by Miles Owens
Have I overstayed my time here at Kepploch? I am not ready for this. I need more time.
We were in the middle of the wheat field that surrounded the hill shrine when I begin to have chills and a strong sense of nausea. I called a halt and told my men to form a circle and prepare for an attack.
Even horses cannot outrun winged horrors. You must stand and defeat them, or they will fly you down.
As we waited, I rejoiced that our cleansing earlier in the day and our prayers must have put a holy fear in the pagans. Why else would they strive to keep us from their sacred hill? But that joy was short-lived. A flock of the creatures came winging out of the night sky. They were smaller than those of the first attack, but they came at us in a killing rage.
Again, I found myself seeing with different eyes. I held a triple-strand rope, and I knew with certainty it could not be broken. I grasped the reins of the horrors and followed them until I came to the demon. I could feel the strengthening of our prayer warriors flowing into me.
“You will not have these people!” I screamed at the demon. “The Eternal rules here, and you will bow the knee!”
It turned to flee, but I was upon it and bound it. Immediately the reins running to the horrors disappeared, and I found myself back in the bloodied wheat field.
The creatures were even smaller now and had lost their ability to fly. Our long-bladed sickles, pitchforks, and sharpened hoes penetrated their flesh. One man was killed, ripped open by a claw. But soon the horrors not killed ran away, wounded and bleeding.
We rejoiced in our triumph over the Mighty Ones’ creatures, but the battle was not over. The high priestess and her followers fell upon us. The high priestess stood at the edge of the fighting. Her face was not so terrible, and her presence did not seem so imposing. She took her knife and cut herself again and again. Holding her bleeding arms high, she whirled in the moonlight, chanting and urging her fighters to a greater frenzy.
Though the power of the Eternal filled us and we sensed his desire that these pagans be redeemed, they gave us no choice. Both sides knew what was at stake.
My people did not waver. Under the covering of their wives’ and daughters’ prayers, the men fought for their families. They fought for a future where their children could walk in the Eternal’s light. They fought not to live huddled in darkness, fearing every sound of the night. They fought those linked to that brooding evil, and no quarter was asked or given.
When it was over, the surviving pagans had fled in disarray and we had reclaimed the night.
Most who had bowed the knee to the Lady of the East repented. They returned to the one true God and have remained faithful. To this day, Talladin and surrounding areas are free of winged horrors of the night.
The greatest joy I have ever known was being faithful to the Eternal’s call to carry his light into the face of that darkness.
The narration ended, and Keeper Devitt’s words took over.
These are the true and faithful words of Keeper Alock, spoken in his final days. In truth, I despaired of finishing this account before his death. But he rallied to complete his chronicle.
After his final words Alock closed his eyes and breathed his last. The events following his death bear relevance to his chronicle, so I take the liberty of extending the account.
It was only when the old woman who cared for him began to lovingly stroke his stilled face, silent tears running down her cheeks, that I realized Alock had gone to the Eternal.
Finally, she leaned forward and gently kissed the old man’s forehead before pulling the quilt over his face. For the first time, I noticed the mass of scars running the length of her arms and realized who she was—or rather who she had been twenty years ago.
Each night since the funeral and the huge crowd of mourners, I have talked to Tia, the name the old woman took after she sought out Alock weeks after the above events. He cast out the demon indwelling her and brought her into the Eternal’s family.
Her story is beyond belief. Many times I find the short hairs rising on the back of my neck while she stares into the fire and calmly talks about her days as high priestess of the Lady of the East.
I respectfully submit Alock’s account, which I call Night Watch. When time allows, Tia’s story will follow. At this point, we have only scratched the surface, and my duties to the people of Talladin are taking more and more of my time.
Branor remained seated at the table for a long time, immersed in the faith and raw courage of Keeper Alock and his fellow peasants. Branor wondered, as had many before him, what became of Tia’s story. No trace of it had ever been found.
Finally, he returned the parchments to the leather folder and placed the folder on the librarian’s desk. Returning through the colorful inner courtyard, Branor stopped at Destin’s statue. The late morning sun was pleasant on his face. The air was thick with the scent of flowers. Bees buzzed and butterflies flitted from bloom to bloom. It was hard to believe that great evil lurked over the horizon.
Branor’s eye was drawn to the names chiseled in the granite base, especially the five newest ones. He knew them all so well. He swallowed, remembering that stomach-turning foulness indwelling Maolmin.
The sun had moved across the sky before Branor left the courtyard and returned to his room. He crawled into his bed and was asleep within moments.
It was dusk when he startled awake, fuzzy and disorientated from the lengthy slumber. He made use of the chamber pot, then washed his face. He went to the window and looked toward the Fea Mountains.
A strong sense of foreboding swept over him. He said another prayer of protection for Rhiannon—and his breath caught. His stomach churned with nausea, and he felt beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. The oppressive sensation grew.
Dear Eternal, what am I to do? I am not ready for this! Help me!
Suddenly the presence of the Eternal filled the room, and the foreboding fled. Branor found it impossible to stand. He slid facedown onto the wooden floor. It seemed as if warm oil poured over him. Peace and acceptance and love flowed as the powerful manifestation continued. For an unknown time he wept unashamedly, immersed in indescribable joy.
Finally, from the recesses of his spirit, he heard these words:
Pray. Pray. Fight the good fight of faith. The Mighty Ones plot to end the Covenant. What warriors will stand in the gap and fight this fight of faith? Whom shall I send with my sword and my armor to battle the evil that covets the Land?
Prostrate on the floor, his bones afire with the power of the Eternal, Branor’s answer surged from the depths of his soul:
I am a Keeper. I will respond.
Though the particulars were unknown to him, he knew a battle was joined at that moment. On a spiritual plane he suddenly came to grips with them, determined to protect Rhiannon. But somehow he sensed she was safe. Puzzled, he continued to battle but felt a hindrance like gooey mud that weakened his attack.
The need grew rapidly. Desperately, he rallied and threw himself back into the fray with renewed vigor—and encountered the same hindrance. He kept at it, but despair mounted as he realized it was not going to be enough.
Then another presence joined the battle.
The effect was immediate. The two spirit warriors knew of one another somehow, and together they mounted a decidedly stronger assault. Hand in hand, they slogged through the mire and hammered at the enemy until they opened a crack in its shield.
Chapter Twenty-four
SEROUS
THE SHEEP WERE finally bedded down.
The sun had slid behind the peaks long before, marching shadows across the high meadow until time gave way to what Serous stoutly maintained was the best time of the day: dusk.
Breathing deeply, Serous let go the demands of the long day and savored the moment as he looked down the slope at the bowl-like meadow where the sheep’s dirty white wool blended into the gray light. Dawn had its beauty, truth said, but not like this. Dawn never gave the barest of tingles like he felt now in the vel
vet air. The old herdsman drew in another slow breath. There it was again: a softness as day faded gently into night.
His tired eyes roamed up and down the meadow, lingering on the small pond in the middle. A beautiful scene.
Good grazing here for another day. Then we’ll split the herd into three groups and move to the smaller pastures higher up.
Ripples of movement appeared among the flock. The animals milled about in a growing wave of unease.
Must be a wolf slinking around, hoping to find a stray lamb run off from the protection of the herd.
“Rahl, that fire started?” Serous asked, eyes still on the herd. The sheep settled down somewhat, but there was still too much movement.
Rahl was on his hands and knees, striking flint and steel above a ball of dried grass. He blew gently to coax along the tiny flame. After putting a few twigs across the burning grass, he stood and brushed off his pants.
“It’s going. I’ll have your tea brewing soon.”
“Later on the tea. First, take a walk about the herd. Stay fifty paces from them. My joints are a-telling me to look sharp for wolves.”
That was not true, the joints part anyway. For years everyone had sworn by what the various twinges of Serous’s swollen joints could foretell. He used that fact shamelessly as axle grease for his orders, as he did now to make Rahl’s scouting among uneven terrain in fading light a bit easier to accept. If Serous’s joints truly warned him, he would send one or both of the older, more experienced men.
After a moment’s thought he added, “Take Master Phelan with you.”
“I’ll bring the bow.” Phelan rummaged among the gear. “If we see a wolf, I’ll shoot it and we can skin it—”
“Easy now, master archer. And how will you be a-seeing anything in this light? You’d trip and stick an arrowhead through yourself most likely. Then Lord Tellan be taking a skinning knife to my hide, and fittingly so.” Serous put a gnarled hand on the noble lad’s shoulder. “Go with Rahl. He’ll show you how to look.”
Serous smothered a grin at the resignation flitting across Rahl’s face.
The two lads picked up their staffs and strode down the rocky path to the herd below. Phelan’s piping voice faded slowly into the growing dark as they hurried on.
The youngest Rogoth had a hardier soul than his size and frailness would indicate. His nonstop questions had irritated Serous to no end the first day until it dawned on him that they showed an insight and desire to learn.
Serous stooped down painfully and added more twigs to the fire while the other two herders pulled provisions from their bags.
“Talk the hills flat, can Master Phelan,” Mil chuckled. He was Rahl’s uncle and had a thick black beard shot with gray. Taking out a long-stemmed pipe and a twist of tabac from a pocket in his tattered leather vest, he filled the bowl, tamped it down, then took a burning twig from the fire and got the pipe going. Blowing out a blue plume of smoke, he removed a knife from a ram’s horn sheath that hung from a belt around his waist and began to peel a potato. “But, truth said, rather Master Phelan than his brother. When it comes to Master Creag, what I say is: pray the Eternal grants Lord Tellan a long life.”
Adwr grunted in agreement. He lifted a bucket with a frayed rope handle and poured water into a soot-blackened pot. Bald except for a fringe of white hair, Adwr was an outstanding cook and took great pride in that fact, which was the reason Serous always included the man with his herd for the summer, ignoring the grumbling of the other groups of herders. After all, being head herder had more than its share of headaches; having the best cook was only proper.
They camped on a shelf of land that jutted above the meadow to the height of four men. It afforded a good view of the herd below. The stars were out. The easily recognizable constellation Shepherd’s Crook dominated the northern sky. The Crook’s tip contained Mother’s Eye, the brightest star in the night sky. As long as a man kept it directly ahead, he headed due north.
Last week, Serous’s group and the other one, overseen by Bowyn Garbhach, the head of the largest family group, grazed through a series of narrow low meadows encircling the Fea Mountains, smaller brothers to the towering Ardnamur range to the west. Tomorrow, the two herds would move into the Fea themselves and break into even smaller herds; this was necessitated by the decreasing size of suitable pasturelands.
This season away from wives and mothers was a time when boys became men as they shared the rigors, loneliness, and occasional mercies of shepherding. A time when fathers, uncles, and other men passed along the accumulated wisdom of being clansmen, of raising sheep, of honor, of all it meant to be Dinari.
The fire blazed nicely now. Adwr removed three small pouches of spices from a larger bag and sprinkled a portion of each into the pot. He sniffed the water, then added a pinch more from one. With the fresh supplies delivered yesterday, he was preparing everyone’s favorite, potach stew.
The other two herders with Serous’s group had left some time ago to invite Bowyn and his herders to make the short walk over and eat. All would be arriving within a turn of the glass. The stew would take longer to be ready, but the wait would give everyone time to visit.
“Last summer I took Creag with me one night to walk about the herd,” Adwr said, retying the pouches and putting them away. Pulling at the hairs on an earlobe, he snorted. “That boy thrashed about, stumbling and tripping over his feet the whole time. Made more noise than a herd of wild boars. Next morning he had scrapes all over from the falling. From then on we kept Master Stumble-foot by the fire after dark. Thank the Eternal it was several days before Lord Tellan come riding up. By then the lad had healed.”
Serous added more branches to the fire, then took a flat stone and pounded two metal rods into the ground on either side of the flames. Each rod had a hook for a crossbar to hang the pots.
Mil sliced the peeled potatoes into the spiced water while Adwr took a knife and a flat board and chopped a handful of wild onions and a clove of garlic. He scraped that mixture into a pot of salted beef that had soaked most of the afternoon. Serous’s stomach rumbled.
“When we fitted the rafters for the hlaford,” Mil said as he reached for another potato, “instead of waiting for the carpenter to mark the angle for the notches, Master Creag declares he can do it. Says he had watched during the last cottage raising. So he takes the compass and awl and proceeds to . . . ”
Serous listened with half an ear, thinking his boy Rahl was going to need a cottage raising of his own come the fall.
Bowyn Garbhach’s daughter, Vanora, had dogged Rahl’s footsteps around the hlaford during the send-off to the summer pastures, then walked by his side down the trail until it was time for everyone but the herders to turn back. The lass’s mahogany-colored hair had been loose and unbound as a maiden not ready for betrothal should be.
Yesterday, Vanora—her hair and forehead encircled with a requin—came with the wives and older children on the daylong trek to bring supplies to the herders. She went straight to Rahl and presented him a bag bulging with fresh baked goods.
A statement, that.
Serous sighed. The woman had decided, and Rahl had about as much chance as a plucked goose ready for basting. Not that the lad cared. In a year or two, he might, but not now. When he had taken the bag from Vanora, the two had stared a hole in each other.
Good as done. He wondered if Bowyn would say something to Rahl tonight after they ate. Bowyn knew Rahl was solid. Serous pounded down the second rod and snorted wryly to himself. If Bowyn didn’t bring it up, he could rest assured one of his men would. Too good an opportunity to rib the lad to pass up.
Serous attached the hanging bar between the two rods and grunted, remembering fondly those nights beneath the layers of quilts as he and his late wife learned of each other. He sighed. Things had changed after the little ones had started coming.
“Three rafters ruined,” Mil said, scratching his chin through his beard. “When Lord Tellan saw it, he—”
A
s one, the three ceased their talk and looked toward the meadow, instincts alert, though it was too dark to see the flock. The sheep were uneasy again, their bleating not panic-stricken but carrying a decided edge.
Serous stepped away from the crackling of the fire. Turning his good ear toward the meadow, he opened his mouth slightly to aid hearing; every fiber concentrated on sensing his surroundings.
At first, it was more felt than heard, faint, but growing stronger. Rhythmic. A steady beat that reminded him of the night—
His blood froze. Wings! Big ones! An icy barb twisted his guts. Not again. Not with young Phelan out there!
Serous reached for his staff. “Adwr, light a torch! Mil, string that bow and bring the quiver.” Not waiting, he lumbered down the slope as quickly as sore knees allowed, dry-mouthed, heart thudding.
Halfway down the path his boot caught a protruding rock and he tumbled, staff spinning away. The impact with the ground jarred the breath from his lungs in an explosive oof! Stars flashed before his eyes as he skittered and rolled downhill. Finally, he came to a dazed halt at the bottom of the slope.
Raw pain sliced every joint; blackness threatened to overwhelm him. Biting back a whimper, he fought the agony and came to hands and knees, mind curdling at the specter of having to stand before Lord Tellan with the news that Phelan—
Strong hands grasped him under the arms and lifted him to his feet. “Here you go,” Mil said. He wore the strung bow across one shoulder, the quiver around his waist. He maintained his grip as Serous wavered back and forth. “Sit you down now. Adwr and I’ll see to the sheep.”
“I’m fine.” Serous jerked his arm loose. But the ground tilted, and he stumbled. Mil reached out to steady him again. “I’m fine, I said!” Serous hissed testily even as every joint screamed in protest and the night sky spun. “Listen. What do you hear?”
The urgency in his voice hit home. Mil and Adwr paused, eyes unfocused as they concentrated. The burning torch Adwr held sputtered and threw a wavering circle of light around the three of them. The sheep’s bleating was an ever-increasing chorus echoing back and forth across the dark reaches of the bowl-shaped meadow.
