His voice was a whisper, meant only for his own ears. “One of Gul’gotha’s dreadlords—a skal’tum.”
“THE SSSUN RISESS.” The skal’tum stalked across the dank basement chamber of the garrison toward Dismarum. It shook its wings like a wet hound in the rain. The rattle of the leathery bones echoed loudly in the room. “Iss all prepared?”
Dismarum shied a step back. The stench in the cell of rotten meat and filth drove him away as much as the threatening menace of the skal’tum. “Rockingham is on horseback. He spreads word of the girl through town. She’ll be found soon. She has nowhere else to go but here.”
“Pray ssso. The Black Heart hungerss for her. Do not fail him again.”
Dismarum bowed slightly and backed toward the door. He blindly reached for the latch and swung the door open. Morning sunlight, barely discernible with his weak eyes, streamed down the nearby stairway and edged through the doorway, spilling in around him. Dismarum smiled inwardly as the skal’tum backed from the light. Unlike some of the Dark Lord’s minions, these creatures could survive the sunlight’s burn, but the beasts still preferred to avoid its warm touch. Their translucent skin darkened when bared for long stretches of time to the sun. It was considered disfiguring among its foul kind to be so marred.
The seer kept the door open longer and wider than necessary, chasing the skal’tum to the back of the chamber. How Dismarum would relish the chance to stake the beast in the noon sun and see it squirm. His hate for the winged beasts had not been dulled by the years.
Finally, the creature hissed angrily and stepped toward Dismarum. Satisfied that he had pushed as far as he should, Dismarum swung the door closed. For now the creature had its uses, but if the seer were given the chance … He knew how to make even a skal’tum howl.
Keeping his hand on the damp stone wall, he followed the hall to the stairway. Torches brightened the stairs enough for him to see rough outlines. Using his staff, he worked his way up the worn steps. As he progressed, his knees ached with exhaustion. He was forced to stop several times to rest. Closing his eyes and breathing hard, he tried to remember what it was like to be young: to see with sharp eyes, to walk without the stitch of pain in his bones. It seemed like he had been old forever, crumbling with hoary age. Had he ever been young?
During one of these breaks, a soldier coming down the stairs almost barreled into him. The officer pushed against the wall to allow him room to pass. “Pardon me, sir.”
Dismarum noted the man lugged a feeding bucket for the prisoners in the cells below. It stank of sour meat and mold. Even his weak eyes could see the maggots roiling within the slop.
The young soldier must have noticed the seer’s nose curl in distaste. He spoke up, raising his bucket. “Luckily, there’s only one prisoner down there. I’d hate to have to haul more of this filth.”
Dismarum nodded sourly and continued up the steps, leaning heavily on his poi’wood staff. He wondered who the young officer had crossed to warrant this punishment. There was only one occupant among the labyrinth of cells—the skal’tum. And it wouldn’t be feeding on the scraps in the bucket.
He heard the soldier whistling as he descended into the bowels of the garrison. Dismarum continued up into the main hall. Just as he reached the next landing, the young soldier’s scream rang up from below, only to be cut off abruptly.
Dismarum sighed. Perhaps the meal would put the skal’tum in a better mood. He climbed the remainder of the stairs without stopping, ignoring his complaining joints. Right now, he wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and the creature below.
Leaning on his staff, he pushed into the main hall of the garrison. The high doors were open to the large courtyard, bathed in morning sunlight, where horses and wagons jostled for space. Soldiers milled among the clopping hooves and creaking wheels. The clang of beaten iron could be heard coming from the smithy on the far side of the yard.
Dismarum turned his back on the doorway and struck out across the hall, stomping his staff on the flagstone floor. More soldiers bustled around him. Swords slapped thighs, and the odor of oiled armor clogged his nose. He proceeded unimpeded through the melee. No soldier dared come within an arm’s length of his robed figure. As he passed the three doorways that led to the soldiers’ sleeping quarters, he noted the rows of empty cots. All were on duty. On this morning, the streets bristled with armor and blade.
Suddenly a familiar voice called out from behind him. “Dismarum! Hold up, old man!” It was Rockingham.
Dismarum swung to face the man. Rockingham had changed out of his singed riding clothes and now wore the colors of the garrison, red and black. His polished black boots climbed to his knees, and his red overcoat was festooned with brass hooks and buttons. He had oiled his mustache and finally washed the soot from his face, but as he approached across the stone floor, Dismarum’s keen nose still smelled the smoke on him.
Rockingham stopped in front of the seer. “We may have too many patrols out,” he said.
“How so?” Dismarum asked in irritation, his nerves still jangled by the skal’tum.
“With this much activity, we might spook the boy and girl away from town.” Rockingham pointed out the door. “You can’t walk two steps without bumping an armsman. I’d be spooked myself to enter this town.”
The seer nodded and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps the foolish man was right. If he weren’t so exhausted, he might have realized the same. “What do you propose?”
“Pull the soldiers back. I’ve spread the word. The people are inflamed. They’ll do the hunting for us.”
Dismarum leaned hard on his staff. “She mustn’t slip our snare.”
“If she shows her nose in town, she’ll be nabbed. The fire and the talk of demons have the townsfolk roused. Every street is watched by a hundred eyes.”
“Then no more hunting.” Dismarum swung away. “We’ll wait for her to come to us.” As he limped across the flagstone, he pictured the skal’tum crouched in its warren of cells, like a starved cur awaiting its bone. To think of betraying its lust and the master it served was a madman’s folly.
But Dismarum had waited for so long.
11
FROM ABOVE THE tree line, Elena spied the red roof of the town’s mill ahead. By now, the fire had been left far behind, though the smoke still chased her and her brother across the morning sky. The sight of the pitched roof gave renewed vigor to Elena’s steps. She caught up with Joach, dragging a protesting Mist by her lead.
“Almost there,” Joach said.
“What if Aunt Fila’s not at the bakery?”
“She always is, El. Don’t worry.”
The two of them had already decided to seek out their widowed aunt, who owned and operated Winterfell’s bakery. Their mother’s sister was a stern woman with a backbone of iron. She would know what to make of the previous night’s horrors.
As Elena followed her brother around a bend in the creek, the mill came fully into view. Its redbrick exterior and narrow windows were a comforting sight. She often ran errands here for her mother, collecting a bag of flour or bartering for cornmeal. Its large paddle wheel turned slowly in the deep silver current as the creek plummeted down a short wash. Just beyond the mill stood the Millbend Bridge, a stone span that forded the creek and connected the town road to the wagon ruts that led up into the sparsely populated highlands.
Joach held up a hand to stop Elena from proceeding out from under the canopy of the trees. “Let me see if anyone’s at the mill. You stay hidden.”
Elena nodded and pushed Mist’s nose to back her several steps. The mare shook her head in protest; a hoof stomped the ground. Elena knew the horse itched to get out from under the branches and reach the meadow that still grew green beyond the trees. “Shh, sweet one.” Elena scratched Mist behind an ear. Her whispered consolations settled the anxious horse, but not herself.
She watched Joach steal across the open expanse to the mill’s door. He tried the iron latch. She saw him tug at it. It
was locked. He climbed atop a flour barrel and peered through one of the windows. Then he hopped off, scratched his head, and disappeared around a corner.
Elena hated seeing the last member of her family vanish from sight. What if he never returned? What if she was left alone? Pictures of life without any family bloomed in her head. What if she was the last Morin’stal alive in the valley? She clutched her arms around her chest, holding her breath.
As she waited, a kak’ora bird sang from a nearby branch, a lonely song. The scent of dewflowers, open only during the first rays of the sun, perfumed the morning, strong enough to penetrate even the smoky pall. As she watched for Joach’s return, she saw a rabbit burst from hiding in the prairie grass and bound toward the trees. Disturbed by its passage, a flight of butterflies blew into the air. It was as if summer held eternal sway in this little meadow.
She sighed. As horrible as the night had been, she had somehow expected the land to be wildly changed once the sun rose: trees twisted, animals corrupted. But valley life continued undisturbed, like any other morning. Strangely, she found this reassuring.
Life continued and so could she.
Movement near the mill caught her eye. Joach reappeared from beyond the mill and waved her from hiding. Thank you, Sweet Mother! Elena flew forward, wanting to narrow the distance between them as soon as possible, though Mist kept grabbing mouthfuls of grass as Elena pulled her on. When she reached her brother, he shook his head. “Empty. Must be out trying to stop the fire.”
“What if Aunt Fila is out, too?” Elena asked as Mist attacked the leaves of a thrushbush.
“No, El. Our aunt’s a tough old lady, but the men wouldn’t let her battle the flame no matter how much she might kick a fuss. She’ll be home.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Let’s go.” Joach led the way to Millbend Bridge. Elena had to keep tugging Mist to get her to follow, but the mare was determined to get a full belly before leaving the meadow.
Finally, she did manage to get the horse on the bridge. The mare’s hooves clopped loudly on the stone as they crossed. As they reached the top of the bridge, Elena glanced back to the mill. She spotted a curtain snap shut across a window on the second floor. “Joach, someone is in the mill.” She motioned to the curtained window.
“Odd. They had to have heard me. I even pounded on a window in back.”
“Maybe it was one of the miller’s children, frightened while their parents were out.”
“I know Cesill and Garash. And they know me. I don’t like this.” Joach wore a stern expression.
From down the road, the wheels of an approaching wagon clattered toward them. Joach scooted them off the bridge and into the trees on the north side of the road. He pushed Mist back until they were well hidden.
“But it might be someone we know,” Elena said. “Someone to help us.”
“And it might be one of those men from last night.”
Elena bent closer to Mist. From their shadowed hiding place, she could spy the open wagon as it passed. Men dressed in red and black crowded the buckboard and rails—garrison men. She remembered that the thin man from last night had claimed to be from the town’s garrison.
Neither she nor Joach called out to the wagon as it clattered past.
Joach motioned for her to slink deeper into the forest. She came upon a deer trail that gave them room to maneuver Mist around. From here, they could just discern the wagon. Soldiers hopped from the back to take up posts by the bridge. Two men marched toward the mill.
“We’d better get out of here,” Joach breathed in her ear.
Just as they turned to leave, Elena saw the mill’s door pop open. She watched the miller and his wife rush toward the soldiers. She couldn’t hear what the miller said, but his arm kept pointing toward the road to town.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Get on Mist.” Joach boosted her onto the mare’s back. He jumped up behind her. “We need to reach Aunt Fila before anyone else sees us.”
“Why? Our family has plenty of friends in town.”
Joach shoved an arm toward the bridge. “Like the miller and his wife.”
Frightened, she tapped Mist’s flanks to get her trotting down the deer trail. “Then what are we going to do?”
“Travel the wood. Aunt Fila’s place is closer to the north end of town. We’ll circle through the trees that way. There will be less of a chance of being spotted.”
She remained silent. As much as her heart railed against his words, her mind knew them to be true. For now, only their family could be trusted. Aunt Fila had a level head and a keen mind. She and her three grown sons would protect them and help straighten all this out.
She kicked Mist to a quicker gait. The sooner they reached Aunt Fila’s bakery, the safer they would be. She watched the smoke trail across the sky from the scorched orchards in the distant foothills. What had happened to her valley, to her people? She remembered her moment of revelation as she stared at the calm meadow by the mill. She had been deluded.
Life was not the same in her home valley.
It had twisted into a cold and foreign place.
ER’RIL LEFT HIS porridge on the bar and nodded his head toward the door. “We’d better strike for the road.”
Nee’lahn cowered on a stool beside him. She was obviously still shaken by the rush of men who had crowded around them, trying to force more details of the dreadlord from Er’ril. His assurance that he knew no more than they about the creature, just old stories he had heard on the road, did little to dampen their curiosity. They persisted until finally Er’ril had unsheathed one of his juggling knives and waved away the last of the stragglers from his side.
By now, the talk of the commons had turned to what to do about the demon-spawn children. And this was a feeble discussion since most of the men had already left, thumbing their foreheads in superstition, to protect their own households from the cursed threat.
Only one patron still kept his eyes drilled toward Er’ril. Hunched over a mug of warmed ale, the mountain man did not seem in any rush to leave the inn. His stare made Er’ril edgy.
Er’ril stood up and turned his back on the giant. “We should go,” he repeated.
The nyphai did not move. Er’ril reached for Nee’lahn’s elbow, but she shied away.
“Can’t you feel it?” he continued. “The air is heavy with threat. The town is like dry tinder, and everyone is scurrying about with lighted torches. We need to leave.”
“What about the skal’tum?” she said meekly. “Maybe we’d be safer in town until it’s killed.”
“It won’t be killed.”
“Why?”
“The skal’tum are protected by dark magick.”
A deep voice grumbled from just behind his shoulder. “What is this dark magick you speak of?” Er’ril jumped at the words, startled that so large a man could move so quietly up on him. Nee’lahn’s eyes widened in fright.
He turned to face the mountain man, finding himself craning his neck back. “Excuse me, but our words are private.”
“I go to hunt a beast that makes you cower,” the big man answered with a coarse grumble, his nostrils flared. “If you have honor, you will tell me what I need to know.”
Er’ril’s cheeks reddened. There was once a time when no one would question his honor. He felt a burn of shame that he had not felt in countless winters.
Nee’lahn spoke from her hiding place behind Er’ril’s back. “Perhaps he’s right. The man deserves to know.”
Er’ril clenched his one fist. “It would be best to leave this matter be, mountain man.”
The giant drew back to his full height. Er’ril had not appreciated how bowed the man had been when among the townspeople. Behind him, he heard a maid drop a glass in fright at the sight of his towering bulk. Considered tall himself, Er’ril found himself at eye level with the giant’s belly. “I am called Kral a’Darvun, of the Senta flame,” he said sternly. “The creatur
e has wounded the fire of my tribe. I cannot return without the head of the beast.”
Er’ril knew the fervor in which the mountain folk held honor. Among the treacherous icy passes, trust was crucial to survival. Er’ril pressed his fist to his own throat, acknowledging the oath pledge.
Kral mimicked the motion, a slightly startled look to his eyes. “You know of our ways, man of the lowlands.”
“I have traveled.”
“Then you know my will. Tell me of this dark magick.”
Er’ril swallowed, suddenly embarrassed by the lack of information he could extend to this man. “I don’t … don’t really know. The dark magick’s touch came to our land when the Gul’gotha invaded our shores. Scholars of my time believed its pestilence drove Chi away. When Chyric magick faded in the land to isolated whispers, the dark magick grew stronger. I have seen horrors during my travels that would shrivel the bravest man.”
Kral’s brow crinkled with his words. “You speak of times before my flame ventured from the Northern Waste. How could that be?”
Er’ril balked. He had spoken without thinking. One night of talking freely with Nee’lahn and the years of practiced constraint on his tongue had fallen away.
Nee’lahn spoke behind him. “Before you stands Er’ril of Standi, called the Wandering Knight by storytellers.”
Kral’s eyes narrowed in distaste, but an edge of fear crinkled at the corners. “You tell tales when I ask for truth.”
“He is not myth,” she said. “He is the truth.” Suddenly Kral thrust his hands forward and placed both palms on Er’ril’s temples. Er’ril knew what this meant and did not fight the large man. Nee’lahn, though, unacquainted with the custom, gasped.
The innkeeper, who had been sweeping broken glass across the common room, called to them. “No roughhousing in here! Take your argument to the street!”
Kral kept his hands steady.
Er’ril remained still as he spoke. “I am the one she named. I am Er’ril of the clan Standi.”
Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished Page 11
