The Awakening (The Fempiror Chronicles Book 1)

by George Willson

Barliman gazed away from him off to a corner of the ceiling as Zechariah had often seen him do while he was thinking. Zechariah was afraid a poor attempt at embellishment was coming, but if the cause was what he feared, he would know it.

  “Well,” Barliman began dramatically, turning his head back to Zechariah, “it looked to me like some kind of monster out there in the form of a man. He picked up Ben like a sack of grain and tossed him against Haugins’ feet. Then, he bent over him and was doing something before Ben let out the awfulest scream you ever heard. Now, I’m not one to believe in such things, but to me, it was some kind of demon doing something downright unspeakable to him for him to scream like that. I never heard a man in all my days make that kind of sound.”

  Zechariah nodded, completely serious. “What did this thing look like?” he asked.

  “He looked like a man,” Barliman replied, and he looked at the other men in the tavern for confirmation. Zechariah glanced at them, but they only shrugged. The windows of the tavern had their curtains drawn, so they would not have seen the square. “But,” Barliman continued, “sure as I stand before you, I swear he had glowing red eyes. He looked right at me, he did, and I know those eyes were shining back at me. Then he left so fast, I could almost say he had wings on him. Nobody moves that fast.”

  Zechariah nodded thoughtfully. He knew what he was looking for, although it would not possess glowing eyes or wings. He cursed himself for not paying attention to the fields around him as he was running into Hauginstown. The rogue would not have gotten that far after the scream had Zechariah been watching for him. Now it was too late. The rogue could be anywhere in the time he had wasted in the tavern, but at the same time, he would not have known for sure before he had talked to Barliman.

  “Can I get you an ale while you’re here, friend?” Barliman asked him as casually as if nothing had happened.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Whitt,” Zechariah said with an uncomfortable smile, “I didn’t bring anything to barter with.”

  Barliman scoffed and waved him off. “Never mind that,” he said with a laugh. “I know you’re good for it. Just bring a little extra when you come in next time.”

  Zechariah gratefully accepted Barliman’s offer since he was undoubtedly in for a long night, and he was uncertain whether he would find what he was looking for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Victim

  Zechariah left the tavern only a few minutes after he had finished his drink. No one else had left yet, and they had expressed considerable concern at him doing so. He walked to the statue in the square and found some evidence of a scuffle – fresh, heavy footprints and torn grass – but no sign of the attacker or his victim.

  He walked around the outside of the town, checking in every opening he could find to see if the attacker had stowed himself and his victim into some crevasse long overlooked by the townspeople, but those areas were few, and those that were neglected were also empty. He had been over this area many times over the years. There were no new hiding places, and the old places remained empty. He knew the sun would be coming up soon, but its light was not yet showing over the horizon, so he still had some time left. He searched his memory for anywhere within a short distance where a rogue could have quickly disappeared.

  Then he remembered the Millers’ windmill. They lived east of town, and ever since the owner had died, the place was abandoned. He had run across it while the Millers were still there and had conducted a thorough search of the grounds around it to see if there was anything hiding near them. A short distance to the east of their house, the land sloped steeply down a smooth hill that leveled out into open plains that stretched out for miles from there. There was nowhere for anyone to hide unless the rogue had taken his victim to the nearest town of Frinton, which was some miles away.

  Zechariah broke into a run across the distance to the mill. As he approached the door, it occurred to him that he still did not have his sword with him. He had no time to go back for it tonight, but he also had to find out if the rogue was hiding here, armed or not. He opened the door to the mill and walked in.

  A layer of dust that had not been disturbed in quite some time covered the inner workings of the mill. He carefully looked over the darkened floor for any evidence of recent activity, but nothing had disturbed this house for weeks at least. There was no one within its walls, so Zechariah could only assume that the rogue had gone to Frinton with his victim since he would have been able to reach that town before sunrise if he had left when Zechariah had first heard the scream.

  Zechariah walked out of the Miller house and strolled to the steep slope to the east. He stopped well before it sloped down and gazed toward the far off horizon across the bare, grassy plain, but no sign of tent or habitation had sprung up since the last time he had seen it. The barest hint of light was showing from the oncoming day, so he knew that his search this evening had ended.

  He turned back to his mound, which he knew he would just be able to reach before the sun actually came up over the horizon to threaten him. He ran full speed passing to the south of Hauginstown and enjoyed the rush of the wind across his face. He reached the short passageway in the side of his mound, which led to the door to his home just as the sun flashed over the ground behind him, lighting the world for another day that he could have no part of.

  His search was not complete, however. He would conduct another search first thing the next evening and then head to Frinton to see what he could learn there. He would stay the day there if he had to, but he was determined to find this rogue and bring him to justice, hopefully before he could hurt too many of the human populace.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  When Zechariah emerged the following evening, he wore a dark ankle-length riding coat that covered his tunic and pants. He had a curved scabbard strapped to his back and wore metal gauntlets on his wrists and ankles. This evening, he was prepared to finish what he started last night. He would not be interacting with any of the people of Hauginstown who were familiar with his unarmed appearance.

  He walked toward the town on its western side to begin his perimeter search again just in case he had missed anything the previous night. Since it was early in the evening, he scanned the fields as he walked to check for movement.

  As he neared the houses on the west side of town, he heard voices. It was still early, so the townspeople would not be in bed, and there was likely no danger to them at this hour. He listened closely to the conversation, and it sounded like someone was being chastised for being out at night. It appeared that the local mayor had declared a ban on nightly activity. That was good. It would keep them safe until he was able to sort this out.

  In this instance, the breaking of the ban was not the only thing the older man was upset over. A young man had taken the man’s daughter out alone at night. He sounded fairly angry about it, and Zechariah was sure he would feel the same way had he any children. When he heard the young man blurt out a request for the daughter’s hand in marriage, Zechariah stopped listening. It was a private conversation that he had no business eavesdropping upon.

  He walked slowly around the western side of the town checking the same areas he had gone over the previous evening to no avail. He had not expected to find anything, but he had to be thorough before he would consider leaving the town to fend for itself. Then in an instant, he learned that he should have kept listening to that conversation.

  A scream broke the silence of the evening. He was too late.

  He ran around the northwest corner of town and passed quickly through a small grove of trees that grew there. He gazed across the short distance to where someone was leaning over the body of that young man, not much more than a boy, in the center of the grassy square. Whatever the father’s answer to his proposal was, it no longer mattered.

  Zechariah narrowed his eyes, and he spotted the nilrof in the leaning person’s hand. The existence of such a device could only mean one thing: Tepish. He sprang from hiding, charged across the square, and swiftly k
icked the Tepish off his victim, throwing him into the side of the statue.

  The Tepish hit the ground, dropping the used nilrof in the grass, but quickly sprang back to his feet and shook off the attack. The Tepish looked at him, angry.

  Zechariah had an anger of his own and spoke with a voice of firm authority and confidence as if nothing anyone said had any business countering him. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but transmutating humans into Fempiror is a blatant violation of the Rastem Code.” It had been some time since he had instructed anyone of this, but the words were second nature to him. This was his lost life.

  The Tepish laughed. “The code is dead, old man, and your Rastem Order will soon be dead, too.”

  “Leave this town, malklek,” he said, using an insult from his native Felletterusk tongue.

  “Or what?” the Tepish challenged.

  “Or you don’t leave at all,” Zechariah responded.

  The Tepish smiled. “Fine,” he said and moved towards his victim. Zechariah was not going to allow him to take the boy. As a Rastem, he had a responsibility to the recently transmutated, so he blocked the Tepish’s path.

  “He stays,” Zechariah said.

  “You have no claim on him,” the Tepish replied.

  “Nor do you,” Zechariah said.

  The Tepish drew a two handed long sword from the scabbard at his side. Zechariah looked over the young Tepish briefly to assess the threat. His sword was simple in design, and looked like the Tepish Order had issued it to him, so its user may or may not be familiar enough with its balance. He assumed that since the Tepish had drawn the sword, the Order had at least trained him to use it. However, given his young appearance, it was unlikely that he would be a match for Zechariah. He might be older that he looks, but Zechariah was younger than this youth when he first picked up a sword, so his experience would be more than a match for this Tepish child.

  Zechariah reached into his scabbard and drew his own sword, fashioned by his own hand many, many years ago. Its thin design was reminiscent of the Japanese katana complete with a longer than average hilt, which was very ornate in its appearance of crisscrossing tightly wound black and brown fabric. The blade was very thin with a slight curve to it. He had etched its surface with the letters of the Felletterusk language that spell out “Rastem.”

  Zechariah held his sword in a defensive stance. The Tepish attacked at once. Blow after blow flew forth at a blinding speed. Zechariah’s style was deliberate and quick in every move, while the Tepish swung his sword wildly and seemed almost cocky in his delivery. Zechariah perceived that the Order had trained their fighter fairly well, but this Tepish would be easy to defeat. He needed information first.

  Zechariah allowed a swing to come close to him as he easily ducked to avoid it. In return, he swung at the Tepish’s feet, and the Tepish jumped up on the side of the statue and then flipped over Zechariah to land behind him. He took a swing, but Zechariah anticipated it and blocked it. Zechariah returned to defending the Tepish’s simple onslaught and circled around him.

  With a series of quick blows, Zechariah backed the Tepish up against the statue and held him there, their swords crossed between them. The young Tepish struggled against Zechariah’s strength but to no avail.

  “Who are you?” Zechariah asked him again.

  The Tepish smiled. “A Redäl Kötz of the Order of Tepish,” he answered. Zechariah smirked. A lone Redäl Kötz was not a part of the Tepish hierarchal structure. Perhaps this was little more than a lone warrior.

  “Tell me, Redäl Kötz,” Zechariah challenged, “where are your Fälskrüz?”

  “If you are so wise to know of the Fälskrüz, old man,” the Tepish replied, “then you should also know of the Redäl Kötz who find their own Fälskrüz.”

  Zechariah did not like this answer. He knew of these Redäl Kötz: the acquisition rank that had no subordinates but served the Order to transmutate new recruits. It confirmed a suspicion he held for some years, but he needed more. “Who is the Elrod Malnak?” he demanded.

  The Tepish laughed. “You’ll never find out,” he said, and with a move that surprised Zechariah, the Tepish ducked to one side, escaping Zechariah’s grip.

  The Tepish continued to swing for Zechariah, but Zechariah remained faster than he did, and the Tepish was using all his energy too quickly. Zechariah was getting concerned that all of this might bring too much attention, and that he would be unable to get the Tepish’s victim out of here before people finally did get curious enough about the noise they were making to gather some numbers together and investigate. The risk was too great.

  Zechariah finally attacked. With one swift move, he twirled the Tepish’s weapon with his sword and threw it clean out of his hands off to one side before he ran his sword into the Tepish. The Tepish had a look of complete surprise on his face. He probably expected to fare better against Zechariah, but he was an amateur. Zechariah leaned in closely.

  “Again, who is the Elrod Malnak?” Zechariah asked.

  The Tepish laughed weakly. He spat blood into Zechariah’s face.

  Zechariah was desperate for anything. “Who is your Kepinürsk?”

  The Tepish only laughed again. He leaned in close to Zechariah. “The Tepish will live forever,” he said weakly before dying.

  Zechariah pulled his sword out of the Tepish allowing him to drop dead to the ground. Zechariah removed a cloth from his pocket and wiped the blood from his sword before returning the sword to its scabbard on his back. He looked at the Tepish lying dead before him and shook his head.

  What a waste, he thought. To be so filled with hate that you are willing to throw your life away in such a fashion. He reached down, removed the Tepish’s scabbard, and then walked to where the sword had landed on the ground nearby. He sheathed the sword and tied it to his waist.

  He walked to where the Tepish had dropped the nilrof and found that during their fight, they had crushed the device into the hard ground, shattering the glass and flattening the soft metal. It would never harm anyone again, and he doubted it would convince anyone of a Tepish attack. He decided to take it anyway as it would be better to have it than not. He picked up the nilrof remains, walked to the rogue, and knelt beside him.

  He searched the Tepish’s body for any other indication of the Order’s involvement, but other than the nilrof satchel, this rogue could easily be a resident of the town. He removed the satchel along with its belt, wrapped it around his own waist next to the sword, and deposited the crushed nilrof within it.

  He looked around briefly and saw candles lit behind some of the nearby house windows. He could just see the face of Barliman Whitt behind his window. He needed to leave.

  He also needed to dispose of the rogue’s body, but he had to get the victim out of town as well. He had spent too much time here already. As he looked between the rogue and his victim, an idea occurred to him. The two were dressed similarly, and they were very nearly the same size. The victim would never be able to return, and if he left them a body, it would allow them to mourn their loss as opposed to hoping that he might return someday.

  Zechariah thought quickly. He could not guarantee that the sun would rise and burn the body before someone found it. He also could not just burn the body in the square, as that would attract undue attention and possibly burn the town if the wind blew the flames across the road. He also felt that allowing the people to find the remains in the square would lend an unfortunate air to the quiet area. He needed to leave the rogue just out of town to expose him to the sun in the morning before anyone would find him, but close enough for the residents to find him easily.

  He walked back to the Tepish’s victim, knelt next to the boy, and removed his hat to see his face. So young, Zechariah thought. Another waste. He had a duty to perform now, and it had been a long time since he had done it. He carefully picked up the boy who only moments before had asked for a young woman’s hand in marriage along with the boy’s hat and laid him over his shoulder. He wa
lked to the Tepish, gripped his body around the waist, and held him easily at his side.

  With a gentle, but quick run, he took the road out of town and turned to the east. Within eyeshot of the rear of the businesses, he laid the Tepish on the ground, his feet to the east, and opened his shirt, so that when the sun arose, it would set his body on fire as it did so many before him. When the people of the town find him, they will easily mistake him for their lost son. It was not elegant, but they would be safe and have a body to grieve over.

  He turned to the west and broke into a run again to disappear with his unfortunate passenger into the darkened fields west of Hauginstown.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hauginstown

  David Taylor was a handsome, well-built young man with sharp, blue eyes and short, brown hair, and on this day, he churned a shirt in a barrel of blue dye. It was boring, tedious work, and his father had only assigned him this duty because, at the age of seventeen, he was the youngest of the three Taylor brothers. He hated it, but also understood the necessity of it. After all, it was his family’s work to be purveyors of garments, and it was his duty to learn it.

  This is not to say that he was a master of the trade by any means. No, the privilege of learning the finest ins and outs of the tailoring business had gone to his oldest brother, James, who not only displayed mastery but also shared ownership of the family business with his father, Jonathan. David and his other brother, Mark, could choose to continue working in Hauginstown or to take the family trade to another town to make their own lives.

  While David at least understood the business, Mark was, in David’s opinion, completely incompetent at it and did not intend to leave Hauginstown to go anywhere. It was also David’s opinion that Mark should be out here in the alley churning the dying shirt to allow David more experience in the shop. But knowing Jonathan, this was not to be. The youngest always performed the menial tasks around the shop. That’s just the way it is, and until James marries and has children old enough to do this, it would be David’s lot for as long as he remained.