by K Schultz
Rehaak called out and waited for a response; the miller’s wife, a large woman, burst from the millhouse with three of her four children in tow.
“Help us!” she shrieked. “Come help, my Gil’s been attacked.” Her dress flapping around her legs, she raced across the grass toward Rehaak with her children close behind, and when she reached Rehaak, she grabbed his arm and pointed at the mill. “He’s in the house. Hurry!”
Rehaak sprinted ahead of her toward the millhouse, which served as a business and a home.
“He’s on the bed, sir,” she shouted after him.
Rehaak raced through the open door and over to the bed where Gillam, her oldest, lay. Once Rehaak’s eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the mill, he located Gillan lying on his cot. He ran his hands over the gray parchment of the boy’s skin to check for injuries, but Gillam’s skin flaked away like ash under his touch. Gillam’s condition was far beyond Rehaak’s ability to heal or even understand.
“Is there ought you can do?” Riata asked, when she entered, breathless from her sprint across the yard.
The child was dead, and the stink of brimstone, not the usual smell of decay and death, made Rehaak’s stomach heave while he bundled the boy’s remains in the blanket which lay beneath the child.
Riata stood behind Rehaak and stared at the bed, mouth agape, wringing her hands while her three younger children hugged her legs. Riata’s plump chest heaved as she gasped for breath. Their safe home and friendly world had become a frightening and dangerous place.
“Even if I had arrived earlier, I could not have helped him. This contagion is beyond my skills to cure.” At Rehaak’s answer, Riata wailed and pulled her remaining children even closer.
Rehaak gently escorted Riata and the crying children from the bedroom and into the kitchen. He asked her to put water on the stove to boil, while he took Elam root sedative from his pack. While the water for the Elam root infusion boiled and Riata was busy in the kitchen, Rehaak wrapped Gillam’s body in the bedclothes. Once the potion had steeped and cooled, Rehaak gave Riata a cupful of the sedative mixture. While she sat and sipped the draught, he carried Gillam's body into the yard.
The lightness of his burden surprised him. Rehaak had played a game of tag with the boy on his last trip to New Hope. Gillam, built like his father, was a stocky lad, but now his bones had no mass, as light and hollow as a bird’s skeleton. Rehaak dug a shallow grave; there was no need to dig deeper. Scavengers would never disturb this body since the burned-out husk offered no more nourishment than a cinder. Gillam’s body crumbled into dust when Rehaak rolled it out of the blanket into the hole. He covered the desiccated remains with sod and dried his eyes before he returned to join Riata and her remaining children inside.
When Rehaak returned to the house, Riata, unnaturally calm from the Elam root infusion, was preparing the evening meal as though nothing had changed. Gael, the miller, had returned home and sat head in hands with his elbows resting on the kitchen table.
“I must ask about what happened to Gillam,” Rehaak said.
Riata nodded and pushed eight-year-old Bram forward. “Go ahead, son, tell Rehaak what you done told me.”
Bram, Gillam’s younger brother, looked at the ground and interlaced his fingers across his stomach. “We seen a funny-shaped black thing in the water. Gil said we should go get it, but I didn’t want to. Gil called me a chicken and dared me. I said I’m not chicken, you is.
“Then he said, ‘I’ll race you there.’ And I took off runnin’ ‘cause I wasn’t gonna let him beat me, and I showed him I weren’t scared o’ nothin’, but he got ahead o’ me ‘cause his legs is longer. Before we got to the ford, the thing started movin’, and there was a bad smell. The little ones was behind us, and Gil started yellin’ for us to go back. I thought he was jokin’ and would call me chicken again if I stopped. The stink o’ rotten meat got so strong. Gil turned around and started runnin’ back towards me.”
“It was chasin’ Gil, and it almost catched him in its claws, but Gil runned faster than I ever seen. I got scared when I seen its red eyes a-starin’ at me, but then Gil gived me a shove and said run, then we all runned fast and hollered for Ma to come and help. You can tell Rehaak the rest, Ma, ‘cause I never seen what happened after that ‘cause I was runnin’ fast, and Steen and Fauna was runnin’ too, and a-hollerin’ real loud.”
Riata, her face and eyes expressionless, said, “I was makin’ bread when the littles outside screamed like banshees. They is always makin’ a commotion, but I could tell the littles was scared, so I run to the door and looked out. I seen the littles a-runnin’ toward the house, and behind them was Gil, chased by a scary lookin’ black thing. Gil was a-runnin’ behind the littles, and the critter grabbed my boy like it was a-givin’ him a big kiss, ‘cept it weren’t no kiss. Gil, he was a-wrigglin’ and a-squirmin’ to get loose at first, but then he stopped movin’. The color drained out o’ Gil, and then he shrank into what you seen a-layin’ on the bed. I hollered out ‘God save us’, and the critter dropped Gil and started toward me and the littles.
“It was a-starin’ at me with them hateful crimson eyes a-glowin’. I screamed out for God to save us again, then it disappeared. After it went, I picked Gil up and tucked him into bed, hopin’ that he would get up again. Then you was a-callin’, and I went outside, and you was standin’ at the gate.” Riata wiped the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands and then blew her nose in her apron.
“What think you on it?” Gael asked in bewilderment.
“I have not encountered these beings before, except in my nightmares,” Rehaak said.
“What mean you by that?” Gael asked. “And what manner o’ creature be it?”
“What I mean, Gael...I am not sure, except I have met these creatures in my childhood nightmares.” Rehaak’s heart pounded out the same panic-driven tempo as when he had shivered and sweated in the darkness of his boyhood bedroom. “I never expected to meet these things outside of nightmares.”
“Can we do somethin’ to stop it commin’ back?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Be there somewhere we can go to get away?”
“I fear a great trial faces us. We will be lucky if any of us survive.”
In a passionate torrent of words, Rehaak told them of his own horror-filled childhood dreams, his search for knowledge, and the vision the Creator gave him. “People must turn to the Creator for protection. It may have been your cry to the one God that drove the ‘critter’ away like it did for me in my nightmares. Another possibility is that after it feasted on Gillam’s life, it needed nothing else. It is only a guess, but I believe it was a Nethera, the evil beings from the old legends.” Their eyes widened, and the terror in them mirrored the fear in his own.
They swore to follow the Creator. When they asked what the Faithful One wanted, Rehaak told them to stop sacrificing to the false gods, to worship the Creator exclusively, call on Him for help, listen for His voice, and speak to Isil when she next passed by the mill.
The miller’s family members were his first converts. Rehaak had completed a first step in his divine commission, but the success felt hollow, built as it was on their personal tragedy.
Rehaak prepared to leave for home, but Gael said, “You had best stay the night. It ain’t safe out there with critters like that black horror a-prowlin’ in the forest. We just wouldn’t feel right if somethin’ happened to you out there.”
“Stone walls can’t protect me from this, and I must tell my friend, Laakea, of the change in plan and the danger we face. A long walk home in the darkness, when living nightmares lurk in the shadows, makes me quiver like a plucked harp string, but I must go home.” Rehaak stepped outside.
The sun hid behind heavy cloud cover, so darkness would fall early this evening. Nothing creepy about that at all. It is hard not to think of Gillam’s death as a preview of the prophetic vision from the Faithful One. I don’t know how to combat a Nethera if one attacks, and invoking
the name of the Creator may not be enough defense.
As he approached the forest’s edge, a shadow moved, and Rehaak jumped back like he had been stung. Once his heart stopped threatening to leap from his chest, Rehaak crept forward on the shadowed trail, mouth dry, muscles tense, and heart thumping.
A hooter’s plaintive cry made him flinch again, and when a rabbit leaped out of the brush ahead of him, his heart skipped a beat, and he almost emptied his bladder. Every shrub harbored danger, and ominous noises from the undergrowth fueled his paranoia. Unlike his boyhood experience, the menace was real: there was no chance to awaken from this nightmare. Rehaak, the adult, feared the darkness like a child once more, and he had good reasons for his fear.
Home Alone
Laakea spent the afternoon fighting dark thoughts. Will Pa be at the market? What if Rehaak meets danger on the road? Fears bubbled in Laakea’s head until he thought his brain would boil and explode inside his skull.
Laakea searched for iron around the clearing and hoped his search would fend off his worries. Because Rehaak’s interests lay in plants, not metals, Rehaak may have missed useful material.
“Iron’s in our blood, son,” Aelfric always said. “Wood will rot, stone will shatter, and people will stab you in the back, but iron will cleave wood, break stone, and defeat your enemies. Iron’s as stubborn as the Eniila, but by the flame, the forge, the hammer, and the anvil, we bend it to our wills, and it draws us to itself.”
Although the search distracted Laakea, either there was no iron in the clearing, he didn’t feel its pull, or its power to draw was a figment of Aelfric’s imagination.
In the late afternoon, he gave up the search and checked his rabbit snares. While he built a fire to cook the only rabbit he found in the trap, he discovered a loose stone in the hearth. The loose rock hid an alcove beside the fireplace, and three excellent long knives wrapped in oilskin lay inside it. A queer chill made the hair of his arms stand on end when he touched them, but he brushed the sensation aside. Rehaak had told him of the attack and how the wolves protected him from the bandits, but he neglected to mention their weapons.
Laakea inspected his discovery with a blacksmith’s trained eye. He admired the blades, made of a strange-colored, polished metal, with steel guards and leather-wrapped wooden handles. They measured two spans long. For an average Abrhaani, they qualified as short swords, but to him, they were long daggers. The weapons were sharp on both sides and there was nothing strange about their shapes, but the unknown metal shone from within, and runes swam below the metal’s surface. This was beyond Laakea’s skill or even Aelfric’s, which meant these knives didn’t belong to robbers.
Bandits took weapons from their victims and upgraded as luck provided. Common thieves carried various kinds of arms, not three identical high-quality blades. Producing duplicate items was hard since every hammer stroke and cut of the file randomized the product. The time and effort needed for this level of exactitude required incredible determination, added cost to the product, and put it beyond the reach of ordinary bandits. Someone rich and powerful owned these expensive blades and controlled the people who had carried them.
He turned the blade he held and tried to make out the inscription in the gray-green metal. Laakea did not have Rehaak’s skill with letters, so he could not read the symbols gliding beneath the metal’s surface. Did Rehaak inspect the inscriptions or just tuck the weapons away and forget them? This knife might be as crucial to Rehaak’s quest as the book he seeks. I can’t read books, but I understand the story of hammer strokes and file marks, written by the blacksmith’s craft.
As twilight approached, Laakea skinned the rabbit, then roasted it over the fire. There’s enough steel in the guards to make broadheads for all my arrows. With Pa’s forge, I could even reshape the blades. An image of two swords and a compulsion to create those new weapons from the knives in the alcove captured his thoughts.
From Shelhera’s stories, Laakea knew his father had been a bladesmith before his exile on Khel Braah, but since then Aelfric made only agricultural and logging implements. Whenever Laakea favored speed over quality, Aelfric reminded him tools were weapons to conquer the soil and prepare it for planting.
Aelfric had lectured him, saying, “The principles of metalwork remain the same, regardless of an item’s purpose. Think of the plowshare as a sword to carve the earth. People who die of starvation because the plow failed are just as dead as those who die on the battlefield or the arena of justice. Use the same care for every item, no matter how commonplace its purpose.
Your skill with the hammer and the blade will someday save your life.” Aelfric displayed his cynicism when he said, “The gods judge the rightness of a cause when they grant victory or defeat, but the gods seem to favor the well prepared and well-armed. I train you as though your life depends on it because it does.”
Since they were the only Eniila for thousands of leagues, and the Abrhaani who lived around them were peaceful farmers, Laakea didn’t see the need for rigorous training. But Aelfric insisted Laakea persevere. Laakea heard his father’s voice in his head: You never know what lies ahead on your life’s road, nor can you predict what you will meet along the trail. Prepare for every possibility; the gods will see to the rest. That’s the way to live. Anything else is the way to die.
The moon rose outside, and Laakea ended his reverie. He imagined Rehaak alone on the trail beset by attackers. The irrational fear gnawed at his mind as he chewed the gristle off the bones of the rabbit he had charred. This is so stupid. Rehaak can take care of himself. Why should I fear for his safety tonight? It makes no sense.
He finished his supper, cast the bones into the fireplace, and hoped a stroll might settle his stomach. Before he left, against all reason, Laakea stuck two of the strange knives in his belt as a precaution.
A warm breeze blew wisps of clouds across the sky. The gibbous moon hung overhead and silvered the leaves as they glistened and fluttered above the trail ahead. Night-blooming flowers scented the air, and the night-hoppers and hooters called to each other while he walked the full distance to the main village trail. A moment before Laakea turned around to return to the cabin, the night creatures fell silent. The hair on his arms and neck stood on end as if chilled by a cold breeze. Laakea strained to listen but heard nothing and finally understood the adage, “The silence was deafening.” It was so quiet he thought he had gone deaf.
Laakea withdrew the blades from his belt and crept forward from shadow to shadow along the wagon trail. He silently breathed through his mouth so he could hear every sound. Time spent stalking and hunting game with Aelfric prepared him to move as silent as a wraith among the trees. Distant, cries of pain, and grunts of effort reached him and broke the silence. One of those voices belonged to Rehaak.
Laakea raced along the wagon trail, afraid of what lay ahead, and hoped he wasn’t too late.
Battle-Fury
Laakea barreled around one last corner and saw several attackers surrounding Rehaak. Rehaak felled one man with his staff before Laakea closed the distance between him and his friend, but not in time. A blow to the head knocked Rehaak to the ground.
Only cowards surround and attack a lone man in the dark. They are without honor. Laakea bellowed a battle cry and descended into the melee like a cyclone of righteous indignation. The assassin who stood over Rehaak prepared to deliver the killing stroke, but before he could move, Laakea’s first blade severed his spine, and the second punctured his heart.
White-hot fury suffused Laakea’s limbs with pure power. Electricity crackled along his nerves, and strength sizzled through his sinews. Around him, time slowed, and Laakea’s movements became a slow-motion dance of death. He anticipated the attackers’ lunges and planned a response long before their blades came near him. His body moved faster than the speed of thought. Laakea blocked, parried, slashed, and thrust his daggers with deadly effect. He choreographed the sequences with ruthless efficiency, taunted them with false openings in his g
uard, and trapped them in a remorseless maelstrom of blood.
Laakea’s limbs dealt a whirlwind of death to his enemies, but his mind was the calm at the center of the storm. His movements automatic, his body and reflexes conditioned by long hours of practice; his strength and speed were augmented by the fury raging within him. The long knives in his hands were scythes mowing flesh like ripe grain. He whirled and slashed, detached and calm, striking their weapons aside and thrusting his own through openings in their defenses.
Laakea counted them down as they fell. Four men, then three, then two. He paused long enough for his final opponent’s eyes to widen in terror when the fellow realized he now faced death alone. Laakea’s opponent gaped and stared, without time to beg for mercy or flee, as the boy’s grim visage etched itself on the assassin’s retinas.
Justice, in the form of a boy with blood-drenched blades, meted out his punishment. Justice crossed its arms and with a double cross-hand blow, sliced the large arteries on either side of the assassin’s neck. His life drained away but left enough time to see Justice’s blood-spattered face, and fierce eyes passing judgment before his vision faded.
The world sped up again. It caught Laakea off guard and left him dizzy and weak. Laakea came back to himself. His joints and muscles ached; sweat stung his eyes. Tired, feeble, and shaken, he didn’t recognize the furious creature he had been. The whole skirmish took less time than Laakea took to skin a rabbit, but a lifetime of change occurred inside him.
“I have taken lives,” he said aloud, his voice shaking. “I have met a berserker from my father’s stories, and it’s me.”
Nausea overtook Laakea, and his supper erupted onto the forest floor beside the men whose lives he took. Laakea had lost his innocence, and once it disappeared, he realized how precious it was. Water could remove the blood from his hands, but no amount of scrubbing could remove the bloodstains from his soul. Unable to undo his actions or breathe life into the fallen, he took comfort from knowing he had aided a friend, righted a wrong, and paid his Life Debt to Rehaak in full.
