The Spirit of Malquia (In the Absence of Kings Book 2)

by Lee LaCroix

  The moment the first wave had entered the front door, she fired a bolt directly at the tethered rope. As the slapping of wooden panel sounded out, the deadly rush of metal echoed again. The caltrops fell like a turbulent waterfall upon the intruders, forcing the shield-bearers down onto the ground with painful viciousness and culminating weight. The tiny metals spread across the entirety of the hallway, blocked off each of the three entrances, and flowed into the other rooms, scrambling the bordering Blackwoods like sleeping bats from a waking flame.

  “You leave us no other choice!” the curt voice yelled from outside.

  Each of the four prepared their weapons for an all-or-nothing charge, but it didn’t come. First came a shattering of the remaining front windows. Then, there was the familiar clink of falling bottles. The echoes explained that some remained solid while others cracked against the floor and walls. Isla moved to the edge of the stairwell with curiosity to look into the bordering rooms, and then she shielded her eyes as there was a crash on the base of the hallway. There was another and then another as bottles smashed, releasing an oily liquid upon the floor.

  “Get down!” Garreth yelled as a flaming torch flew through the front door.

  The explosion smashed the railings and shattered the owl statue completely. The four were slammed against the back wall by the force. As they got to their feet, they drew their cloth to their mouths.

  “We need to get out of here!” Ilsa shouted over the roaring fire and building smoke that rose to meet them at the upper floor of the building.

  She waved at the rest as she retreated from the second story landing, and they followed her into one of the bedrooms at the back of the house. The window had been shattered and oil was splashed upon the floor, but to their luck, the Blackwoods had not sent a torch to the second floor yet. Ilsa crept over the pools and streams of oil and looked out the window. The caltrops had covered the back step completely and rolled out into the dust. She peered about but was relieved when she saw no Blackwoods, and she assumed they had joined their comrades at the front of the house to watch as the house burned.

  “We’ll have to jump from here. Try to aim for cellar door and get a roll in as you land,” Ilsa suggested as she looked back to them.

  The three men treaded to the window and gathered behind Ilsa. Ilsa swung her legs outside the window and sat on the sill before pushing herself out of the window and falling fast. Novas looked out the window as she fell onto the angled cellar door and rolled forward as she landed, absorbing the impact. She rose up from the ground, brushed the dirtying brown from her dark clothing, and then snuck over to the edge of the house. She waved for them to come down, and Novas tossed his pack to the earth and then jumped himself, followed by Domminal and Garreth. When they managed to escape without alerting the Blackwoods, they took off eastward towards a gathering of pines to regroup. Their vantage point overlooked the mine, and they stared towards the remains of the Vemsdower household. Ilsa’s face was set like stone, and her eyes took on a bloodshot redness but produced no tears.

  “They have taken everything from me now. Everything that was dear. Everything that I grew up with. The people I loved, the place I lived, and the town where I grew. Everything but my life. And that they will not take so easily,” Ilsa incited as she watched the dark smoke plume above her home.

  Before long, the flames had reached the second floor, and the remaining windows were shattered by an explosion, tossing glass into the front yard and onto the unsuspecting Blackwoods. Novas could only smirk as panic and yells broke out but hid his expression in respect to Ilsa. The roof had caught fire last, and the plates of shale gave way and fell inside, demolishing the supports of the house. They waited until much later when nothing but ash and smoulders remained.

  Chapter Four

  The four waited in the nearby woods, sitting on the fallen clippings of pine needles, until the Blackwoods had retreated from the manse. The sun was setting when they left the forest and made their way back to the property where a very thin plume of smoke and piles of char and ash remained. Ilsa paced about the wreckage but nothing else of value remained. Novas tiptoed over the burnt splinters to where the chunks of shale still sat piled. He kneeled down to displace some ash and found the intricate carving of the owl’s talon that still remained. As he looked around, he found a second, and he offered it up to Ilsa.

  “That is very kind of you. Thank you,” she confessed with a small smile as she pocketed the sharp talons.

  “I think we should return to town. I don’t think it will do us any good to ask for more aid from Berault just yet,” Garreth explained as he peered into the horizon.

  “I agree. I know of a family we can stay with for the night. They are good people and former employees, but we’ll have to wait until the cover of darkness to meet with them. Countless eyes will be watching,” Ilsa recommended as their cabal shouldered their gear and prepared for another venture.

  The four traveled through the sundown, across the raging river and its perilous tree, over the craggy slopes and plateaus of the dusty flatland of the area, and waited in the sunken crevice that lay not far from the eastern side of town until the sun had hidden completely. In the black of night, the group made their way across the final plain and into an alleyway of Bouldershade. The houses gave off a faint light from the lamps and candles inside, but for the most part, the side streets were dark black. When they came to the main street, a glass lantern hung on the corner of the Rusty Pickaxe continued to pour light into the intersection, illuminating the nearby streets for a distance. As the travelers passed the main street to venture to the other side, they made faint silhouettes in the darkness and then vanished on the other side. They came to a stop and crouched behind a stone house with wooden panelling and a straw-stuffed roof in the southwestern side of town. Ilsa knocked upon the back window and poked her head up to peer inside. The face of a hooded matron appeared at the window and then gestured them to come around to the front door.

  “Let’s move quickly,” Isla advised as she took the lead and led them into the house.

  The husband closed the door and stood behind it, observing his new guests. Novas looked around the small house. A small lamp hung from the center of the ceiling and illuminated the entirety of the home. A fireplace crackled against the wall to the left of the doorway, and to the right, a bed for two sat against the corner. It reminded Novas a lot of the cabin in the woods and tried to feel as comfortable as his hosts appeared to be.

  “Nanvi, Joenn. Thank you for allowing us shelter in this troubled time. We know the danger that is presented by us being here, but I assure you will be repaid in kind,” Ilsa explained as she sat down upon a stool close to the couple’s small dining table.

  “Anything to repay the kindness that has supported us for all these years. It is a terrible business, these Blackwoods. And the kidnapping of your family, just unforgivable!” Nanvi spoke as she took Ilsa’s hands in hers, and her crow’s eyes deepened along with her smile.

  “You’ll be safe here for tonight. We won’t tell a soul,” Joenn swore as he crossed his arms and sat down at the table.

  “There’s not much room for you here, but we’ve got some spare linens for you to bed down,” Nanvi offered as she withdrew some cloth from under the mattress frame.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind. Tomorrow, we’ll start moving these out Blackwoods for good,” Garreth offered.

  The next day saw an overcast sky and a swirling fog that approached from the western sea and settled over the town of Bouldershade sometime before dawn. Some hours had burned by since then, but the sun had failed to pierce the thick blanket that rested over the town, and a light wind bit with a touch of coolness to all those in its grasp. Two Blackwoods stood outside the Sundowner and kept watch on the comings and goings of the townsfolk and anyone of interest.

  “The season’s getting on, don’tcha think, Willard?” Mart complained with a shiver and pulled his wolf pelt closer towards his neck.

>   “Aye, I suppose. I just hope they don’t keep us as guard dogs for too much longer. I can only stand to stare at deadwood and drawl peons for so long before my sword hand starts to get itchy,” Willard pouted with a sliver of a grin as he kicked at the sword in his hand, spinning it around in a circle and then placing the point back into the dirt again.

  “Well, the bossman wasn’t too happy that you drove the cart into that obvious booby trap yesterday. We’re out here for a reason, ya know?” Mart complained.

  “I drove the cart? You were supposed to be watching the road, idiot. It’s as much fault as yours as mine!” Willard growled with another kick at his sword.

  This time, the kick was more forceful and sent the blade up into the air and almost out of reach. Mart mumbled something below his breath, too quiet for Willard to make out, but Willard decided not to pursue the conversation further.

  Down the road further, the lantern of the Rusty Pickaxe cut through the fog and lit the ground around Bouldershade’s main intersection. Beyond that light, towards the southern entrance of the town, not much could be seen at all. It was another quiet day in the town. The miners had come out to sulk after losing their employment, the two thought. Willard and Mart could make out a few silhouettes walking here and there. They spotted a man or two walking with a hammer, some rope, or a shovel.

  “Trying to relive the glory days, I see,” Willard pointed out with his sword as a downcast labourer passed by with a pickaxe.

  Both Willard and Marl stifled chuckles and laughter as the man passed and disappeared around the corner at the intersection.

  “Hummm…” Marl sighed as their guard duty seemed to draw on forever on that gray day.

  The door to the Sundowner opened and one of their associates, Rogen, came and joined them outside, carrying a stack of papers and a hammer. Marl and Willard pushed off the wall and stood at attention as Rogen turned to address them.

  “Bossman wants you to keep an eye out for these folk. He’s not happy they got away from the burn’an’ning yesterday, and he believes they’ll be showing up in town any time now. He wants you to go around town and put these up on the posts. Says there should be nails in ‘em already, so you just gotta pull ‘em out. Like always, there’s some coin in it for ya if you do it right. So do it right, men,” Rogen commanded as he passed the papers to Marl and the hammer to Willard.

  Marl looked down at the papers, and Willard stepped close to glean a glance at them as well. Four portraits framed each corner with some text at the bottom. Wanted, the poster dictated. The reward was thirty tri or an employment contract with the Blackwoods.

  “That’s her alright,” Marl stated as he pointed at the portrait of the woman in the top right hand corner. “That’s Miss Vemsdower, for sure. Saw that pretty face of hers yesterday before she felt so inclined to drop those blasted spikes on us.”

  “Poor Ferny didn’t even see it coming,” Willard sighed as he recollected the assault of the Vemsdower residence the day before.

  Rogen left without another word and went back inside, closing the thick wooden door behind him. Marl folded the papers up and slipped them into his pants pocket, and Willard slid the hammer haft into his belt, and they both fell back against the wall of the Sundowner again.

  The Sundowner Inn was one of the more prominent buildings in Bouldershade with two rows of regular rooms on its ground floor and four suites on the second. The Sundowner had been host to traveling dignitaries who had been traveling south to the capital. However, since the Crown Aegis had ceased to patrol the roads, few guests, dignified or not, had come to stay. Often times, a resident found himself left out of house and home and was lucky enough to find shelter in one of the common rooms. Now that the Blackwoods had occupied the building, the Sundowner’s manager, Yves, had hardly a spare moment to rest. The Blackwoods demanded barrels of ale be brought from the Rusty Pickaxe, and they had raided Yves’ larder completely. Sometimes, they paid. Most times, they didn’t. The Blackwoods managed to pack all thirty some of their men into those ten rooms with some sleeping on tables, on benches, or on the floor. Yves, knowing their fearsome reputation, expected to host them for a while because they seemed less destructive than the stories foretold for the most part.

  “Welp, we better get gettin’ on. These gray skies is killin’ me today,” Marl suggested with a sigh as he pushed against the wall.

  Willard grunted and followed Marl, and they paced off northward towards the edge of town. They did not seem concerned with the eyes that glared from the windows as Willard twirled his sword and Marl didn’t give a damn. They came to the north edge of town and found a signpost with Bouldershade scribed in the local dialect. Indeed, there were nails driven into the wood, so Marl unsheathed his knife and began to pry at the head of one. Willard looked down the Great North Road, back towards Deepshine and its barracks of easy rest. All loyal Blackwoods were given the chance to stay there eventually. The time you spent, you hardly ever forgot. He hoped that he would see them again.

  “So, what do you think of those sea folk? I don’t much get bringing in all these workers when there’s so many just sitting around in this town,” Marl questioned as he continued to pry away at the sign.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never really asked. I’ve heard some rumours though. Things are a lot different over the sea. These folk are totally obedient, don’t ask for pay, and can survive on the most base of rations. I hear they were brought up this way… it’s all in their outlook or something. Only to know work and never to seek pleasure,” Willard explained with a shrug.

  Marl responded with a grunt and finally withdrew a nail from the aging wood. He gestured over to Willard, and soon the hammer was in Marl’s hand, driving the nail back into the post to secure the poster.

  “Alright. On we go,” Marl mumbled as they started off south and back into town.

  They proceeded at an easy pace, taking their time as they passed the Sundowner without event. As they continued to the Rusty Pickaxe, they noticed some residents heading away in a scattered fashion, heading west then turning into the southwest end of town.

  “I’m wondering why they’re carrying all their gear,” Willard spoke aloud to himself.

  “Perhaps, they’ve found work somewhere else. I couldn’t imagine where. The Vemsdower mine was their best shot, I’m to understand. And we shut that place down for good,” Marl replied with a smirk as he approached the post on the corner of the intersection.

  A fellow Blackwoods posted out front of the Rusty Pickaxe gave them a nod and then continued his watch of the surroundings.

  “You know what’s going on, Geoff?” Marl questioned as he started to pry another nail.

  “Nigh. Lot less drunks on the street today though. ‘Cause of the fog and the wind maybe. Or maybe because we’ve occupied this tavern for so long,” Geoff proclaimed.

  Before long, Marl had removed some nails out of the post, had taken another poster from Willard, and then fastened it as well. Marl spun the hammer in the air a few times before placing it in his belt loop.

  “Alright, let’s get gettin’ back. I’ve got a lot of leanin’ to do,” Marl ordered as he turned away from the tavern and gave a parting wave to Geoff.

  Willard did not respond and followed Marl north back to the Sundowner. A minute later, they were leaned against the face of the Sundowner and were tired due to the boredom of their duty. They stared into the rolling crevices of the fast moving clouds above and watched residents move past their gaze. Willard tapped along his pockets, heard a crunching noise, and withdrew another poster.

  “It seems we forgot one. We should go put this one up south,” Willard explained with no rush to finish his duty.

  Marl looked over with a sigh and rolled his eyes. He took off into the street, and Willard followed him. They began to near the intersection when a row of four travellers appeared a distance in front of them and had just turned onto the northern street. Willard knew they were travellers because of their weatherworn cloths
and leathers, their faded hoods, and their travelling packs. However, the plenty of armaments between them made him nervous. Willard tensed up, tried to act naturally, and began to move to their left to pass them.

  “Hey Willard, doesn’t that look like Miss Vemsdower to you? The same dress and ev’rything?” Marl blurted as the travelers continued towards him.

  Willard took out the poster from his pocket, scanned the four faces again, looked up to the travelers, and then down at the poster again. Without a word, Willard turned around and began to pace back to the Sundowner.

  “Hey, where ya going!” Marl yelled, but Willard did not hear him because his voice was drown out by the collective roaring, yelling, and cheering of the mob that had just turned onto the street and had formed up behind the four travelers.

  There must have been at least forty men and women that were all armed with shovels, rakes, hoes, hammers, knives, and pickaxes. They displayed their weapons in the air with a dangerous pride. They filled the street from house to house and pushed forward like a wave of anger. Marl dove into a division between houses and took off running as fast as he could. Willard dashed into the Sundowner and peered at the crowd through a crack in the door, his eyes bulging and forehead a sweat, before slamming it shut solid.

  Chapter Five

  The villagers’ cacophony surrounded the Sundowner with a volume so loud that it shook bottles off their shelves, and no eardrum was spared from any quarter of its building. The only thing keeping the mob from tearing the building down was that it was part of the town’s heritage and was remembered as a place where the crass met, or from afar had a look at, the cultured. Garreth slammed upon the wooden door with his fist, encouraged by the mass behind him. A window opened upon on the second level, and the presence of a balding head was brought to attention by pointing woman at the back of the crowd. She pushed through the mob with her hand pointed high until she reached Ilsa, and a cry rang out.