Getting to his knees, Simon glanced down.
It was a body.
He rolled off and backed up a few paces. Swallowing, he spotted another body. Fredrick, one of the guards, dead. His body was fried to a crisp. Simon knew it was Frederick by his half-melted personalized sword.
“No,” Simon muttered before he regained his feet and headed forward once more.
He entered the camp and stopped short. Bodies littered the ground around their campfire. Every man was dead, almost unrecognizable, as though they had been burnt in a fire.
“Alasdair!” Simon shouted and ran forward.
He should have grabbed the older man before he'd headed out of camp. When he'd heard the noise, his reaction came before thinking it through. If it hadn’t been anything but his imagination, he didn’t want to wake his friend from the precious sleep they’d finally gotten.
However, he had just escaped.
“NO,” he cried out.
His hand clamped over his mouth, and he looked around for evidence of the enemy who had done this.
Simon couldn’t see anyone. There wasn’t a head peeking up anywhere to signal who had created this catastrophe.
The question was: what had happened?
“Alasdair?” he whispered again before turning and losing the contents of his stomach.
Retching, Simon tried to make sense of the scene. This wasn’t a fire. There were no ashes. In fact, the witch his father had once loved had turned the woods to ash.
These bodies were all the same. There was no one alive among them, but they weren’t incinerated. They were unrecognizable, but they weren’t ash. Simon was able to find who some of them were based on their possessions.
Wiping his mouth, he heaved once again. He spotted Delano by his collection of knives. The man’s father had been a sword maker among other things, and Simon recognized his work.
Unable to look away, he cowered on his knees while his body shook. A few minutes later, his stomach empty, he pulled himself together. Climbing to his feet, Simon stared at the bodies around him.
From the left, he couldn’t see anything at all. The bodies there were ash. Vomiting again, until nothing but dry heaves came, Simon bent over at the knees.
He knew what this was. He knew who it was.
Standing straight, Simon took a deep breath through the nose and out the mouth. His teeth gritted together until a sharp pain clenched his jaw. A few choice words he’d never used before came out of his mouth.
Kicking the dirt, he reached down and picked up Delano’s stash. He slid the knives into his belt. He ignored the body. Training his eyes back to the right, he headed in that direction but didn’t look down again.
Simon marched to the edge of camp between a cluster of growing oaks, where he and Alasdair had bedded down. He saw the sword first. Black-blistered around the metal edges, Alasdair by its side.
In twenty years, Simon had never seen death, and now it was everywhere. Never had he witnessed anything like this before, and all he could think about was: how would he ever be able to tell Cassie?
His stomach had betrayed him, and his eyes followed. Tears clustered in them, blurring his vision and angering him more. He dropped to his knees and rested his hand on the ground next to his friend’s skeleton.
“Wake up, Alasdair. My friend, don't leave me. I don't know what I'll do without you.” His tears dried, and he stretched over, picking up a nearby rock, and threw it into the black unknown.
He tried to sit back and think, his chest rising and falling, catching his breath.
Bright light, no sounds, and then nothing. Nothing at all. Did the light do this? It must be the witch. It must be the same light as two decades ago.
He didn't see how light could be the cause of everyone's immediate demise, to be murdered like this, but he knew what it meant. Shaking, he did the only thing he knew.
Grabbing his pack and Alasdair's from beside a fallen tree, he stood on weak legs. Neither bag had been harmed since they'd been tucked under the log around the side of the tree. He was done crying and throwing up. This would be the time for him to act.
“Goodbye, Alasdair. I promise I’ll protect Cassie, and I’ll avenge your death. I’ll avenge everyone’s death.”
He collected all the weapons he could carry upon his person, tucked a few extra in the bags, and left the camp.
His exit was silent. He treaded on quiet feet, paused around large tree trunks, and kept his eyes open. Eyes narrowed, he took in every shadow. They were the enemies. Until light, he’d be as cautious as possible not to get caught by whoever had killed his troop.
Simon knew he needed to find the next camp of soldiers and tell them what happened. They needed to get word to his father and Cassie. It seemed the rumors were true.
The South Kingdom of Avery had magic.
12
Caundon Valley
It took five days to reach the next envoy of soldiers. Simon was escorted to Captain Jack Kincaid immediately.
“What news have you?” the captain asked at once.
“The Kingdom of Avery has magic,” Simon told him without hesitation.
“Magic?” Captain Kincaid's lips curled up, and he spit on the ground at these words. Shaking his head, he threw his compass onto the makeshift desk.
“Magic,” Simon grunted and held up the burnt tags of Alasdair. “I’m the only one alive.”
Taking the tags from his hand, Captain Kincaid looked upon them for several seconds without saying a word. When his eyes met Simon's they were wide, his mouth agape, and his head shaking once more.
“Tell me what happened!”
Simon recounted every detail he could recall. Starting with the two men he'd found searching the area earlier and seeing no one else, then being awakened by a strange sound, followed by the blinding light, and returning to the camp after investigating to find everyone dead. Burnt to a crisp.
Captain Kincaid fell into the nearest chair without even looking at it. Simon was glad to see it didn't tip over. The captain's thin frame wasn't what worried Simon about the captain crashing to the floor. Instead, the force in which he descended upon the frail wooden chair alarmed Simon quite a bit.
With a squeak and a creak, Captain Kincaid leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
“There is nothing we can do then,” he whispered.
“Captain?” Simon questioned.
Captain Kincaid sat up and looked Simon right in the eye. “There is nothing we can do. We don’t have magic. We can’t fight against this type of horror. The last time the world fought against it, millions died. The world collapsed around us.”
Kincaid shook his head and put his hand over his mouth.
“We still won the last time. In the end, those who lived created this new world. There has to be something we can do,” Simon argued.
“We won over four decades ago because they killed themselves. They overshot their power, and something happened. Those fighting against them had nothing to do with it. They all exploded on their own, and that’s it.”
“So, we’re going to give up? There has to be something we can do. I didn’t sign up to just hand over our kingdom to the enemy!”
“You don’t understand, soldier. News is traveling the ranks that the prince has deserted the kingdom. It’s rumored his absence has nothing to do with returning with Lord Iver's assistance. Prince Simon must have known we were fighting a losing battle and escaped before destruction rained down upon us.”
Straightening in height, Simon's eyes narrowed on the captain. “Prince Simon did not run away. He’s on a secret mission and not many are privy to it. Of course, those who don’t know anything about it would say he fled in fear, but I assure you, it is false.”
The captain stared at Simon for several minutes. His gaze hardened, and his lips thinned out before quirking up at the side.
“Oh really? What would you know of it, soldier?”
Knowing he may have trapped himself, Simon
swallowed and put his hands behind his back. “I would rather not reveal how I know this, Captain Kincaid. Just have faith knowing the prince isn't cowering in some closet.”
Eyes met, measures were taken, and Captain Kincaid nodded in understanding. “Any idea of how we may defeat this magic then?” He gave a small smile.
“No, but one of the men in my contingency spoke of his grandfather—a blacksmith who saw the flashing light the night of the ball in 2313. It was followed by a note foretelling of a curse. I, myself, have heard of this curse repeatedly. I wondered if we should investigate its history again, and perhaps get information from this blacksmith's family?”
“It’s a start. Do you really believe this is the makings of a twenty-something year old threat? I thought it was a horror story only.”
Simon shrugged and sat when the captain waved him into the chair opposite of his own. With a creak and groan, Simon settled himself on its edge.
“I don't know if it's true or not. I'm only pointing out the prudence of checking out the information before we proceed.”
“Can we rely on the information of the blacksmith?” Kincaid asked.
“He didn’t spin a tale, if that’s what you mean. After what I saw in the woods, I’m not doubting his version of the story. There was a bright light so blinding I had to close my eyes and look away. Afterward, there were only dead bodies.”
“Everyone is dead?”
“All except me. I tried to look for the guards who were surrounding the camp, but it seemed as if they were all dead too. However, I didn’t exactly stick around once I checked the camp. If the enemy was still there, I didn’t want to end up like my friends.”
Kincaid nodded and rested his elbows on the desk. “What do you propose we do next?”
“Check back into the legend. See if anyone else has noticed anything weird like the light. I’m also curious to see which camps have been fighting off Ammandon’s men, and if those men are coming in as groups or in twos.” Simon scratched his chin as a thought formed.
“Done.” Captain Kincaid nodded and stood.
Simon rose as well and shook the captain's hand.
“I'll alert a carrier to dispatch the news of these deaths to the king and their families. Do you think you can help write all the names you recall while I await the list of Captain Timmon's men?”
Simon nodded once, and Captain Kincaid returned the favor.
“Go get something to eat first. You look worn to the bone. You may start that list later. Visit the mess tent, and return here when you’ve finished.”
“If you don't mind, captain, I would rather begin now.”
Eying Simon for a moment, Captain Kincaid nodded and went to his desk to pull out some paper, ink, and a pen. He set them on one side of his desk before he excused himself.
Simon sat down and stared at the paper in front of him. It was a hard list to compose, and the sooner finished, the quicker he could try to get past the horror of what he'd seen.
If he ever could.
In the silence, he took a minute to think about what he’d seen. Shoulders slumping, Simon felt the tears coming again. Blinking them away, he took a deep breath and concentrated on something else: the enemy’s men.
“Two by two,” he whispered. “Why send in men two by two? Not a whole contingent or regiment or battalion of men when they might be met by opposing forces but only two at a time. Why?”
The answer was on the tip of his tongue. He knew it. Perhaps if he left the tickle in his mind alone, it would come to him.
Glancing at the ink well, Simon wished for pens that wrote on their own. The ones which were contained in a plastic tube. Unfortunately, after the last war, the queens had made the decision to limit any type of drilling or evacuating of earth’s resources.
Which meant no more oil for vehicles, no more plastic for pens, and no more tearing up the earth. They recycled what was left in the world. It’s even why there were no guns. They had collected the bullets to reuse in other ways. It was also another prevention to war.
Not even the guards of the kingdom had guns. However, the collection of swords and knives had escaped the meltdown. The queens allowed the soldiers who protected them and their kingdom to keep and practice with those. They felt it would take more of a commitment by the enemy to attack with a sword than with a gun.
“Two by two,” Simon muttered again, his mind returning to its original thoughts.
There had to be a reason for it. His attention drawn to the paper once more, Simon knew he had stalled long enough. Thinking about resources and swords wasn’t going to get the names written.
Dipping the pen in the ink, he took a deep breath and wrote the names of the men he'd fought next to for the last three months. Men he'd come to see as good friends, even family.
The first name he penned: Lachlan Alasdair.
13
Farview Country
“I think there's a draft. You may want to check the chimneys, Cassie,” had been the start of an exhausting three months.
Soon she was doing multiple loads of laundry throughout the week, even before the laundress could make it in, and was expected to wash the bedclothes every single day instead of every seven days, as had once been done. Now she oversaw chimney cleaning, scrubbing the floor, and keeping food on the table.
“I cleaned the chimneys last week, Petunia. It’s getting warmer out, and I don’t think there’s draft. You’re more than welcome to look for yourself.”
Petunia’s cup slammed onto the table. “I don’t have to do anything. In fact, if you haven’t caught on yet, you’re not wanted in this family.”
Squeezing her hands together, Cassie gritted her teeth and tried not to let her thoughts ramble through her lips. The best way to get through any confrontation with Petunia was to ignore her. Especially since strangling her wasn’t an option.
“Cassie, I told you I wanted hot tea. This is lukewarm. What were you thinking?” Petunia shoved the tea cup away, sloshing liquid everywhere.
A new tactic, Cassie thought with a sigh.
“What do you mean, Petunia?” she inquired and continued to wash the dishes.
“It. Isn't. Hot. Enough,” Petunia enunciated with a curled lip.
“Well, the water is on the fire. Feel free to pour yourself another cup.” Cassie looked over her shoulder and then turned back to the sink with another sigh.
The hot liquid scalded her back, which arched up and forward to avoid the wet hotness seeping through her layers. Cassie gasped, and her arms lifted involuntarily in the air. Distantly, she heard the shatter of the cup upon the floor.
“Now look what you did,” Petunia snarled. “You need to clean this mess up and bring me a hot cup of tea. You are blessed that –” Petunia stopped short as if realizing what she had been about to say.
“Never mind. Just fix it.” Petunia turned on her heel and exited the kitchen.
The heat wasn't severe any longer, but it felt warm enough that the cloth sticking to her skin made her uncomfortable. Fortunately, the liquid hadn't contacted any bare skin. She could only imagine what would have happened then. This, at least, would be manageable.
Deep breath, Cassie told herself. This is the first physical attack since Father left.
Gasping, Cassie turned to find Petunia had left the room. It was just as well because Cassie didn’t think she could be responsible for what she wanted to do. She glanced at the ceramic pieces on the floor and shook her head.
The teacup had been one of her mother’s. Tears entered her eyes, and she tried not to break down. Seeing the shattered cup was harder than the heat against her back. Cleaning it up as fast as she could, Cassie dumped the pieces into the trash and wiped up the tea before heading to her room.
Changing quickly, Cassie checked her back. It was red but not too bad. The clothing had saved her from being burned badly. She put a little salve on what she could reach, which cooled it nicely and put on a new shirt.
“I don’t kno
w what to do. My attempts at subtle retaliation against them always backfire. It didn’t matter how kind I was to them when they first came. I’m running out of ideas,” Cassie muttered as she dressed.
“Trying not to react to them didn’t work. Being nice to them and introducing them to the neighborhood didn’t work. I wish I knew why they were so angry at me. This is my house. It was my father.”
Cassie tried to think of something she could do. If there was anything she could accomplish which would make an actual difference, she would try it in a heartbeat.
“If only I had somewhere else I could go,” Cassie whispered. “Perhaps I could run away? Maybe I could join the fight? It’d be nice if father noticed what was going on and stood up for me. I should have been courageous and told him instead of waiting for him to figure it out.”
With a new resolve, Cassie picked up her shirt and threw it in the laundry basket. She would have another load to do between her own clothes and Petunia’s.
“Wait,” Cassie said as she stopped at the door. “I’m not going to do anyone else’s work anymore. I’ll clean up after myself, straighten the house, and make supper, and that’s it. Everyone can start cleaning up after themselves.”
Nodding her head for emphasis, Cassie put her shoulders back and marched down the hallway. She noticed Petunia’s door was shut and hoped her stepsister would stay in there the rest of the night.
Her return to the kitchen was interrupted by a knock at the front door. She detoured to the left and made her way from the hallway into the front foyer.
The heavy door echoed a second knock before she had time to open it.
“Will you answer the door already?” shouted Petunia.
Cassie rolled her eyes. Part of her wanted to shout back, you can do it! However, she wasn’t ready to become vocal in her protests. The stacks of laundry and dishes should clue them in soon enough.
The Four Tales Page 10
