“Yeah, that’s true. I figure I can at least take you to Red City. It’s more corrupt than this place. You’ll get your uptight, upright ass stabbed before you make it to an inn. From there, we will see. I am young and adventure appeals to me. Think about it this way; witnesses or not, if I come out of that forest with a good story, maybe something to back it up even if it just the tooth of some beast, let alone if your little castle gets opened, or Kala the Black is killed and men get to go back into the woods, I come out paid. People will tell the tale I tell. They will build on it and I will shape my reputation. Who wouldn’t want to hire me then?” Gruedo leaned back in the chair and put her hands behind her head.
Cyril stared at her, trying to read this uncommon rogue. “I don’t want to rely on someone who will go at the first sign of trouble. I would rather go alone than rely on someone who disappears when things get rough.”
“Hey, don’t worry about me. I know my way around dark places and how to deal with the filth in this world, and I keep my word.” Gruedo said in a level tone. “If you don’t want me, say so; but don’t sit there judging me when you don’t know me.”
The priest looked at the young woman. He recognized something in her spirit; the drive to do something greater, and to find purpose in life. With a quick prayer to Jonath for guidance, he nodded.
“Fine, this is what we’ll do.” Cyril crossed the room and began to stoke the fire as he detailed the plan that he hoped would begin to change the events of the world.
5854 –Thon – Talsā – Mīdā
The jousting knights clashed together on the tournament field and the crowd surged to its feet. The armored knight from the Duchy of General broke his lance on the shield of his opponent, which would bring points. The other had shattered his lance in the faceplate of the knight, which balanced the competition. Lord Jaeken watched with mild interest, thinking of how his son, Cyrus, used to love the sport. Cyril never saw the purpose in jousting. He never understood the honor and glory in winning a contest that, according to him, didn’t help win a war.
Lord Jaeken looked over at the covered seats where the nobility sat. The minor Barons and their entourages huddled together as they pointed at the knight who had been hit in the helm. He was now being taken from his horse by his squires and the field chirurgeon ran forward to check him. After a few tense moments, the medic waved for a stretcher and men carried the injured knight from the arena. Jaeken could hear the laughter from the Barons in the stands above him, and the not so subtle comments of ‘He won’t be troubling us anymore, teach him to put his nose into things that don’t concern him,’ drifted down to him.
That was the last match of the afternoon. There was a special event for the finale. The government had banned gladiator sports in Humbrey hundreds of years ago, but today was the exception. Pages ran onto the grounds and removed the posts and fences used in the civilized combat to clear the ground for a one-time event, the return of gladiators. Dancing girls, wearing much less than was appropriate, took to the field to entertain the crowd while the changeover was completed.
The attitude of the crowd changed as the lightly armored men took the field of combat. People put away their tobacco and pipes, and instead lit strange herbs. Humbrey had not allowed such things in its borders a few years ago, but times were changing. Jaeken asked questions and listened. He heard many times that day how the southern kingdoms – like Trysteria, where Malvor was located - were less traditional, more modern and advanced. The combats in Malvor were nothing like the ones here. They allowed bloodshed; it was a trial of skill, not honor. The best won and no rules applied. Taxes in Malvor were lower since the proceeds of the gladiatorial fights paid for government expenses, instead of taxing the people to death.
Jaeken left soon after the games began. He could not sit through the sight of grown men hurting each other in such a barbaric manner, and related to how Cyril had felt about tourneys. He wandered the streets, pulling his cloak close. He spent time in the pubs that evening. The talk was there also. Malvornick was beginning to sound like some sort of folk hero that arrived just in time to save people from the tyrant.
The city guard did not seem to care what went on right under their noses either. He watched a woman selling her services to men in the street, not in a private house as law required. When the Lord asked the watch about it, they shrugged and said that there was nothing wrong with a man enjoying the pleasure of a woman, and what a hard working citizen did with his money was not their business. The sentries mentioned the Kingdom of Trysteria again, and how rewards or women, or sometimes a house slave, were given as a reward for service in the guard.
All roads led back to Malvornick and his propaganda. Jaeken wondered how he could not have seen this before. Cyril had come to him, alluding to such problems. His son had left because he felt the church and the country were no longer protecting the people. He had pointed to what had happened to his twin brother as proof. Jaeken hoped it wasn’t too late to heed his son’s warning. He swore he would rid his country of this problem.
5854 – Thon – Talsā – Therin
As their journey came closer to Red City, they passed more and more people leaving that area. Most people wouldn’t speak to them, and some made a sign to ward off the evil eye or spit upon the ground when they mentioned they were going to Red City. The handful of people that would speak to them told of horrors in the night. Inns closing their doors before dark, folk placing wreaths of garlic on their doors, screams in the night, and claw marks on doors were just a few of the tales they heard in the brief conversations they had as the hurried people refused to stop and talk even for a few minutes.
Cyril and Gruedo arrived in Red City by midweek, three days after leaving Edgewater. It had been raining and cold for most of their ride and the steam of their horses’ breath led the way. It was just before noon but the sun had yet to appear through the thick cloud cover. The trip had been dismal and both had sunk into their own thoughts during the trip. They approached the city from the north; its silhouette grew larger in the gray mist of the rain. They hunched lower and pulled their hoods down to keep the chill weather out, rain had already collected in their boots, soaked their breeches and both had chaffed in unpleasant places. The flow of people had slowed as they came closer to the city. Cyril had guessed that most of the people who were going to leave, had already. The remaining ones would be the diehards that stayed on until the bitter end, the kind that would go down with the ship, refuse to leave the place they were born and raised, or were part of the reason the others were leaving.
The city gates were just an arch with a low stone wall that extended outward from it and into the distance, presumably circling the city. The mud and muck pulled at their horse’s hooves with a wet sucking sound as they passed the two guards on duty that stood in the archway, trying to stay dry and warm. They huddled over a metal brazier had a low fire burning. Cyril slowed his horse to speak to the guards, and Gruedo shook her head and tugged the priest’s sleeve, and indicted they should move on. Though the guards paid little mind to anyone else, they watched the two’s back as they disappeared into the city proper.
Gruedo took charge and led the way with confidence.
“I know just the place to get what we need,” Gruedo said as she steered her horse around a merchant whose wagon was stuck in a muddy rut.
“I only hope that you and I agree upon what exactly that is,” Cyril grumbled.
The streets were a muddy mess, but as they got past the outer city within a half hour, they came upon another wall and the streets beyond it were cobblestone for the most part.
“The city had grown and expanded and had built a second outer wall, and that was what we passed earlier,” Gruedo explained. She gave her companion a mischievous grin, “We’re headed for the merchant district, I know a tavern there that should suit me.”
The streets were in ill repair; the slippery cobblestones were loose and potholes common. Cyril wished for the sucking mud of the out
er part of the city rather than risking his horse slipping and breaking a leg or worse, him taking a spill and breaking something.
They came to the place that Gruedo had been leading them. It was a rundown tavern called the Bloody Bitch. Cyril looked at the sign then at Gruedo.
“It’s in honor of the slain werewolves,” Gruedo explained. “The village of Aborgas was filthy with them and they attacked Red City. But some guy named Pirtaku killed them all. I’ll tell you more inside.”
They passed the reins of their horses to the shivering boy who waited under the shelter of the porch. They took their saddlebags and other gear into the tavern with them, as the boy lead the animals around back to the stables. They entered a smoke filled room, with a dozen men sat smoking pipes. Everyone stopped and stared at the two newcomers when they entered. Small booths lined the walls and tables sat scattered about the floor. A balcony went all the way around the edge of the room and more booths lined it.
An elderly bard in broad brimmed hat sat in the corner across from the bar on a small raised stage. He played a lute and hummed quietly. Gruedo led Cyril to a table beside the stage. After they sat and a haggard serving maid in a thread bare corset brought them a pitcher of something that Gruedo had asked for and two mostly clean mugs. Gruedo leaned over and dropped a few coins into the minstrel’s hat.
“Tell us what has happened here, friend,” Gruedo said.
The bard nodded at the sound of the coins but didn’t acknowledge the request otherwise. In a few minutes, he changed the tune to a popular but somber song, and began reciting the history of Red City quietly so only Cyril and Gruedo could hear.
“The city is called Red City due to its bloody history. According to history and legend, it had once been overrun by werewolves in the year 5700 on the Day of Phaz. It had been cleansed with the help of an Aeifain named Pirtaku who was dedicated to the Walking God. He brought together a group of heroes in the name of good and hope.”
“This was during another visit from the Talisman. The comet would visit the skies above the world every seventy-five years or so, but normally it would merely appear for a few days to a week and then go along its celestial path. People would blame anything that went wrong on it, as superstitious people do. If their dog died, if their spouse cheated, if the cow wouldn’t milk, and anything else that they wanted to blame on something they couldn’t control. Tales of two headed goats being born, babies stolen from their cribs, trees attacking lumber mills, and other outlandish tales also crop up whenever the Talisman appears.
“The Day of Phaz happens every four years. It’s a time of wondrous and frightening events. It comes between years, after the last day of Milwen and before the first day of Loen. It’s said the Gods would walk the lands and that makes all magic unstable and unpredictable. Most folks give their animals extra food and water the night before, gather indoors with their families, lock the doors, close the shutters and shades, and celebrate. Others feel the Day of Phaz is a day of High Magic and they have grand rituals in private, or sometimes with a group. Most churches hold twenty-four hour ceremonies, but not allow anyone to enter or exit during the service.
“The dates rarely lined up since the Talisman did not appear on a regular schedule. But one hundred and fifty-four years ago they did line up. They say Pirtaku came to the area to find a living dead demon in the small village of Aborgas to the west of Red City, but when he arrived in here he was faced with hordes of half-wolf, half-man creatures. He and his companions freed Red City from its curse then went to Aborgas to face the creature there that had been feeding on the souls of the people in the surrounding countryside.”
The bard stopped to take a drink from his mug and looked into it, a frown on his face. Gruedo refilled it from the pitcher on the table. Someone else called out for a livelier tune and the bard plucked out a dancing jig for a while. Before he had finished the song, the crowd had turned back to their conversations and he leaned towards Gruedo and Cyril again and continued his tale.
“Now the Talisman has come again; some say it arrived on the equinox of last year. It has been here longer than any other visit. The equinox and new moon lie just three days away and the holy day of Chanian and the Changing Wheel hold their monthly celebrations on the same day. People feel this means something. Already the townsfolk speak of things in the night. They tell of lights from the cliffs in Aborgas, beasts from the forest of the Fae, Kala the Black near New Roval and Lysunius, and of other portents. Milk souring, warts appearing, goats clucking, and chickens mooing. The list goes on,” the bard said with a wink.
Gruedo dropped a few more coins into the man’s hat, leaned back in her chair, picked up her mug, and studied the rest of the patrons in the room. Cyril stared at a small drip of water coming in from the window as it fell from the windowsill to the floor. Gruedo stood and grabbed the pitcher and her mug. She nodded at the bard - who nodded back - gestured for Cyril to follow, and led the way to the upstairs balcony.
When she found a more private table, she sat down and waited for Cyril to do the same. Then she leaned forward and asked in a hushed voice, “So what do you think?”
“About what we should do?” Cyril took a drink from his mug. “I think we should find a room and in the morning, hopefully it will be better weather, and we can head south. Maybe follow the coast around to avoid the thick of the woods, since it seems things have already decided to come out and play.” He stopped and stared into his mug. “This isn’t too bad.”
“Then the mug is probably dirty,” said Gruedo with a wink. Ignoring the look Cyril gave her in return she continued, “We should have something to eat here, and then get a room next door at the sister inn to this tavern.”
“Oh? And what is it called? The Bloody Bitch Bed and Breakfast?” Cyril asked.
“No,” Gruedo answered with a straight face, “Two Bit Rest.”
The rain continued. Dinner consisted of mushroom stew with a dash of red wine thrown in. It was a specialty of the house and had been perfected over years of serving it. The tavern had a fetish for serving drinks and meals with red in them. It served red potatoes only, many red wines, several dishes with red peppers or red cabbage, and they preferred to serve red meat.
A thud hit the shutters on the second floor beside the table at which Gruedo and Cyril were sitting. A stifled scream came from the street below. Gruedo stared at Cyril over her wooden spoon, a large lump of mushroom balanced on the end. Another thud sounded from the front of the building and something rolled off the porch roof. Gruedo’s mushroom fell back into her stew with a wet splash. Cyril leapt from his chair and ran to the window, pulled it up and pushed open the shutters.
In the street below was a mob, lit by the flickering light of oil lamps hung outside of businesses. A slow-moving, shuffling, grayish mob. It lumbered and shambled forward, and herded the people on the street in front of it like sheep.
Cyril watched as a woman slipped in the mud and fell within the reach of the humanoid creatures. One reached out and caught a handful of her hair and another grabbed her arm and brought it to its mouth with a jerk. Cyril heard the crack of bone as the arm bent in an unnatural way. A third wrapped both of its arms around one of the woman’s legs and hugged it to its mouth as it too began to bite into her flesh. Her screams echoed off the building.
One man ran to try to help her. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her away from the horrors. He almost succeeded. As he pulled her away the one that had her hair in its grip, tore loose a hank of bloody scalp. The other that had her arm was showered with blood as the bone tore through the skin. The monster lowered its mouth to tear and rip at the exposed muscle. The man froze in horror as he saw what had happened; he wasted the valuable seconds he should have used to escape. Four more surrounded the man, and pawed at him. They grabbed him and tore at him with dirty nails that had become claws. He joined the woman in dying, rather than saving her.
Cyril began to climb out of the window to help the people below. A hand on his sho
ulder stopped him.
“Take the stairs, you will do them no good if you slip on that porch roof and break your neck jumping to the street,” Gruedo said. Cyril nodded and turned to run for the stairs.
“I’ll go out the window,” Gruedo said with a smile and launched herself out the window, rolled across the porch and sprang from the roof into the leading monsters. She hit the ground with a roll and came up with a long dagger in each hand. The smell of the creatures almost overcame her before they even realized she was there.
The things that were overrunning the town and devouring its citizens were decayed parodies of people. They were partially decomposed corpses stalking about on stiff joints and withered tendons and muscles. They moved in the jerky way a puppet moves when operated by a child. Many showed signs of infestation, maggots crawling across their milky eyes, a beetle running from a hole in the ribs to disappear into a hole in the throat, or a spray of roaches when the man tried to punch one in the last defiant act before it tore away most of his face with its remaining teeth.
The things reached for Gruedo. She felt the wrongness of their existence. The dead had risen and come to town for dinner. They were dressed for a formal dinner too. Most of the inhuman mob was dressed in fine clothes; the rest were dressed for bed. Their clothes were stained and covered with mud, as if they had dug their way up from the ground. Gobs of rotting flesh hung from faces and loose gray skin hung from arms, necks, and bellies, where it appeared they had lost weight suddenly on some mad diet. It made Gruedo’s mind spin. She felt like running, and could not control the mad laughter that spilled from her lips. They reached for her and dragged her forward into the mass of stinking flesh of the mob.
Gruedo heard a faint voice, she knew it was loud, but it was hard to hear and seemed very distant. A serene feeling washed over her and her senses returned. The monsters hesitated and looked over her form for a moment. She twisted her body and fell from their grip and to the muddy ground. Gruedo whipped her feet around, knocking one of the clumsy creatures to the ground, but others still had hold of her arms and clothing. She slashed out with her daggers, aiming for the tendons that kept the monsters erect and the once soft tissue of the forearms that controlled their tight grip on her.
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 16
