by Lloyd Baron
He does not get time to ponder the question. His eyes catch sight of Riochald leading Canace and Derry’n. She barks orders at them and they obey. Two children scolded by a strict nanny. He raises his arm and goes to call, but they take a turn and vanish from his sight. It is then that he hears the scream again from the next street over. Just before the one his friends took.
He slips down the fallen building, grazing the backs of his legs on the loose bricks. His feet hit the solid road and he bursts into a sprint. He ignores the cries for help from the demolition team and enters the dark street. He is only a few steps in when he realizes that it is not a street but a narrow ally. The fencepost is raised and he charges forwards through the darkness. He is confronted by a scene which instantly confuses him.
Danlynn is slumped against a crate. Tears stream down his pale cheeks. He screams again but now Darwin’t can hear the desperation and sadness behind the sound. His hands are raised in a pleading gesture towards the woman who stands over him.
What is going on?
He drops the club down and walks into the opening.
“Darwin’t no!” Danlynn screams, his voice breaking with more tears. It is only then that he sees the blood soaking through her dress. He hesitates. The woman spins on him. Saliva flicking from her lips into his face. Teeth tear through his throat, spilling his blood over her crazed features. Pain flares and he drops, unable to defend himself from the unexpected attack. She lands upon him, driving her teeth into the side of his neck.
The world darkens around him. The journey will end here. He regrets his failure to deliver his message to the Princess. He only hopes that his friends escape this madness and make it all the way. He lets go of the world and feels himself begin to fall.
“Get off him!” Danlynn roars in a rage. All pleading and sobbing gone. Darwin’t grasps back hold onto his senses, fighting to keep from slipping back into his tired mind. He batters his eyelids and sees the flash of a blade. The blood covered face of the ghoul splits down the middle, cleaved in half by the powerful strike. He manages to haul her corpse from him before slipping back into the dark.
He hears but cannot see. Danlynn leans over him, talking words of comfort. Others approach, and he feels the gentle touch of a small soft hand. The scent of apple blossom drifts into his nostrils and he opens his eyes and smiles at Canace.
“Don’t move. Riochald is preparing her things.” She smiles softly, yet her eyes betray her worry. “We are all here. Tarfleam is hurt, but Riochald has given him something for the pain and...” She glances across and into the darkness. A troubled and sad look crosses her face. “He will be fine.”
Darwin’t closes his eyes. Shouts of victory drift over from the town as the flames are finally beaten back. So much death! So much chaos! All because he walked into this town. He does not hold back as the tears begin to flow.
Riochald turns from the sleeping form of Darwin’t and crosses to the hearth where she lifts her empty wine glass to the candle light. “I need more of this,” she mutters to herself but replaces the glass, thoughts of getting merry on wine forgotten before they really began.
She drops heavily into the large plush armchair positioned in front of the crackling fire. The warmth soothes her tired body and mind and she finds her eyelids becoming heavy. What a turn of events! After stopping the bleeding to Darwin’t’s throat they had sent Derry’n and Danlynn into the town to find materials to make a litter to carry the injured man from the ally. They returned however, with men who carried Darwin’t to a large building, probably a guest house, now being used as a makeshift healing ward and were accommodated in this large well-furnished room. At first she had been confused with the treatment. They had done nothing to help stamp out the fire, nor had they helped clear the streets of rubble which is very evident out in the night.
Then it had hit her.
They had offered her as payment to this household. Many of the servants are injured and even the master here has a minor burn upon his arm. They had rushed to save the town from the flames, united as equals in the burning desire to rescue what they have spent their entire lives working for. The master of the house wanted not only to save his business and also that of his competition. Together they stood more chance of saving one or two. Divided, they would have surely watched all the businesses burn. The servants had rallied to save the houses they had served and kept tidy, defended and grown proud of over the suns. People who had crossed paths in the past with heated words or even come to blows worked as one to protect the heart of them all.
Master Malti, a tall and robust character had shooed her away from him when she had offered to treat his arm. “No no. The milkmaid fell rushing to tell us of the fire. She is the worst injured. I put her in my room. I am so ashamed that I cannot remember her name. She saved us all.” He had taken a handful of cloth bandages and some ointment, offering to help her by attending the less injured among his staff. “It is the least I can do. Without them all this would be lost.” He became angry then shouting at himself, trying to remember the name of the young woman who had fallen in her haste to save the man she served. “Natili!” he suddenly yelled and made his way to the top of the house. Riochald trailed behind.
For most of the night she had worked on cuts and burns, tending the sick and reducing coughs brought upon by breathing in smoke.
The door creaks open behind her and she snaps her eyes open, focusing on the dying flames in the fireplace. Soft footsteps approach and she smiles to herself. She is about to ask Canace to pour her another glass of wine when a blackened hand reaches across to take the bottle. She tenses. “Pour me a small glass would you please, Tarfleam?” The burned hand withdraws and his hail one reaches instead. “Let me look at it again.” She says sitting forwards and looking at the man’s face for the first time. What she sees is disturbing. He looks so ill and fragile. The former bully is drawn, with dark patches under his eyes and grazes across his cheeks. But it is the look of loss in his eyes that haunts his face the most. There is emptiness in the way he looks at her that chills through her skin and gives her goose bumps.
“I keep forgetting,” Tarfleam says quietly motioning to the wineglass with a charred finger. “I will probably get used to it.” His face crumples and he begins to sob. Riochald’s heart lurches and she forgets about the suns of torment brought on by this man. She finds her arms wrapped about his form even before she knew she was out of the chair. “I don’t want to get used to it,” he cries, rubbing his noses against her shoulder. “I want my arm back.”
Something hits her in the stomach and she stumbles back. She is about to yell at Tarfleam when she sees that he too is doubled over in pain. Their eyes lock together. Confusion in hers and fear in his. She goes to speak, yet the words die on her lips as a thick black tendril lashes out of the air and grasps hold of Tarfleam’s ruined arm. Both of them scream. Tarfleam pulls backwards, but the thick oily tentacle holds him firmly. It is only then that she looks down at herself. Horror sweeps through her, followed by nauseous retching.
It is short-lived. The thick, black writhing limb snaps backwards, releasing Tarfleam. Both fall backwards in a shower of screams.
Riochald is first to find her feet again and she hurries over to Tarfleam. He takes one look at her and begins to lash out. He thrashes at her with his fists and feet, catching her in the face and sending her sprawling across the floor. Blood flows from both her nostrils but she does not call out or even raise her hand to touch her face. Instead she gets back up and walks over to the frightened man; more a boy now. She has to calm him down somehow and as she approaches she sees one way of doing so.
“Tarfleam, your arm!” She reaches out and touches his shoulder. He flinches from her grasp but does not scream. He looks down at himself and slowly begins to sink back into his sobbing. This time she moves away from him. That dark tentacle had come out of her stomach.
It had come from her and its touch had healed Tarfleam’s arm.
PART TWO
SHADOWS TWIST into the AETHER.
THE NAETHER GROWS and the FORCES of EVIL will RISE
The Princess will herald the end with her life and bring salvation with her death.
Her blood flows for the Aether and her soul is its key.
Her words guide those who try to protect and condemn those who try to hinder.
She is the truest of all spirits and leader of the people.
She will be birthed.
She will lead.
She will rise up into the Aether and pull it down to the Earth.
Heaven and Earth made one; life and death become the same.
The Last Princess of Atlantia must be saved.
D will use the dreams, D will use the wind, D will use the holy gift.
Wings of light will rest upon their backs.
But wherever there is a light there will be a shadow, and the shadows are growing strong.
PROPHECY OF AGES (Godking Dalornious, Prophecy of Ages, 256 BS)
16
THE JEWEL of ATLANTIA
The marble floor is freezing under her feet as she hurries across the hallway. The first of the servants move in the shadows, bustling about their duties, trying to go unnoticed as they fix the house for the rising sun. A girl in palace livery, black dress under a white apron with a white bonnet upon her head and twin red eagles embroidered upon her breast, pushes out of a doorway and slips onto the stone steps behind the main hall. The servant walkways are busier than that of the house. Here everyone has their heads down with work on their minds. The noise is a roar in her ears compared to the utter silence of her residents.
The escape from the upper floors has been a success. Most of the house still sleeps, although she is not under any doubt that her mother will be awake and strolling the halls. This makes sneaking out easier, yet at the same time more nerve-wracking. The thought that at any second her mother will glide around the corner and catch her escaping drives her silently onwards.
It had started the night before at the evening meal. Her mother sharply reminded her of her duties and of the thousands of guests she had invited to watch her speech. Sitting there in one of her most expensive gowns, head covered in a net of diamonds and citrines, studying herself in the back of a silver spoon, she saw it all. Nodding her head and listening to meaningless conversation, laughing at the right times, but never portraying herself as a dumb girl and showing everyone her understanding of politics and warfare. What a bore!
She had decided the moment her bowl of steaming oxen and vegetable soup was placed before her that she would not be around to prove herself to a group of snobs who only cared about wealth and the right society to be seen with.
The plan had come together quickly and had taken a good portion of the meal to manipulate into place. She needed a uniform, one in her size that she could slip on over her undergarments but with enough room to have a thin cloak, blouse and skirt tucked into within making her look fat. That was sorted easily enough. She called Willa to her rooms. She was a quite girl, slightly taller than herself and with the same build. She was also very keen to please. It had not taken much persuasion to get her to bring a spare uniform to her room. Then when the time was right a single harsh word had broken her and she ran from the room in floods of tears. She had felt guilty for doing it and she would make it up to the girl, but not today. Today she was escaping.
To stop her mother coming to her rooms she had made an appointment to see her for breakfast. It was an odd request, but one her mother could not refuse. They were to dine in the lower kitchen. Eat with her mother’s staff. She could tell her mother was less than pleased with the request but knew also that she would enjoy it in the end. She was almost upset to miss the breakfast. She so loved to sit in the kitchen and talk to Poppy, the scullery maid, and Spencer, the man-servant. She even had the odd conversation with Elmo, the scullion, but his flair for strong language and his rank body odor kept her mostly away from him. She and her mother had eaten in there most of her childhood, when her father was alive. He was not one for fancy meals or halls. He preferred the smells of cooking and bustle of work. He even used to wash his own dishes! Her mother was the same deep down. For all her airs and graces she was a normal woman who had found herself a very powerful husband and a place in the Prophecy.
But not her.
She takes the stairs two at a time, keeping her head down, the burden of dirty sheets held out like a weapon, clearing her path.
Then she sees something that turns her blood cold. At the bottom of the stairs, pointing and ordering maids and kitchen staff, waving his cane like a sword, is Master Cubbit, Head of the house, king of these halls. She begins to turn. It is too late.
“You there! Drop the sheets into the laundry and come to me! We have much to do and not the time!” He turns his back on her and bellows out more orders. “Don’t just stand there, grab the brooms! You two, to the east stairs! Margo, you take five up into the chambers and begin to clean and sort bedding. Not you, Paulit. I need you to go into market and fetch cheese and make sure the wine order is on its way. Now!” he claps his hands and hurries down the hallway, the crowd of maids and man-servants hurrying to keep up. The last thing she hears is more orders and an echo of laughter. Master Cubbit is a hard worker and does not tolerate slacking of duties, though at the same time he is fair, and all those under him love him like a father. She too is very fond of him and has confided in him many times. Not today. Today she needs to be out of the house and into the streets without being seen.
She ditches the pile of sheets into the laundry, receiving a wide-eyed startled look from one of the scrubbers, but a finger to lips and a smile silences any spoken words or curtsey.
She backs out of the laundry, grateful to be away from the stifling humid conditions and the powerful stench of boiling dirty water, closing the door gently. She turns, planning on heading into one of the service corridors and out into the lower levels of the main house, having bypassed all the busy upper levels and her meeting with her mother. She collides with a man-servant who drops his burden of potatoes. She apologizes, dropping to her haunches to help pick them up. She keeps her face lowered and he does not seem to recognize her. She begins to rise but one of the potatoes slips from her grasp and she reaches out to grab it but it rolls into the shadow of a tall man. She stares at the brightly polished black boots and a sickening feeling descends in the pit of her stomach. She slowly lifts her face to look at the disapproving expression on Master Cubbit’s. He sighs, takes the potatoes from her, hands them to the man-servant, who scurries away very quickly and then swings his angry face back towards her.
“Your mother has told you has she not about coming down here and wearing the palace livery? What is it this time?” He lowers his glasses to the end of his long nose and looks over the top. “Narinda Ales'd till Abenbeth, Princess of the land of Atlant, grace of all these lands and the Jewel of Atlantia. You do not don a servant’s livery and walk the back halls.” He raises a fist and extends his index finger. “Carrying laundry,” he begins to list. “Crawling around the floor for potatoes. What have you done to your hair? It is beautiful and long and you have it crammed into that bonnet. People have seen you. Some will have recognized you. And with what the day is today as well.”
Narinda lowers her head in shame. For each of his points she had felt more and more guilt about her actions. But the last has angered her. She raises her eyes to meet the head of the house, King of these halls, and plants her hands on her hips.
“It is for that reason that I am leaving the palace for a ride on my horse. Of all the days in the sun I should be able to do one thing in which I desire.” She lowers her voice and softens her tone, ashamed at herself for snapping at this hard-working and loving man. “What I mean is, Master Cubbit, Freden, I want to have one moment of enjoyment on my birthday before the duty and protocol sweep me away and I end up stuffed into a huge dress talking to dull and snobbish people for the rest of the day. Please. Let me go for an
hour. I will not let on that you knew.” She stares into his face, trying to gage the expression he now wears.
Master Cubbit is a tall slender man. He has slightly greying black hair which is always immaculate, a long pointed nose and hard eyes. His jaw has a set to it which makes him appear stern and unfriendly. However the opposite is true. His livery, black shirt and trousers, black boots and black cape also embroidered with the twin eagles, but his are in gold, marking his position as head man-servant, not that anyone would ever call him so. Not even her mother would dare call him a mere man-servant.
He steps aside and nods his head towards the service tunnels. “But if anyone asks me I will tell them I saw you down here. I will not lie for you. Happy birthday, my Princess.” He bows his head formally as she slips past him. She kisses his cheek and hurries away into the tunnel.
Stripping off the bonnet she shakes her long brown hair loose of its clips as she jogs down the last few steps. The arched tunnel opens up into a dank chamber, stale air assaults her nostrils and she is forced to hold her breath as she makes her way into the wine cellar. Three aisles of Barrels, each fifty feet long, fill the huge space. The stale air lifts and is replaced with the scent of fermenting grapes and oakwood. She breathes it in deeply. A smile slips onto her face.
As a child she and a few of the younger maids, some of her nannies and one very grumpy Master Cubbit had come down here to play. Master Cubbit had only allowed them access to the cellar on the condition they did not touch anything. It was a promise she just could not keep. They had begun a game of Hide and Seek. She had opened an empty barrel and clambered inside. A mixture of over-excitement and nerves led to her barrel toppling over and rolling into a cask of freshly delivered Riaz red. One of her mother’s favorites. Both barrels split and she and the cellar were drowned in dark red wine. It had taken a lot of apologizing to her mother but mostly to Master Cubbit. He had been furious.
