The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle)

by Scroggins, David

  The screams of the dying were faint from inside the walls of the church, but he could still hear Solstice being destroyed, plank-by-plank, and stone-by-stone.

  Abytheos entered the meager worship hall and paused, removing from his pocket the ancient book that so often called upon him. It felt right in his hands, confirming to him that he had been meant to own it since its creation. Just feeling the simple leather cover against his fingers brought immeasurable joy.

  Opening the book to the page containing important instructions detailing how to proceed, he began to read. No one would have the power to keep him from cleansing the world of sin once the two artifacts he sought were in his possession. For now, he must concentrate on finding the key to discovering them.

  * * *

  “We haven’t much time,” Philip said. “So please listen to me very carefully. I want the two of you to escape. Find an opening where the soldiers are scarce and take it.”

  Valthian stepped closer. “What about you? I will not leave you behind.”

  Philip smiled warmly. “I plan to turn myself in. It should buy the two of you some time. If your mother is truly escaping as you say, then perhaps it will buy her a few more precious moments. Who knows, maybe they will have mercy on me; I haven’t done anything to provoke them.”

  Tomas laughed. “You don’t truly believe that, do you, father? No one else has done anything to provoke them either, and they’re destroying the village! If you surrender, they’ll gut you and put your head on a pike!”

  He was proud of both his children; the lads were smart and quite capable. They knew what would happen to him just as well as he did, and there was no way he could make them believe otherwise. But it was his choice to make, and he would choose to save his boys over himself without question.

  “We are all going to be killed either way. What would you have me do? I will not see the two of you meet the same fate as everyone else.”

  “Perhaps we could escape together,” Valthian said. Philip detected a small thread of hope in his tone. “We can ride from here together.”

  “No, my son. Someone has to try to put an end to this madness. Please do as I say before even more people are killed!”

  Tomas shook his head. “But—”

  “He is right,” Valthian said, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Perhaps he can save whatever is left of Solstice.”

  Tomas looked as though he might protest further, but Philip glared at him and the boy kept silent.

  “I make this promise to you,” Philip said. “I will do my best to find the one in charge of this attack. If he looks to be honorable, I will surrender. If for one moment I feel that my life is in danger, I will turn and run from this place just the same as you. Do you trust my words?”

  Both young men nodded and Philip was relieved. He wanted them away from the danger as quickly as possible. They were of no use to the village dead, and besides, it was his duty as a father to protect them. No man wanted to witness the murder of his children. It was every father’s dream for his young ones to outlive him.

  “Then go now, before time is no longer our friend—if it ever was. I want you to go in separate directions and meet up at Eastern Pass. Your mother should be on her way to Molhadius, and I want you to find her. If the leader of this pack is truly one of Randil’s men, I should be able to reason with him. There is a good chance that he is not aware that Solstice is under the protection of a lord of Vintermore. I do not hold the same influence as other lords, but our family is of noble blood just the same. It should be enough.”

  “He has a point, Tomas. We have to go before the situation worsens. I want you to go north. Remember the place in the forest where we used to play as children?”

  “I remember it well,” Tomas whispered.

  “Good. Wait there for me. I will head southeast. I know of many places that provide adequate coverage. Once I am out of the village, I will meet you in our old spot. Agreed?”

  “I suppose, Val.”

  Philip watched as his sons made their plans. He hugged them both and wished them a safe journey. Once they had ducked back into the alley, Philip picked up thick scrap of linen cloth from the table to use as his flag of surrender. The screams were getting closer to the baker’s shop, which meant that the soldiers were nearly upon him. He said a quick prayer, asking any of the gods that might be listening to protect his sons. Once he was sure the boys were far enough away from the baker’s shop, Philip stepped out unto the street, searching through the haze of battle for the leader of these dogs. He sincerely hoped that his death would be slow enough to buy some time for his family. Perhaps he could prolong it enough to help them escape from the cursed place that had once been their beloved home.

  Chapter 20

  VALTHIAN LET his brother believe that they would both escape, but the young lord had other plans. Tomas would hopefully find an easy enough route out of the village, but Valthian could not run away while his father perished. He was old enough to understand what the man intended. Of course, any father who was half the man Philip De’Fathi was would have done the same for his family.

  He believed a good son should be held to the same standards.

  The speed at which Philip was moving was surprising; at first, tracking the man had been difficult. It had only been a few minutes since they left the bakery, but the man was already on his way to certain death. For a moment, it seemed as though his father was lost in the fighting, but Valthian finally remembered his combat training. In many lands, the leader of an army would ride into battle at the front of his army. The custom was different in Vintermore. Here, the one in charge of the fighting would ride on the outskirts of the battle, encircled by his personal guard. Since it had appeared to him that the soldiers had come from every direction at once, he was sure that the leader of this throng of killers was positioned on the main road. After all, attacking villagers did not call for much in the way of strategy, which meant that the commander regarded what he was doing as a simple task; no more difficult than sweeping so much dust under a rug. Such a man would have no qualms waiting on the road leading into Solstice while his soldiers of death rained judgment upon the innocent.

  A footman noticed Valthian sneaking about, ducking from building to building and ran towards him, clutching a shield and one-handed axe.

  The soldier bared his teeth. “Time to die with the rest of the filth!”

  He drew his sword just in time to meet the swinging axe with a mighty clash that almost snatched the ground from beneath his feet. He grunted and shoved with all of the will he could muster and his attacker fell back a pace.

  “What filth?” Valthian asked, panting, as he defended himself against yet another blow from the axe.

  “You know good and well, boy! Your little town is plagued with the devils, just like the others!”

  “There were only a few!” Valthian shouted, swinging his sword to deflect more blows.

  This particular warrior was far stronger than the others; there was no time to have a battle of strength and wits with him. He had to get away from the bastard, and fast.

  “Don’t matter to me either way,” the soldier spat. “You’ll all be cursed eventually. We’re cleanin’ up the mess before it spreads—”

  Valthian did not wait for his attacker to finish speaking. He rolled with all the lithe of a gifted dancer and grabbed a large stone from its resting place on the ground. He jumped back a pace and threw the stone as hard as he could manage, hitting the warrior square in the nose. The axe dropped from his hand as he stumbled backwards and fell, and Valthian kicked it out of reach.

  “I am truly sorry for this,” he said, kneeling over his opponent, “but I do not have time to finish our chat. Perhaps in the next life.”

  With a single stroke, he ended the soldier’s life and started running again. The young lord’s intuition had been correct, but by the time he reached the main road, Philip De’Fathi was already standing in front of a well-armored horseman, surrou
nded in a half circle by archers and swordsmen.

  They were putting chains around his wrists and legs.

  “Damn!”

  The curse fell from Valthian’s lips more loudly than he intended; multiple pairs of hands seize him tightly, and his unseen captors shoved him hard towards the one who was obviously the commanding officer, given the manner in which he was dressed, the great horse upon which he rode, and the protective way in which his soldiers stood around him.

  “What have you brought to me this time?”

  The men holding onto Valthian released their grip and gave him another shove. He landed on his knees just in front of the massive stallion.

  “Do you like him? His name is Lightforger. Do you know what I enjoy the most about this particular stallion?”

  Valthian shook his head, choosing to remain silent.

  “I prefer a horse that only responds to my commands—a horse that would kill any other man who dared climb atop his back. Lightforger is one such horse. One of your villagers made the unfortunate mistake of coming too close to him. The man now lies dead, his back broken from being trampled upon.”

  The commander dismounted and approached.

  “Please don’t hurt my boy!”

  Philip struggled against his binds; Valthian wanted to run to his father, free him, and take him away from the fighting. But he had been moments too late. Now they were both at the mercy of the army.

  “Ah. Your son. I was going to ask his name. Well, this is an interesting turn of events. I get the Lord of the Damned as well as his offspring!”

  “Valthian!” Philip cried. “I told you to run! What were you thinking following me?”

  “I wanted to rescue you,” Valthian replied, his voice strained. “I didn’t want you to sacrifice yourself needlessly!”

  The commander smiled. “A noble decision, young Valthian. Noble, but incredibly stupid.”

  A soldier approached and handed over an ancient, bloodstained sword.

  “He had this on him, Master Balin.”

  “Thank you.”

  Valthian watched as the man he now knew as Balin inspected the weapon.

  “This is one of the finest blades I have seen. Was it passed down from your ancestors, by chance?”

  “It was,” he answered. “It belonged to my grandfather, his grandfather before him, and so on.”

  “I can see that it has been well cared for,” Balin said, still admiring the sword. “Family heirlooms are important. Unfortunately, it appears as though this heirloom has just been used to take lives—I have no doubt that the blood belonged to my men, yes?”

  “I did what I had to do to protect my family,” Valthian said. “And to save my people from your barbarism!”

  “As a man of honor, I can understand your position. But I am also currently a man of war, and it is because of that I must see things from a unique perspective.”

  Valthian felt his throat tightening. He could not make out many of Balin’s features through his headpiece, but he could see the man’s eyes. There was coldness in them. This was a calm, calculating, determined leader who would not lose sleep over doing whatever job he was entrusted with.

  “Are you going to kill us?” Valthian asked.

  Balin shook his head slowly. “Your father has committed no crime. In fact, he was a good enough man to surrender to us without fighting back. Being of noble blood also helps to some degree. He will be taken to the king for questioning. What happens to him after that is of no concern to me.”

  “What about me?”

  Balin sighed and motioned to one of his men. “Have this boy’s father taken to the camp. Make sure to guard him well.”

  The soldier nodded and grabbed Philip’s chains. Several members of the guard followed close behind as the lord was led from the circle. Philip tried to fight them, but his efforts were in vain.

  Balin redirected his icy gaze back to where Valthian knelt. “You have committed the crime of murder. Your king’s soldiers have perished by a sword emblazoned with your family’s crest. While your father will survive, for the time being, you are to be sentenced to die. I will carry out your punishment here in the place you call home, in the name of King Randil, High Lord and Holy King of Vintermore. Do you have any final words, child?”

  Valthian felt a shock coarse through his insides. He had never committed an act of violence in his entire life. The young man had only lifted his sword as a threat to another in defense of Solstice. Why had the king condemned him, and every other person living in the small farming village, to death without so much as a fair trial? The Vel’Haen had walked here—that much was true—but not everyone was damned to be like them—where they? Surely something could have been done to prevent further bloodshed.

  “What you have done here is worse than anything that has been recorded in the legends,” Valthian shouted, surprised at the clarity and power of his voice under such circumstances. “You have caused more bloodshed in a single week than what was caused by that which you seek to eradicate! I am sure that I speak for many when I say that I hope your god judges you for this! I hope that on your day of judgment, you realize the wrongs that could have been avoided here, and you repent. When you repent, I pray that your god denies you forgiveness!”

  Balin appeared thoughtful while the young lord spoke. He gripped the sword bearing the De’Fathi crest and stepped closer.

  “Stand, child.”

  Valthian stood and stared defiantly into Balin’s eyes.

  “You have said your final words, damning as they were, but you said what was in your heart and I respect that. Many cower and shit themselves when they discover that they are about to die. You stand before your executioner, resolute. I might have liked to call one such as you a comrade in another life. Although you damned me before Gehash just moments ago, I will pray that your soul finds peace in the realm of spirits.”

  Valthian tensed the muscles in his chest and stomach in anticipation. Balin removed his headpiece, revealing flowing, crimson hair and a well-groomed, thick growth of beard on his face to match.

  “A man should be allowed to see the face of he who passes judgment upon him.”

  The commander passed the sword through the heart of its owner, never blinking or looking away. He pulled the sword free and Valthian gasped. The pain was searing, his breath caught in his throat. He fought against the spasms wracking his body and stared back at Balin, even as he fell to the cold ground. His vision dimmed, but he struggled against the darkness that threatened to tear him away from the world. Valthian was now lying on his back, staring up at his killer as the man wiped blood from the sword and tossed it into the snow.

  “You’re a brave one,” Balin said. “I’ll have them burn you with your family’s sword.”

  He turned and walked away as though he had just greeted a merchant or given a few pieces of silver to a family without a home. Valthian coughed, and then a feeling of warmth came over him. He was sitting by the fire, warming his bones, eating stew that had just been prepared for supper. Alain, Elyna, and everyone he had ever loved huddled close, singing old songs and laughing together.

  The warmth was replaced by numbness, and the visions of his family, a good stew, and laughter were replaced by nothingness. He floated in a never-ending void until he was the void.

  And then there was nothing.

  * * *

  Balin of Dor snapped the reigns lightly, causing Lightforger to gallop faster. He uttered the prayer that had been promised to young Valthian, and left it at that. Killing the boy had not been pleasurable, but then again, killing had never been an act that he relished.

  Sometimes we all have to do things that we do not enjoy.

  He rode through the ruins of the village twice, making sure each building had been burned; and to his satisfaction, only the church remained. It was a promise he had made to the reverend, and Balin always kept his word. The captain made his way to the camp and found Johak—his assistant.

  “Do you h
ave anything additional to report?”

  The old man nodded. “Not much worth noting. Some of the children were spared; we have them tied up and ready to be inspected once we return to Vinter’s Edge. We did find one strange thing in particular.”

  “Oh?” Balin asked. “And what is that?”

  “A few of the soldiers made rounds just outside of the village after the—erm—struggle was over. Turns out there’s a ravine not too far from here.”

  Balin chuckled. “What is so strange about a ravine?”

  Johak cleared his throat. “Well sir, it’s not the ravine that’s strange. They found a man at the foot of the damned thing. Maybe man isn’t the best way to describe what they found. He was sick; they said he was puking blood when they approached him.”

  Balin scratched his bearded chin. “It sounds to me as though he was about to become one of them.”

  “That’s the thing, my lord. He still had his wits about him; he was mumbling something about his daughter between pukes. Hans, one of our younger men, approached him, and the bastard flew into a rage!”

  “Did Hans, or anyone else for that matter, get bitten?”

  “Only Hans did,” Johak said. “The others killed and burned the sick one, and then they did the same to Hans.”

  “That is quite troubling,” Balin said. “But it was necessary. Find out if Hans has any living family. If so, see that they are paid his due wages and inform them that he fought and died bravely in the name of his king.”

  “Right away,” Johak replied.

  Balin watched his assistant leave to carry out his orders, wondering what other dangers were waiting for them in the dark.

  Whatever happened, Gehash would light the tunnel for him.

  Epilogue