Revenge

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Nightfall.’

  ‘How many more beatings must I endure before then?’

  ‘No more. You’re done. You can stew in your own blood for a while, which should be running freely now within you. I just have to keep you alive long enough.’

  Figgis felt his fury rise. Stay calm, he told himself. Think of Gidyon and stay calm. He reopened the link and heard, as well as felt, Gidyon’s relief.

  I thought you were dead.

  Not quite, Figgis said softly. Where are you?

  Drinking a quart of milk at the baker’s. It’s curdling in my stomach. Do you know any more?

  Just a few more moments.

  Hurry, Figgis. They don’t trust me. They’re beginning to stare.

  I’ll keep the link open.

  Figgis coughed again to get his captor’s attention. ‘Do they perform it here…in this barn? Where are we anyway?’ He held his breath.

  ‘You are as thick as you look,’ the man snarled. ‘Do you really think Scargyl would perform the ritual in his own shedding?’

  Scargyl! He ignored whatever the lad said next. Gidyon!

  What news?

  Scargyl’s barn…shed, whatever. Scargyl is one of the men who captured me. You’re going to have to ask around.

  Right.

  The lad had stood. Figgis held his breath.

  ‘I have to piss. Don’t move or I’ll make it worse on you.’

  Figgis nodded and watched the young man open the timber door. Outside he could glimpse some of the village. Gidyon…listen, I see hammers and anvils in this shed. I think Scargyl must be the smith. Go looking for the smithy. The man watching me has stepped outside but the dolt has left the door open. I see a butcher’s shop, I think. Find the butcher and look opposite—that’s where they’ve got me.

  The man stepped back inside and closed the door. He scowled. Figgis stayed quiet. The chat was clearly over.

  Gidyon felt panicky. His thoughts were racing towards Figgis but he could not get Yseul’s face out of his mind. Her expression, when he left, had accused him of betrayal. But he had to do this and if she just listened to him and sat tight, no one would find them.

  He drained the milk from the mug and thanked the woman, who eyed him balefully.

  ‘Passing through Duntaryn are you, young sir? On your way now?’

  He mustered a smile. ‘Yes, I have a delivery for Mallee Marsh. Thirst got the better of me and someone back in Churley asked me to give a message to someone here.’

  ‘Oh? Is that right?’ she said, uninterested. ‘Better be going now, sir. You don’t want to be late into Mallee Marsh. It’s a full day, possibly more, from here.’

  ‘Yes…um, excuse me, madam. Sorry to trouble you but the person in Churley asked me to give a message to a Master Scargyl. Would you know him?’

  ‘He’s the smith.’ She looked suspicious now.

  ‘Where is the blacksmith’s place? I can probably call in on my way out of the village.’

  ‘It’s in the other direction, sir. Perhaps I can give it to Master Scargyl for you? Save you the trouble?’

  ‘Oh well, that’s kind but I was paid to deliver it to him myself.’

  She had returned to kneading the bread mix and Gidyon hoped he would never feel the punch of those fists as she viciously dealt with the dough. She grimaced as she spoke. ‘Follow the road back aways and go left at the crossroads. It’s not far. Opposite Mekan, the butcher.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, very much.’

  He gave his best smile but she ignored it. Gidyon wasted no further time on her and departed, following her instructions. Sure enough he came to a crossroads, where he turned left.

  For a village in the middle of the morning, the place seemed deserted. He continued walking and spotted the butcher’s first. He stopped, looked across and saw the smith’s a little further away. Tucked behind was a very small, old barn. Figgis had called it a shed. That was where he had to go.

  Gidyon left the roadside and, with caution, made his way slowly around some tiny dilapidated outbuildings towards the barn. When he finally reached it, his hands were clammy with tension and he was sure anyone nearby could hear his heart thumping.

  There was no sound from inside.

  Looking around, he established there was only one door. No opportunity for a surprise entry then. He would just have to take his chances. Carefully checking that no one was watching him from the street, he tiptoed to the entrance, took a deep breath, firmly pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  His eyes had to accustom themselves swiftly to the dimness inside the barn. Only a tiny window at the back afforded some muted light. He quickly took in the scene. A young man, older than him but not by much, leaped to his feet. On the floor lay another much older, shorter man, presumably Figgis.

  ‘Figgis,’ he said aloud. ‘I’m Gidyon.’

  ‘Hairy devils! Who are you?’ asked the younger man.

  ‘Oh sorry, I thought I just mentioned that. Gidyon Gynt. This is my friend and he’s coming with me,’ Gidyon said.

  His sarcasm was lost on the sullen oaf, but Gidyon’s victory was short-lived. He saw the oaf’s eyes move from his face to behind him and turned swiftly to see three men approaching, all carrying weapons. One, probably Scargyl, was pounding a mean-looking hammer into his huge palm.

  ‘Another stranger. Well, you’ll do,’ he said and they rushed Gidyon.

  Groggy, he opened his eyes to the sound of soft weeping. He blinked and turned his head. To one side, he saw Figgis, curled up and prone on the ground. He turned the other way and his stomach twisted to see Yseul, her face beaten and bleeding. She was sitting up but was bound to a post. Nearby was Gwerys. He looked dead.

  ‘Yseul!’ Gidyon whispered.

  She turned slowly. Her eyes were red.

  ‘No more crying,’ he said. ‘Remember, you’re the one who doesn’t give them that satisfaction.’

  ‘And you’re the liar I trusted.’

  That hurt.

  ‘Is Gwerys all right?’ he asked, not really wanting to hear the bad news.

  ‘He sleeps.’

  Relief swept through him.

  ‘And Figgis?’

  ‘They hung him up and beat him senseless. He is unconscious for all I know and care. Leave me alone, liar.’

  ‘Yseul, you have to help me. Is it nightfall yet?’

  ‘Twilight. Not long till we die, Gidyon.’

  At least he had progressed to being called by his name again and not ‘liar’. He would save them. He just had to think.

  ‘Figgis!’ he called. ‘Figgis, wake up!’

  No response.

  ‘There is nothing to do but await our death, Gidyon. Be still.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s your best effort?’ he yelled at her. ‘You’re going to allow them to bleed you, kill your brother, roast Figgis and do who knows what to me?’

  ‘Well, unless you have some magical powers that can get us out of here, Gidyon Gynt, I have no other choice but to wait.’

  Her remark hit home.

  Lauryn had said they possessed magical powers, hadn’t she? How could he find them…tap into them? He had listened with awe to Sorrel’s tales about his empowered father. Surely he had something of that in him?

  He felt helpless. Without Figgis to press for more information, or Lauryn to speak to, he felt lost. Where was Lauryn? Why had she not linked with him? Damn his inability to open a link himself!

  Yseul had looked away with disgust and was silent. They sat in the quiet for what felt like an eternity.

  ‘Why you, Yseul?’ he said eventually.

  It was as if she had expected the question. ‘My eyes,’ she replied. ‘I was picked out from a young age. I live a long way from here but Scargyl happened to pass through my village one day. He was a travelling smith then. Gwerys was still in a cradle. It was rare to see a child born with these strange, light eyes; it meant something to him. Back in the ancient times, when this village first began sacrificing
people, the virgin they chose had very light, almost yellow eyes. It was prophetic for the thick-skulled Scargyl. He took me, just like that. One day I was living happily with my parents; the next I was a slave to the ox and his wife.’

  ‘Why did he take Gwerys?’

  ‘As a precaution. They needed the “calf”, but I don’t think that was the reason initially. Scargyl knew I loved my brother so, by keeping him, he was able to keep me prisoner in Duntaryn. I would never have left without Gwerys. Now it looks as though we can both leave this life together.’

  ‘No, Yseul. It won’t happen.’

  ‘Stop it, Gidyon! You make my head hurt with your refusal to believe in the facts. In less than an hour, they will come and get us. We shall be dead within the following hour. Accept it and let me have my peace to say my prayers for my brother and myself. Just leave me alone.’

  They came for them at nightfall, as promised. Tied as they were, struggling was useless, but still Gidyon fought as best he could. Gwerys woke and began crying immediately. Yseul refused to cry. In her silence she had found strength but there was little doubt her heart had already broken for her brother. She begged them to spare him. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Figgis remained unconscious but the captors cared little for this fact.

  As they were dragged outside into the dark, Gidyon saw a crowd of people had gathered. They were all draped in what looked like red sheets, with slits opened for the eyes. He could smell liquor and followed the scent to a pot simmering over a fire. The gathered were swaying and chanting words he did not understand. They were intoxicated.

  He kicked the man pushing him. Strong hands propelled him forwards, almost into the fire. ‘Do that again and I’ll just open your throat here and now.’ It was Scargyl, also clad in red.

  Figgis, his arms and legs trussed with twine, was attached to a sturdy piece of timber lying on the ground. They left him there, cooling in the chill of the springtime eve. His shivering brought him awake. He immediately opened the link.

  I am sorry, my child. I have failed you. The link was weak.

  Hush, Figgis. Save your strength for our escape.

  It seemed a ludicrous thing to say but Figgis appeared to accept it.

  Gidyon looked around wildly for any clues. They were in a wood, but standing in a large clearing. Small bonfires burned in a rough circle; probably to keep the wolves away, he figured. He could hear them howling in the distance. Gwerys began to scream as they tied him to a stone table. His would be the most ritualistic of the killings.

  ‘Gwerys!’ Gidyon shouted. The boy turned his head, terrified, towards him. ‘It’s just a game, Gwerys. Look at me—this is fun, isn’t it? In a moment, it will all change and we get to tie the others up.’

  The tiny boy’s screams died away as this information sank in. One of the men punched Gidyon in the stomach and he doubled up.

  ‘Shut up, stranger.’ It was the oaf from the barn. ‘We want him scared.’

  ‘I shall enjoy killing you,’ Gidyon growled through the pain. He could not believe he had uttered those words. He had never killed anything in his life.

  Yseul’s voice could be heard above the chanting as she heaped curse after curse on the people around her. Her hair was matted and she looked demonic herself in her rage. Gidyon was glad her strength had surfaced. She would join him in the fight to survive, not accept death meekly.

  The oaf slapped her hard. ‘Wish you’d fucked me now, don’t you, witch?’

  Yseul stopped her tirade, turned her attention to the idiot in front of her and spat directly into his fleshy face. ‘You’ll wish you hadn’t been born when he finishes with you,’ she sneered at him.

  ‘Who, him? The stranger?’ the oaf said, wiping his face. ‘Oh, I’m really scared.’

  ‘You should be. He is the Gatherer of Souls.’

  Those who heard this fell silent. Gidyon watched as the chanting stopped and a new murmuring began. It was hesitation, uncertainty. Yseul was preying on their superstitions. She was clever.

  ‘Yes!’ He took up the tale. ‘I have come amongst you, hungry for new souls. What better time than the spring solstice, when Duntaryn does its worst? Are you ready to come with me?’ He bared his teeth and looked at the oaf, who suddenly seemed a little less assured.

  ‘Don’t listen to them!’ Scargyl’s voice rang out. ‘This is nonsense they speak. Proceed!’ he commanded.

  Gidyon watched, his moment of ferocity lost, as the log Figgis was attached to was placed on a specially constructed frame. He now hung horizontally, facing downwards towards the kindling to which they would soon touch a lighted taper.

  Scargyl nodded. A roll of velvet was placed in his hands and the chant was taken up again, this time with real fervour.

  Gidyon did not want to see what was contained in that bag. He held his breath as Scargyl unwound the silk which kept it tied, then unrolled the velvet to reveal an array of gleaming, vicious-looking implements, among them a shiny blade. Scargyl lifted it and held it aloft, then addressed Yseul.

  ‘This is for you, my dear. It has been washed in purified water. You came to life pure and will go to your death pure and we shall drink your blood and be purified in turn.’

  ‘Burn in hell, Scargyl!’ she spat at him and then began her cursing again. She would not allow them to frighten her into submission. She would die fighting and cursing them.

  Now Scargyl held up an even nastier implement, sharpened on both sides to a sinister point. He looked first at Yseul and then at the trembling Gwerys, who was silent now but for the odd whimper.

  ‘And this is for you, child. We know you are pure. Your death will be swift, painless. It is the sacrifice we are required to make.’

  Gwerys smiled nervously and looked over at Gidyon. ‘Is it our turn yet?’ He was trying to be brave.

  Gidyon felt the world spinning. He had to do something. Rage built inside him as he looked at Gwerys’s trusting face. He could hear Yseul spewing her anger over the gathered and he admired her courage. Then he sensed a myriad of Colours rising up within him.

  The link was open. Perhaps Figgis felt some of his rage, for he spoke to Gidyon. Find your power now, boy. It is within you. Reach to it…for it reaches to you.

  Gidyon did not understand the dwarf’s words. He thought he might faint as terror, tension and fury mingled into one. He saw the taper being lit; they would roast Figgis alive now. He saw the double-edged blade held over Gwerys’s heart and saw the little boy still had his eyes firmly fixed on Gidyon, trusting him to save them. He turned and briefly glimpsed Yseul, her lips moving as she prayed for deliverance from this horror.

  And then in a great gush the rainbow-hued rage spilled out of him. Father! he yelled and a monstrously powerful link opened to carry the word to its target.

  27

  Rage Unleashed

  Tor and Saxon decided to press on through the night. Both knew they should be exhausted from their pace, yet they could not sleep. Cloot flew above, looking ahead. The moon was full and illuminated the road they marched along in silence.

  Pain hit Tor so hard, he fell to his knees. The link hurt his mind and rainbow-coloured light blazed through him. Father! it screamed. And, through someone else’s eyes he could see a terrifying scene: a child bound to an altar about to be slaughtered; a man tied to a roasting spit. That was no ordinary man.

  ‘Figgis!’ Tor yelled aloud into the moonlit night.

  Saxon was already down at his side, confused by his friend’s behaviour. Cloot swooped down in a rapid dive.

  Across the link, Tor felt an enormous surge of power thundering from him, through him. He could not tell where it began and he ended, or where it was going.

  And then it was gone. He was left prone on the floor, gasping as though taking his last breath of this life. His friends could only watch in complete bewilderment.

  Scargyl raised the double-edged blade above his head and joined in with the chanting of the village folk around him; the sound built to a frenzy.


  Those watching the stranger saw him suddenly arch his back in some sort of silent agony; his mouth was wide open and stretched back over his teeth but no sound came out.

  Just a second or so later, as Scargyl prepared to plunge the blade into the heart of the little boy, his robes exploded into strange white flames. He was burning; screaming and burning. Then everyone around him erupted into flames; each red robe igniting the one next to it, passing on the white flame with ease and speed. The clearing was filled with screams.

  Figgis felt like he was in a trance, but although he could not see well, he could see enough to know what was happening. Finish it! he commanded Gidyon.

  And Gidyon did, unleashing the pure white power all around, reserving the greatest bolt of it for the oaf, who had so far escaped burning. He began to run but he could not outrun the white flames which gave chase and licked at his flying robes. His cries turned to a scream as he burned, spreading the tongues of fire beyond the circle.

  Now the trees surrounding the clearing began to burn. The white flames, which were not repelled by cold or wind or damp, spread with fury, moving through the village of Duntaryn with such ferocity it was levelled.

  The only people left alive that terrible night were Gidyon, Yseul, Figgis and Gwerys. In a stupor, they managed to untie one another. Gidyon picked up Figgis tenderly and the dwarf touched his face.

  It was necessary, child, he said, when he saw Gidyon was trembling.

  Weeping silently, Gidyon carried Figgis in his arms and, followed by Yseul who cradled Gwerys, the small group walked until they had left the burning village far behind.

  Tor took deep, steadying breaths. He felt as though all the wind had been knocked out of him.

  ‘What in the blazing Light was that all about?’ Saxon asked, crouched next to him.

  Are you all right? The falcon’s concern was genuine.

  I think so, Tor replied, cautiously. ‘I witnessed the most terrible sight. I believe it was Gidyon,’ he continued, with wonder in his voice. ‘I heard him call me Father. He opened this powerful link and then it was as if our powers combined. Did…did you see it?’