by Jodhan Ford
Charlotte’s Last Dance
A Rule of the Gods Story
Jodhan Ford
Copyright © 2017 Jodhan Ford
Cover design by story perfect editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this short story may be reproduced
in any form, in part or in whole, without
written permission of the Author.
DEDICATION
To my mentor and friend
Brett Cane
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, the Author would like to express admiration and thankfulness to Mr. Terry Brooks. If I had not read the Sword of Shannara, and continued reading his work, you would not be reading this right now.
The Author would also like to thank and acknowledge Mr. Shawn Speakman. When I asked him what the etiquette was for acknowledging other authors to express thankfulness for their inspiration, he informed me that he had “no clue”.
The Author also wishes to thank the following.
David Bowler
Adam Paige
Kathy Plester
Rick Moll
As well as the staff and friends at Story Perfect Editing
Charlotte’s Last Dance
Mud splashed up from slow-moving hooves and paws. Condensation and droplets of rain water ran in rivulets down the Inquisitor’s long coat, off the brim of his tricorne hat, and down his hard-soled riding boots. He reached up and pulled his collar tight to ward off the chill and wet. The horse snorted and shook its head while the dog kept pace, ignoring the inclement weather, eyes and ears attuned to the dark.
Roads and fields were mired; only the weeds and frogs seemed happy. The land was dying—as cursed as the people who walked it. In the distance, the vague outline of a derelict windmill stood atop a hill. Its sail fans hung in tatters and the roof sagged. Beyond the farm, the traveller spied the hulking towers of a city whose name was lost to time, and shrouded in fog. The clouds rolled preternaturally in slow, churning waves, but the storm had yet to break. At the foot of the windmill, he slid out of the saddle and shoved at the wooden door.
It didn’t budge.
With a sigh, he mustered a stoicism he did not feel, placed his shoulder to the door, and shoved. The door moved with a loud, fatigued groan. The war dog, Dis, knew its duty and entered first. With one hand before him to ward off cobwebs and the other leading Faen, his faithful mount, the Inquisitor moved out of the weather and into the cold but damp central room. Dim light from the receding sun cast indistinct rays into the mill, making deep pockets of gloom, dust-thick air, and greying blotches of webbing. The wood of the walls and ceiling moaned with age and wind. Large rats scurried across the high beams, disturbing dirt and debris.
Gathering dry lumber and small twigs, Germanus set these in the grinding basin and, with small motions, struck his flint. The sparks stirred old memories as he sank down, barely hauling a blanket in place before exhaustion smothered him.
She sat on the cobble landing, whistling softly to herself. A hummingbird danced on the petals of the lone flower she held aloft. The Inquisitor watched her before he approached, noting her childlike innocence.
“Hello, child,” his greeting caused the little bird to flutter away.
“Hullo,” she replied. “I’m Charlotte. You’re of the Church, aren’t you?” she said with a sad smile, watching the bird settled at a safe distance.
The Inquisitor smiled and bowed to the child. “Yes, I am. Is your mother or father about?”
“No,” she said, her mouth down turned. “They died.”
“They did? I’m so sorry to hear that. Who takes care of you now?” he asked. His eyes now saw her pallid skin. It was streaked with grey splotches.
“No one,” Charlotte said, then coughed and wiped away a crimson dribble on her sleeve.
“With no one to care for you, where do you sleep at night?”
“Sometimes behind the forge; it’s warm there. Or maybe the barn so there’s no wind. It gets cold at night.”
Germanus looked at her, his brow creased. He could see no reason why his superiors had singled this one out. She was bound for the grave, anyway. He sat down next to her. I sense nothing out of place. I see no evidence that she’s possessed.
“What are you going to do today, little one?” he asked.
“I was going to look for some flowers…the pretty blue ones.” She coughed again and smeared more blood on her sleeve. Standing, she danced with slow, dragging steps.
“You like to dance?”
“Yes. My daddy told me that the sun gives me little winks and kisses, if I dance for it. Would you dance with me?”
“Of course, child.” Germanus said as he stood.
He took the girl’s hand in his and helped her turn in a circle under his arm. After only a minute, Charlotte sat down again.
“Do you want to go and look for flowers now?”
“I’m a little tired, so I’ll look later.” She said, her head nodding.
“I know a good place,” Germanus informed her, “just yonder beyond that barn.”
She deserves a quick end, and a proper burial, not to be consigned to fire as my elders wish. I have always questioned their wisdom and discernment. Why am I abandoning it altogether, now?—he wondered.
Charlotte hummed and leaned her flower forward, hoping to entice the hummingbird that hovered anxiously out of reach of the Inquisitor.
“That seems far,” she said.
“I could carry you, if you like?”
“That would be nice,” Charlotte said, holding her hands out to him.
Dim moonlight cut through the warped planks of the walls, bringing Germanus to wakefulness. With a groan, he climbed to his feet. Germanus was a tall man, worn but steady. The Inquisitor’s steps stirred brief dust clouds as he traversed the room, making a brusque inspection of the interior.
Satisfied that he was alone, Inquisitor Germanus tethered his horse inside and lifted down the oblong bundle that was strapped to the horse’s back. He handled the bundle with care, but also with great reluctance, laying it partially out of sight behind the low siding of the woodpile.
He carefully moved the embers from last night's fire to his stack of twigs and blew. In a few moments, he had a small but growing flame, which he fed until he had a steady cooking fire.
Retrieving a small mallet and a handful of pitons, he made some clothing hooks near his fire. He removed his brace of Portuguese trovão pistols and his sword. The old pistols showed little wear. There were newer models of Portuguese pistols, but he had restored these pistols with the patient care of a worshipful lover. With the tools of a small cleaning kit, he wiped the road grime from the stocks and scrubbed out the barrels, leaving them within easy reach.
That done, he hung his hat, pulled off his coat, shirt, pants and socks. The old icon that hung from his neck shone as it caught some of the fire’s light, drawing his eyes down. Raising the wooden icon to his lips, he kissed it briefly. He used a wool cloth to rub down his clammy, scarred skin: flesh that had seen too many winters of war. The crisp air made his old wounds ache as he changed swiftly into dry clothing.
Placing a small cooking pot next to the flames, he cleaned and dressed one of the scrawny rabbits he had brought with him and tossed it in with some dried rosemary and bread crumbs. A silent, thankful prayer passed his lips; good hunting was scarce in these seasons. He stirred the meat, then cut and tossed in some withered potatoes and a coarse carrot. He walked outside and looked around until found an open topped barrel. He sniffed at the collected water and then took an experimental sip. Satisfied, he filled his water skin
with some rain water.
As the Inquisitor stirred the contents of the soup, he scratched idly at the white hairs of his grizzled cheek. He carried his forty years like a sack of rocks. The sound of the vertebra in his spine snapping and popping made him think of his aged grandsire, and envy the youth of his squire.
“Where are you, boy?!” he lamented. He felt the absence of his young squire on mornings such as this. He cast a glance at the door, hoping to see Dareus enter.
Satisfied with his simmering broth, he turned to his mount. The Inquisitor snugged a feed bag in place. The horse whickered expectantly as his master snugged the feed bag in place, and produced the curry brush. Germanus took his time; his old friend had carried this burden many nights. Each season, the mean weather had lengthened while the spring and summer faltered: evidence of the gods’ curse. His scarred hands ran over the horse’s dark hide and old wounds with a love and tenderness born from years of companionship.
After making a more concerted search of the mill, Germanus found an old but sturdy table and chair, which he placed near the fire facing the door. His inspection turned up little else of value except a shovel and pick. These items he placed near the bundle. He hoped the weather would abate by mid-morning to aid him in his task.
His meal complete, Germanus lit his father’s worn pipe and sat in studied contemplation, worrying his lips with his teeth like a horse worried at the bit. The Inquisitor thumbed his way through the holy words in his old, leather-bound book. Tonight, they were cold comfort. Putting the book away, he retrieved the carcass of the second rabbit and tossed it to the floor where his squire’s war dog pounced on it. Germanus placed his bedroll near the fire to warm. He stirred up the embers and added bits of lumber to ward off the chill. He shrugged on his long coat and pulled it tight against the frigid air as he stepped out into the rain to make his rounds. He spied a farmhouse and outbuildings an acre away. Buckling on his sword and brace of pistols, he smacked his thigh, calling the war dog to his side.
The heated glass of his lamp hissed angrily in the light drizzle, while the air was hazy through the carpet of fog and mist. Germanus made a circle around the windmill, indicating to the war hound what was expected of him, then walked to the farmhouse. His pace was slow and laborious; the rocky and uninviting paths that once led to the farmhouse had been washed away.
The farmhouse was a multigenerational home with additions of new lumber and mud sprawling where the ground permitted new construction. The building sprawled outward, not haphazardly, but built where the ground permitted new construction. Germanus could see decades of hard work as though this family had striven as hard to live in comfort as it had to make the land produce food and life.
The entrance was ajar. The low moan of the wind made the door sound like a mouth. . The Inquisitor stepped into the deep gloom and drew a pistol. From the door inward went a long hall, littered with detritus. A number of open doors led off into other parts of the house. About halfway into the building, there was a set of stairs leading up. Pale, flickering light from his lamp lent an eerie, death-like gloom.
The Inquisitor stood in the foyer a few moments, holding his breath as he listened intently. He heard the sound of shuffling—feral animals?
Taking cautious steps, the Inquisitor moved into the hall, toeing the first door open. He quickly took in the room—weather worn furniture, leaves and puddles of rainwater, and a closed walk-in closet. The Inquisitor sucked in stale air before expelling it forcefully through his nose. Readying his pistol, he walked the few metres to the closet and nudged it open with the tip of his sword. Nothing but musty air, old clothes, and boots.
Satisfied that the closet contained no threat, the Inquisitor stepped back into the hall and worked his way down to the next door, careful not to make noise on the clusters of litter. He looked in the next room and, finding nothing, moved further down the hall, listening carefully. There were definite sounds of movement ahead. The next two doors stood opposite each other—both were open. He looked first to the left door, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, took a quick look to the right.
In the middle of the room stood a ġūl. The tall man was covered in dying grey flesh and scruffy patches of matted hair. The remains of farmer’s clothing hung off the un-living corpse. The Inquisitor raised his pistol, sighted—and was struck from behind as he pulled the trigger. Arms and legs flailing, he fought his attacker, so hoping his shot found its mark.
Fear churned in his stomach as desperation ushered new strength into his hands. Broken, rotting teeth gnashed at the air centimetres in front of his face as putrid saliva fell in dollops onto his chest and cheek. The Inquisitor clamped his mouth shut, praying none of the necrotic spittle landed in his mouth or eyes.
Germanus saw the hunger in the creatures murky eyes; insatiable, unrelenting, it fought to find purchase, to get a hold with its hands and pull its victim close. The Inquisitor pushed off with his feet, knocking the undead thing aside momentarily as he turned himself around. He grabbed the first pointed item he saw and leapt up as the ġūl charged. The broken end of the broom drove up under the ġūl’s jaw, snapping its head back with a sickening crunch of soft tissue and bone, and toppled it to the floor.
The impetus of the collision sent Germanus sprawling, smacking his head on something solid. With lids half closed, he moaned at the pain. In his mind’s eye, he once again saw the little church shoes dancing, heard the small, sweet voice clear as a silver bell. His eyes popped open as he snapped back from his swoon. He sucked down a lungful of air, and his head began to clear.
Where was the other one?
There it lay, lifeless on the floor over by the window, the hole in its face oozing brown blood and grey brain matter.
The Inquisitor crossed himself, expelling pent up air, and wiped the spittle from his face. Sounds of feet from the second floor had him quickly retrieving his pistol and sword. He holstered the spent weapon, drew his second pistol, checked his powder and shot, and braced himself for the next wave. He didn’t have long to wait, only enough time to push a dilapidated couch into the centre of the room and put his back to the far wall, sheltering behind a standing bookshelf.
As the ġūls rushed into the room, seeing no prey, they paused. Edging from his position, the Inquisitor fired his shot, taking out the first of the abominations. The sound of the shot thundered in the small room, disorienting the other ġūls. They stared as one of their own collapsed to the floor. Their eyes then went from their dead companion up to where the Inquisitor stood—in one mad rush they charged. Four of them went down in a heap as the couch collapsed in on itself. The fifth leapt over its pack mates and was met with the swinging edge of a short sword; its head fell with an accompanying thud as its body landed next to it.
The Inquisitor tossed the spent pistol onto a chair, slid to his knees, and drew the icon from around his neck. The sound of his chanting voice struck the prone ġūls like a hammer, words of supplication pouring from his mouth in rapid succession. The ġūls flared into bright flames and in a moment were reduced to nothing more than ash.
Hands on his knees, catching his breath, Inquisitor Germanus looked over the carnage and shook his head, wondering when this job had become so difficult. Perhaps he was getting too old. Speaking softly as he touched his side, his hand glowed faintly with a blue luminosity. After a moment, the Inquisitor straightened and exhaled as the pain from his head and side dulled somewhat.
A search of the remaining rooms produced nothing of significance. He made his way up the stairs. Wind blew unobstructed through the upper floor; most of the back roof had collapsed or been blown away. In a side bedroom, he found the remains of two children huddled in a bed—emaciated and long dead.
He exited the farmhouse as flames sprang up and fire spread through its interior.
You can hardly get anything to burn in this foul weather—he thought. Germanus had taken his time to be sure the house would burn completely. As he stood watching the house being consume
d, he heard an animal braying nearby. He cautiously approached the source of the noise and entered a large storage shed. A goat stood in the upper rafters looking down at him wearily. The Inquisitor reached into his pocket and tossed up some of the remaining carrot to the goat in hopes of gaining its trust and coaxing it down.
Walking silently back to the mill, he neither looked back nor deviated from the path. The goat trailed in his wake.
The war dog sat just inside the door; he gave a plaintive whine, but kept his gaze watchful.
“Don’t worry Dis, your master Dareus will be here soon enough.”
Making his way inside, his step skipped a beat as he walked past the bundle. He stopped himself from going over. Instead, he purposely averted his eyes and continued past, hitching the goat next to his horse.
“Here, a new friend for you,” he told the mare.
Dis snorted, clearly less than enthusiastic at having a new addition, and resumed his guard post at the door.
Germanus bedded down with a hand on his pistol, but sleep would not come. Shortly after midday, the storm broke, delivering on its promise in a rush of wind and thunder. Lighting crashed, stabbing long shadows through the mill. Germanus rolled painfully to his feet and went to the mill door. Looking out into the deep night, he watched the rolling detritus stirred up by the tempest and rain. In the glare of lightning he saw the ruin of the farmhouse. He also could see the storehouses: old, broken and dilapidated.
He scanned the horizon; if there were soldiers, he couldn’t see them. He wasn’t overly concerned about them finding him yet. While he had pressed on, they would have bedded down days ago, forced to wait out the never-ending rain. He hoped his task would be done before they caught up to him.
As he was about to turn away, he saw a figure in the distance—a cloaked, hooded man, making his way like a wraith along the same winding path.
