Avempartha

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “It wasn’t me that killed them,” he yelled. “It was her! She left the light on. She left the door open.”

  “No, Theron,” Hadrian took the sword from the farmer’s limp hands, “Thrace didn’t kill your family and neither did you—the beast did.” He slipped his sword back in its sheath. “You can’t blame her for leaving a door open. She didn’t know what was coming. None of you did. Had you known, you would have been there. Had your family known, they would have put out the light. The sooner you stop blaming innocent people and start trying to fix the problem the better off everyone will be.

  “Theron, that weapon of yours may be mighty sharp, but what good is a sharp weapon when you can’t hit anything, or worse, hit the wrong target. You don’t win battles with hate. Anger and hate can make you brave, make you strong, but they also make you stupid. You end up tripping over your own two feet.” The fighter stared down at the old man. “I think that’s enough for today’s lesson.”

  ———

  Royce and Esrahaddon returned less than an hour before sunset and found a parade of animals driving up the road. It looked like every animal in the village was on the move and most of the people were out along the edges with sticks and bells, pots and spoons banging away, herding the animals up the hill toward the manor house. Sheep and cows followed each other fine enough, but the pigs were a problem and Royce spotted Pearl with her stick, masterfully bringing up the rear.

  Rose McDern, the smithy’s wife, was the first to spot them and suddenly Royce heard the words, “He’s back!” excitedly repeated amongst the villagers.

  “What’s going on?” Royce asked Pearl, purposely avoiding the adults.

  “Mov’n the critters to the castle. We all stay’n there tonight they says.”

  “Do you know where Hadrian is?” You remember, the man I arrived with? Thrace was riding with him?”

  “The castle,” Pearl told him and narrowed her eyes at the thief. “You really catch a pig in the dark?”

  Royce looked at her, puzzled. Just then, a pig darted up the road and the girl was off after it, waving her long switch in the air.

  The castle of the lord of Westbank was a typical motte and bailey fortress with the great manor house built on a steep man-made hill, surrounded by a wall of sharp tipped wooden logs that enclosed the outbuildings. A heavy gate barred the entrance. A half-hearted attempt at a moat ringed it, but amounted to nothing more than a shallow ditch. Cut trees left about forty yards of sharpened stumps in all directions.

  A group of men worked at the tree line cutting pines. Royce was still a bit vague on names but he recognized Vince Griffin and Russell Bothwick working a dual handled saw. Tad Bothwick along with a few other boys raced around, trimming branches with axes and hatches. Three girls tied the branches into bundles and stacked them on a wagon. Dillon McDern and his sons used his oxen to haul the logs up the hill to the castle where more men labored to cut and split the wood.

  He found Hadrian splitting logs near the stockade gate. He was naked to the waist except for the small silver medallion that dangled from his neck as he bent forward to place another wedge. He had a solid sweat worked up along with a sizeable pile of wood.

  “Been meddling, have you?” Royce asked, looking around at the hive of activity.

  “You must admit they didn’t have much in the way of a defense plan,” the fighter said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  Royce smiled at him, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “And you? Did you find the doorknob?”

  Hadrian picked up a jug and quickly downed several swallows, drinking so quickly some of the water dripped down his chin. He poured some in his palm and rinsed his face, running his fingers through his hair.

  “I didn’t even get close enough to see a door.”

  “Well, look on the bright side,” Hadrian smiled, “at least you weren’t captured and condemned to death this time.”

  “That’s the bright side?”

  “What can I say? I’m a glass half-full kinda guy.”

  “There he is,” Russell Bothwick shouted, pointing, “that’s Royce over there.”

  “What’s going on?” Royce asked as throngs of people suddenly moved toward him from the field and the castle interior.

  “I mentioned that you saw the thing and now they want to know what it looks like,” Hadrian explained. “What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass half-empty kinda guy.”

  “Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled, “was there ever any drink in that glass?”

  Royce was still scowling at Hadrian when the villagers crowded around them. The women wore kerchiefs over their hair, dark and damp where they crossed their foreheads, their sleeves rolled up, faces smudged with dirt. Most of the men, like Hadrian, were topless, wood shavings and pine needles sticking to their skin.

  “Did you see it?” Dillon asked. “Did you really get a look at it?”

  “Yes,” Royce replied and several people murmured.

  “What did it look like?” Deacon Tomas asked. The priest stood out from the crowd looking fresh, clean, and rested.

  “Did it have wings?” Russell asked.

  “Did it have claws?” Tad asked.

  “How big was it?” Vince Griffin asked.

  “Let the man answer!” Dillon thundered and the rest quieted.

  “It does have wings and claws. I saw it only briefly because it was flying above the trees. I caught sight of it through a small opening in the leaves, but what I saw was long, like a snake, or lizard, with wings and two legs that—that were still clutching Mae Drundel.”

  “A lizard with wings?” Dillon repeated.

  “A dragon.” A woman declared. “That’s what it is. It’s a dragon!”

  “That’s right,” Russell said. “That’s what a winged lizard is.”

  “There’s suppose to be a weak spot in their armor near the armpit, or whatever a dragon has for an armpit,” a woman with a particularly dirty nose explained. “I heard an archer once killed a dragon in mid-flight by hitting him there.”

  “I heard you weaken a dragon by stealing its treasure horde,” a bald-headed man told them all. “There was a tale where this prince was trapped in the lair of a dragon and he threw all the treasure into the sea and it weakened the beast so much the prince was able to kill him by stabbing him in the eye.”

  “I heard that dragons were immortal and couldn’t be killed,” Rose McDern said.

  “It’s not a dragon,” Esrahaddon said with a tone of disgust. He stepped out from the crowd and they turned to face him.

  “Why do you say that?” Vince Griffin asked.

  “Because it isn’t,” he replied confidently. “If it was a dragon whose wrath you had incurred, this village would have been wiped from the face of Elan months ago. Dragons are very intelligent beings, far more than you or even I and more powerful than we can begin to comprehend. No, Mrs. Brockton, no archer ever killed a dragon by shooting him in a soft spot with an arrow. And no, Mr. Goodman stealing a dragon’s treasure doesn’t weaken it. In fact, dragons don’t have treasures. What exactly would a dragon do with gold or gems? Do you think there is a dragon store somewhere? Dragons don’t believe in possessions, unless you count memories, strength, and honor as possessions.”

  “But that’s what he said he saw,” Vince countered.

  The wizard sighed. “He said he saw a snake or lizard with long dark wings and two legs. That should have been your first clue.” The wizard turned to Pearl who had finished driving the last of the pigs into the courtyard of the castle and had run back out to join the crowd. “Tell me, Pearl, how many legs does a dragon have?”

  “Four,” the child said without thinking.

  “Exactly, this is not a dragon.”

  “Then what is it?” Russell asked.

  “A Gilarabrywn,” Esrahaddon replied casually.

  “A—a what?”

>   “Gil…lar…ah…brin,” the wizard pronounced slowly, mouthing the syllables carefully. “Gilarabrywn, a magical creature.”

  “What does that mean? Does it cast spells like a witch?”

  “No, it means it’s unnatural. It wasn’t born—it was created, conjured if you will.”

  “That’s just crazy,” Russell said. “How gullible do you think we are? This thingamabob—whatever you called it—killed dozens of people. It ain’t no made up thing.”

  “No, wait,” Deacon Tomas intervened, waving to them from deep in the sea of villagers. They backed away to reveal the cleric standing with his hand still up in the air, his eyes thoughtful. “There was a beast known as the Gilarabrywn. I learned about it in seminary. In the Great Elven Wars they were tools of the Erivan Empire, beasts of war, terrible things that devastated the landscape and slaughtered thousands. There are accounts of them laying waste to cities and whole armies. No weapon could harm them.”

  “You know your history well, deacon,” Esrahaddon complimented. “The Gilarabrywn were devastating instruments of war—intelligent, powerful, silent killers from the sky.”

  “How could such a thing still be alive after so long?” Russell asked.

  “They aren’t natural. They can’t die a normal death because they really aren’t alive as we understand living to be.”

  “I think we’re going to need more wood,” Hadrian muttered.

  As the sun set, the farmers provisioned the castle for the night. The children and women gathered beneath the great beams of the manor house while the men worked to the last light of day building the woodpiles. Hadrian had organized effective teams for cutting, dragging, and tying the stacks such that by nightfall they had six great piles surrounding the walls and one in the center of the yard itself. They doused the piles in oil and animal fat to make the lighting faster. It was going to be a long night and they did not want the fires to burn out, nor would it do to have them lit too late.

  “Hadrian!” Thrace yelled as she ran frantically through the courtyard.

  “Thrace,” Hadrian said, working to the last minute on the courtyard woodpile. “It’s dark. You should be in the house.”

  “My father’s not here,” she cried. “I’ve looked everywhere around the castle. No one saw him come in. He must still be at home. He’s out there alone, and if he’s the only one alone tonight—”

  “Royce!” Hadrian shouted, but it was unnecessary as Royce was already leading their saddled horses out of the stable.

  “She found me first,” the thief said, handing him Millie’s reins.

  “That damn fool,” Hadrian said grabbing his shirt and weapons and pulling himself up on the horse. “I told him about coming to the castle.”

  “So did I,” she said, her face a mask of fear.

  “Don’t worry Thrace. We’ll bring him back safe.”

  They spurred the animals and rode out the gate at a gallop.

  ———

  Theron sat in the ruins of his house on a wooden chair. A small fire burned in a shallow pit just outside the doorway. The sky was finally dark and he could see stars. He listened to the night music of the crickets and frogs. A distant owl began its hunt. The fire snapped and popped and beneath it all, the distant roaring of the falls. Mosquitoes entered the undefended house. They swarmed, landed, and bit. The old man let them. He sat as he had every night, staring silently at memories.

  His eyes settled on the cradle. Theron remembered building the little rocker for his first son. He and Addie decided to name their firstborn Hickory—a good, strong, durable wood. Theron had hunted the forest for the perfect hickory tree and found it one day on a hill, bathed in sunlight as if the gods had marked it. Each night Theron had carefully crafted the cradle and finished the wood so it would last. All five of his children had slept in it. Hickory died there before his first birthday from a sickness for which there was no name. All of his sons died young, except for Thad, who had grown to be a fine man. He had married a sweet girl named Emma and when she had given birth to his grandson, they had named him Hickory. Theron remembered thinking how it seemed as if the world was finally trying to make up for the hardships in his life, that somehow the unwarranted punishment of his firstborn’s premature death was healed through the life of his first grandson. But it was all gone now. All he had left was the blood-sprayed bed of five dead children.

  Behind the cradle lay one of Addie’s two dresses. It was a terrible, ugly thing, stained and torn, but to his watering eyes it looked beautiful. She had been a good wife. For more than thirty years she had followed him from one dismal town to the next as he had tried to find a place he could call his own. They had never had much, and many times, they had gone hungry, and on more than one occasion nearly froze to death. In all that time, he had never heard her complain. She had mended his clothes and his broken bones, made his meals and looked after him when he was sick. She had always been too thin, giving the biggest portions of each meal to him and their children. Her clothes had been the worst in the family. She never found time to mend them. She had been a good wife and Theron could not remember ever having said he loved her. It had never seemed important before. The beast had taken her too, plucked her from the path between the village and the farm. Thad’s Emma had filled the void, making it easy to move on. He had avoided thinking about her by staying focused on the goal, but now the goal was dead, and his house had caved in.

  What must it have been like for them when the beast came? Were they alive when it took them? Did they suffer? The thoughts tormented the farmer as the sounds of the crickets died.

  He stood up his scythe in his hands, preparing to meet the darkness, when he heard the reason for the interruption of the night noises. Horses thundered up the trail and the two men Thrace hired entered the light of the campfire in a rush.

  ———

  “Theron!” Hadrian shouted as he and Royce arrived in the yard of the Wood’s farm. The sun was down. The light gone, and the old man had a welcome fire burning—only not for them. “Let’s go. We’ve got to get back to the castle.”

  “You go back,” the old man growled. “I didn’t ask you to come here. This is my home and I’m staying.”

  “Your daughter needs you. Now get up on this horse. We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. She’s fine. She’s with the Bothwicks. They’ll take good care of her. Now get off my land!”

  Hadrian dismounted and marched up to the farmer who stood his ground like a rooted tree.

  “My god, you’re a stubborn ass. Now either you’re going to get on that horse or I’ll put you on it.”

  “Then you’ll have to put me on it,” he said putting his scythe down and folding his arms across his chest.

  Hadrian looked over his shoulder at Royce who sat silently on Mouse. “Why aren’t you helping?”

  “It’s really not my area of expertise. Now if you want him dead—that I can do.”

  Hadrian sighed. “Please get on the horse. You’re going to get us all killed staying out here.”

  “Like I said, I never asked you to come.”

  “Damn,” Hadrian cursed as he removed his weapons and hooked them on the saddle of his horse.

  “Careful,” Royce leaned over and told him. “He’s old, but he looks tough.”

  Hadrian ran full tilt at the old farmer and tackled him to the ground. Theron was larger than Hadrian with powerful arms and hands made strong by years of unending work, but Hadrian was fast and agile. The two grappled in a wrestling match that had them rolling in the dirt grunting as each tried to get the advantage.

  “This is so stupid,” Hadrian muttered, getting to his feet. “If you would just get on the horse.”

  “You get on the horse. Get out of here and leave me alone!” Theron yelled at them as he struggled to catch his breath, standing bent over, hands resting on his knees.

  “Maybe you can help me this time?” Hadrian said to Royce.

  Royce ro
lled his eyes and dismounted. “I didn’t expect you’d have so much trouble.”

  “It’s not easy to subdue a person bigger than you and not hurt him in the process.”

  “Well, I think I found your problem then. Why don’t we try hurting him?”

  When they turned back to face Theron, the farmer had a good size stick in his hand and a determined look in his eyes.

  Hadrian sighed, “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “Daddy!” Thrace shouted, running into the ring of firelight, her face streaked with tears. “Daddy,” she cried again and reaching the old man, threw her arms around him.

  “Thrace, what are you doing here?” Theron yelled. “It’s not safe.”

  “I came to get you.”

  “I’m staying here,” he pulled his daughter off and pushed her away. “Now you take your hired thugs and get back to the Bothwicks right now. You hear me?”

  “No.” Thrace cried at him, her arms raised, still reaching. “I won’t leave you.”

  “Thrace,” he bellowed, his huge frame towering over her, “I am your father and you will do as I say!”

  “No!” she shouted back at him, the firelight shining on her wet cheeks. “I won’t leave you to die. You can whip me if you want, but you’ll have to come back to the castle to do it.”

  “You stupid little fool,” he cursed. “You’re gonna get yourself killed. Don’t you know that?”

  “I DON’T CARE!” her voice ran shrill, her hands crushed into fists, arms punched down at her sides. “What reason do I have to live if my own father—the only person I have left in the world—hates me so much he would rather die than look at me.”

  Theron stood stunned.

  “At first,” she began in a quivering voice, “I thought you wanted to make sure no one else was killed, and then I thought maybe it was—I don’t know—to put their souls to rest. Then I thought you wanted revenge. Maybe the hate was eating you up. Maybe you had to see it killed—but none of that is true. You just want to die. You hate yourself—you hate me. There’s nothing in this world for you anymore, nothing you care about.”