will be along soon after. Do not let her know of your condition!"
"I would like to write a letter for her. Could I trust you to give it to her once she is safe and I am gone?"
Valthian smiled. It was a weak smile, but it was all he could manage. "Of course, my friend. I will see that she gets it, when the time is right, of course."
"Good. You have my thanks. Now we need to get back to the house and convince my daughter to go with you."
Alain stood there for a moment, and Valthian wondered what was going through his mind. There was no way that he could possibly understand how the man felt, but he would do whatever he could to ensure that his friend's last wishes were carried out. He would also do everything in his power to protect Elyna for the rest of their days upon Alvanshia.
* * *
When Tomas exited the school, Philip could see that his hands were shaking, but the boy’s expression was flat. He made his way quietly down the steps and stood before his father. His sword was sheathed, blood smeared around the hilt close to where his son had been gripping it.
The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) Page 11
