No one stopped her as she mounted the steps and opened the doors. Inside, the place stank of unwashed bodies and unhandled waste. Trash was strewn about, stains blotched the furniture, and large scratches marred the floors.
Jocasta stopped. Ahead of her was a once-grand staircase, now filthy. A man was sprawled on the bottom step, his back against the large newel post and an empty bottle by his side.
“Where is Jamshir?” she demanded.
“You mean Lord Jamshir?” The man giggled and pointed up the stairs. “He’s up there, somewhere.”
Jocasta moved on, not bothering to thank the drunk.
At the top of the stairs she followed the wide hallway until it came to large double doors, thrown open to a huge room, lined with heavily curtained windows along one wall.
Jamshir was seated in a large chair, apparently talking to himself, even though there was an enormous man standing slightly behind him. That must be General Bragnold, she thought to herself.
He was a disappointment. Instead of a fierce warrior, he simply stared at nothing, his chin glistening from the drool that occasionally dripped from his lower lip.
“Jamshir,” she said, striding into the room.
The Lord of the Greenweald stopped his muttering, his face frozen. Then he slowly turned to her, his eyes narrowing.
“It’s Lord Jamshir. I forgive you this time, but if it happens again, Bragnold here will remove your head from your body.”
Jocasta glanced at the general. She wouldn’t have been intimidated by him at any time, and certainly not now.
“Although,” Jamshir continued. “It would be a shame to remove such a beautiful head from such a fine body.” He grinned at her. “What can I do for you? Name it, and it’s yours.”
She moved closer to him, trying to ignore the foul odor that rose from his body every time he moved.
“I come as a friend, Lord Jamshir, and perhaps an ally. There are forces at work against you. I want to help.”
“Against me?” Jamshir tittered, an annoying high-pitched laugh that was out of sync with his features. “Why would anyone be against me? I’m the hero of the Greenweald, a throwback to the age of heroes according to most. I saved us all from the Soul Gaunt attack, holding up the lantern, regardless of how badly I was burned!”
He held a trembling arm over his head, keeping it there for a moment before lowering it again.
“I was the savior,” he said quietly.
Jocasta studied him. The rumors of his madness were not only true; if anything they were understated.
“Be that as it may,” she said, “you have enemies. Those jealous of you, perhaps. But I will stay by your side and guard you.”
“I have Bragnold for that.”
“Yes. Still there’s never any harm in having more friends.”
Jamshir rose from his seat and approached her. He walked in a circle around her, his gaze moving up and down.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” he said, stepping closer, “but maybe we can work out something else.”
He held out his hand to her. Jocasta looked around at the state of this once majestic House. Thaddeus may have been telling the truth. Whatever was coming for the Greenweald was already here and would be coming for the rest of them.
Swallowing her disgust, she took Jamshir’s hand and let him lead her from the room, leaving Bragnold behind, staring at nothing.
Chapter 44
Greta helped Celia clean off her hand, using a rough cloth to scrub at it until any signs of the slimy filth were gone. It still tingled, and her fingers were a bright red, which could have been from the scouring. Regardless, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open as she submitted to Greta’s ministrations.
“Get some sleep,” the older woman said when she finished. “I can’t believe you’ve been out there all night.”
“We thought you were gone for sure, girl.” Friedrich’s voice was rough, but the hand he placed on her shoulder was gentle.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring her out.” Celia had told them about finding Lyssa in the manor and her reaction when she tried to bring her into the front room. There had been tears, but both thanked her for trying.
“Go to bed, dear,” Greta repeated. “We’ll talk more when you wake.”
Celia barely remembered walking to the bed. She lay down, her head found the pillow, and she was gone.
When she woke, the room was washed with the dim light of midafternoon.
“You’re awake,” Friedrich said. “You must be hungry. Come.”
Celia made her way to the table and sat while Friedrich dished up a thin stew from a pot on the stove.
“Where’s Greta?”
“Gone to get some more turnips, if she can. She’s a marvel with them.”
Celia smiled and glanced at the door worriedly. Dunfield wasn’t a safe place, no matter what time of day or night it was.
“Don’t worry.” Friedrich had caught her glance. “My Greta can take care of herself. Besides, she’s only gone next door. The widow there has a small plot that she’s been able to coax a few root vegetables out of. How she does it is a mystery to me. But Greta will get a turnip or two, and in return, I’ll repair her door again.”
“Again?”
“Afraid so. Word has gotten around that she has a food source, and some have tried to take advantage. Luckily, the door is stout, the widow armed, and most thieves are cowards. Still, we’d like her to come here with us, but she won’t hear of it. Instead, we try to take care of each other.”
Celia regarded Friedrich as she sipped the broth from the stew. “Why aren’t there more like you here?”
Friedrich glanced at her, his cheeks coloring slightly. “Ah, there’s plenty around. Less than what were, at one time. But we’re still here.”
“And those outside? The ones who tried to escape?”
Friedrich sighed as he brought two more bowls to the table, sat, and began slowly stirring a spoon in one of them.
“That was a horrible thing. Horrible enough that none have tried in many weeks now.”
“Why are they dead, though? What happened to them?”
“No one really knows. After things went bad, when the hunters, as you call them, came and started taking folk, and the decent people started being overwhelmed by those who preyed on others… well, some tried to leave. A family at first.”
Friedrich stopped and stared into his stew. “He was a friend, actually. Someone I worked with. I remember him telling me, ‘Fried, this isn’t home anymore, and it’s not safe for my family. I’ve got girls and you see what’s been going on.’ And he was right, too. Lyssa was still little and we could keep her inside, away from trouble. Esau’s girls were older, teenagers, and the type that was left here…” He shook his head. “He had no choice really.
“Greta and I went to the gate with his family, to see them off. We’d miss them, but knew they were doing what was best. We pulled the gates open…they were still working then, you see, although the guards were long gone. Esau headed out, his family trailing behind him. He turned and waved once, then set his sights to the horizon and walked on.”
The door to the house opened and Greta entered, two scraggly turnips clutched in her hand. “Dinner!” Her smile faded when she took in the scene. “What now?”
“Nothing bad, dear,” Friedrich said. “Celia was asking about those who tried to leave this place.”
“Esau,” Greta frowned.
“Esau,” Friedrich agreed. He motioned to the still steaming bowl of stew on the table. Greta sat, but didn’t reach for the spoon.
“Now, as I was saying,” Friedrich continued, “Esau and his family began walking away, and all seemed well. No one challenged it, there was no outcry. I was beginning to think that he had the way of it, that maybe I should grab Greta and Lyssa and light out after him.”
“Thank the gods we didn’t,” Greta said.
“Indeed. Thank the gods. Esau started to slow down. Almost as if
he were dragging a heavy weight. Behind him, his girls were already stopped, and his wife was barely moving at all. Then…”
He stopped, swallowed and found Greta’s hand.
“Then, they came. The rats. Huge, swollen things, they swarmed up out of the grass and bit them. They never tried to eat them, they just took a single bite, then faded back out of sight. But those bites must have hurt, because we could hear their screams. I started to go out to them, but Greta grabbed hold of me and refused to let me go. Then another ran past me, cursing me for a coward. He made it as far as the first girl before he started to slow down as well, a horrible look of confusion on his face. He turned to come back, but never made it. After a few steps, he stopped too, and the rats came for him.”
Celia stopped eating, the terrible scene that Friedrich was describing playing out before her.
“It took two days for them to die,” Friedrich finally continued. “One by one, they collapsed, their groans and wails still coming from time to time. Their skin turned black and swollen, and still they couldn’t move. Once they fell, the rats returned…and then the end came quicker, although not any easier.”
“But there were so many bodies out there,” Celia protested. “Surely once that happened to Esau and his family no one else would attempt it.”
“Of course, they did,” Greta said, gently. “People were desperate and thought of all kinds of ways of trying. Some, those who were younger and faster, made it further than others. That gave hope that someone could make it out, maybe get help. And a couple did make it, or at least we think so. They made it far enough to get out of sight at any rate, although we never saw them again. No one has tried now for a long time.”
“And don’t you be getting any ideas in that head of yours, girl,” Friedrich growled. “We just got you back again.”
Celia smiled at him in reassurance. But she was thinking. A couple had made it. And she was much faster than anyone else in this town. Perhaps she could make it. Besides, she hadn’t felt any effects like they were describing when she came here.
If she could get away, she could get help, and maybe find out where all the hunters went.
She didn’t want to worry her hosts, who had been kind to her, so she didn’t tell them what she was thinking. Instead, “I’m going to go out at dusk.” She raised her hand to forestall their objections. “I’ll be careful. I want to see if they all come back, or if the one that’s still here is out. If it’s only the one, this time I’m getting that mask off him. Then we’ll see what we’re dealing with.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The streets were empty in the dim light of dusk. No hunters were evident and the door to the manor stayed firmly shut. As the light began fading to true night, a few residents began to emerge, although none approached her. She saw furtive glances her way and caught whispered comments. It seemed that the story of her encounter with the red hunter had made the rounds.
All well and good. At least she wouldn’t have to worry too much about being bothered by them. And she could still keep her eyes open for the man who thought to lock her in the manor. That was a score that she would settle.
She took a walk to the gates, peering through into the darkness. She couldn’t see the bodies, but every now and then the grass rustled as something ran through it.
She would go. Tomorrow when it was light. If anyone could make it out of here, she could. She’d get back to the Mar-trollid camp, and hope they were still there. If not, she would track them to wherever they went. How hard could it be with their heavy wagons? And if they couldn’t help the town of Dunfield, she’d find out where else she could go.
If all else failed, she’d try to find a way back to the Greenweald. Something other than the gate that was supposedly here somewhere, and get help there. She’d return at the head of the Whispering Pines army and drive the evil from Dunfield, turning it back over to the likes of Greta and Friedrich once more.
“Dark out there.” The voice came from behind her. It was deep and calm. Yet it held a certain tenseness to it.
She turned. It was hard to see the man in the gloom. He stood several yards away, down the street, surrounded by a small pack of children. At first, she thought maybe he was another predator of the town, come to try his luck.
But he was too tall. He was taller than her. And she knew that voice.
She stepped forward, her heart hammering in her chest. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out as she ran forward. He met her halfway, and then she couldn’t say anything at all. Her breath was being squeezed out of her, and nothing ever felt so good.
Chapter 45
Solomon walked the streets, finding no sign of the man who took his sword and other possessions. Everywhere, he saw the same thing that he noticed when he first entered Dunfield. Sullen looks, rudeness, an unwillingness to engage. Yet, if he looked closer, there were signs of what he would consider normalcy.
Over there, a young man walking with his family, hand to his belt where a stout piece of wood was stowed. On the surface he appeared ready to fight, eager for it even. But deeper, he kept his hand on his wife’s back, guiding her gently, and his eyes moved from side to side. He wasn’t seeking trouble, he was merely ready for it if it found them and would do what he needed to protect those he loved. The young man’s eyes met his and Solomon smiled, but the eyes passed on with no acknowledgement.
There, an older man and woman stayed together, facing forward, moving quickly to whatever destination called to them. And as he watched, the old woman bent to hand something to a small girl who sat on the street. The girl looked up at her, grabbed whatever it was that was offered, sprang to her feet and ran off without a word. The old woman sighed, the old man patted her shoulder and they continued.
Even here, in the midst of whatever happened to Dunfield, whatever it was that brought out the horribleness in so many, there were still those that clung to decency and kindness. And it was that which made Solomon more determined than ever to rid this place of the evil infesting it.
“Hey!” a thin voice called from behind him.
Solomon turned and one of Christoph’s pack came running.
“We found it!” The boy was out of breath, his cheeks flushed with excitement.
“Really? That’s great. Can you show me where?”
The boy nodded, his face split in a grin as he reached out to grab Solomon’s hand before stopping, his face changing to a picture of shock and fear. Solomon gently closed his fingers over the boy’s.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Lead on.”
His smile was reflected again from the boy who tugged at him as he took off down the road in a trot, forcing Solomon to either jog to keep up, or to let go of his hand. Solomon jogged.
Moments later they rounded a corner and there was Christoph and the rest, leaning against a wall, watching a building across the street. Christoph’s eyes flickered to the boy’s hand holding on to Solomon, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he lifted his chin to indicate the doorway they were watching.
“In there. Markus saw him through the window, so I took a look. He’s got a sword all right, and I’m betting it’s yours. But if you had any money, I think it’s gone.”
“What makes you think that?”
Christoph shrugged. “You’ll see.”
A bit of his former sullenness seemed to have returned to him. Solomon disengaged his hand from the boy’s and held it out.
“Thanks, Christoph. I appreciate the help.”
Christoph stared at the offered hand for a moment, then reached out and shook it in a firm grip.
“Remember. Lunch, and the story of how you got over a plague rat bite.”
“I remember. I’ll be back in a few and we’ll go.”
He smiled again and began to cross the street.
“Hey, Solomon,” Christoph called when he was halfway across. Solomon turned back. “Watch your back. They fight dirty.” The rest of the kids were standing upright now, watching
him, anxiety on their faces.
“Thanks,” Solomon said again. He grinned. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He could hear rough laughter as he approached the door, which stood open, letting a small amount of light into the interior. Solomon stepped into the doorway and paused, letting his eyes adjust.
The noise died down briefly, then swelled again as most in the bar glanced his way, then ignored him, much as everyone in Dunfield had done ever since he arrived there.
The inside of the place was no surprise. A long, rough wooden bar spanned one wall, with a haggard bartender working behind it. The man was portly, but with the loose flesh that comes of not eating well or regularly. There were no women, only men scattered about the room, all in various stages of inebriation. Some laughed and pounded on tables, a few sat by themselves glowering at the rest and one was snoring loudly, his head down on the table, a spilled drink pooled under his cheek.
And there, sitting with his back to Solomon was the man who had attacked him and stolen his items. Solomon’s sword was buckled around his waist and stuck out behind him as he sat in a rickety chair, lifting a mug to his mouth.
His companions were the two who had helped him, and it was they who first noticed Solomon’s approach. Their eyes widened, their mouths opened in “o’s” of surprise and then he was there.
“You have something of mine,” Solomon said quietly.
The background noise in the bar died down completely.
To his credit, the man with the sword didn’t appear to be remotely frightened. Solomon imagined that was what came from a long career of bullying those weaker than you and finding no resistance.
“Don’t know who you are, friend, but I got nothing of yours. Now, move along and I won’t turn around. Cause if I do, it’s not going to end well for you.”
“The sword. You took it from me when I was incapacitated. I want it back.”
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