The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) (12 page)

Philip turned to Abytheos. “I do not believe I have to explain the risks to you,
Reverend
.”

“You would simply be wasting more precious time,” Abytheos replied.

“Then we are off. Valthian, I want you to circle the outskirts of the village. Go from home to home and make sure people are alive and well. I shall make my way to the marketplace. I’ll check the schoolhouse and make sure anyone who is wondering about knows to get to safety as quickly as their feet will carry them.”

“Then what is left for me to do?”

“Plenty, friend. I want you to make sure that my wife and youngest son are secure. After that is done, fetch Olivar and bring him to me. We may need to treat the injured and calm those who are frightened.”

“Consider it done,” Abytheos replied, bowing his head slightly.

Philip nodded in thanks and turned towards the heart of Solstice. He inhaled deeply and ran.

* * *

T
omas De’Fathi sat in his favorite spot in the old inn he so often frequented. The Hound’s Rest was slow at this time of day, and that was just how he liked it. Sure, it was fun to get involved with the games, singing, and merrymaking the evening crowd enjoyed so much, but when it came down to it, he preferred having the place to himself. The fewer drunkards making passes at the barmaid, the better. That meant there was more for him. He looked down at the empty mug of ale resting on the battered table, wondering how he had managed to drink it so quickly. It was probably due to it having been watered down so much. Again.

“Elsa?”

A young, plump woman approached the table. Her hair was set in sloppy pigtails; her apron was torn and stained in more than one spot.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Every bloody time I order ale, it tastes like someone dipped the cup in the horse trough outside!”

She smiled. “Maybe someone did.”

His eyes grew wide. “Why would you go and ruin a perfectly good drink like that?”

“Because Master Elwin said you’re too young to drink it strong.”

“Bloody fool old man. Well can I at least have another? This one seems to have gotten up and run off before I could so much as blink at it!”

Elsa reached down and plucked the cup from its resting place. “You have had too much already. And no complaining to the master about it; he said he wasn’t having any of it until you were old enough to grow a man’s beard.”

Tomas slapped a hand against the hard, warped surface of the table. “Well I never!”

She chuckled. “And you never will again if you don’t show some respect, Sir De’Fathi. Now if you don’t mind, a paying customer just walked through the door and needs tending to.”

She turned without so much as a second glance, leaving him stunned and without company. He watched in awe as she strode through the rickety door that led into the kitchen, her generous bosom lightly bouncing with every step. Despite her rudeness, he often found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her best features.

Who cared if she didn’t have all of her teeth? She smiled with her mouth closed anyway.

He frowned at the empty place on the table where his drink had been and decided it was time to get going. He did a quick check to make sure he had all of his possessions and was about to force himself from the hard bench when he caught his first glimpse at the patron who had been at least partly responsible for Elsa’s dismissal. Tomas wasn’t sure about what was so special about him that would make her neglect one of her best customers—and her greatest admirer—and he certainly wasn’t as pleasant to look at. The man wore a tattered shirt and walked with a slump. He wasn’t even looking for a place to sit; instead the bastard paced nervously in circles inches from the front counter.

Tomas watched as his favorite barmaid returned from the kitchen and paused for a moment at the counter. She gazed at her new customer as if she wasn’t sure how to approach him.

“That should teach her to neglect good company,” Tomas muttered.

She seemed to have gathered her courage and stepped closer to the man, but he continued pacing. Elsa glanced back in Tomas’s direction, but he just shrugged.

I guess she wants me to save her. No thanks. She wouldn’t even refill my—

The silent argument he was having with himself was cut short when the patron stopped moving and faced Elsa. She let out a bloodcurdling shriek and tried to scramble backwards, but she slammed into the counter and the odd fellow lunged, grabbing her by the hair.

“What the—” Tomas managed to squeak.

He leapt from the bench and drew his sword. He ran to Elsa Deros, hoping to scare her attacker away, but the man didn’t shy away from his target. Each stride felt like an eternity, and the young lord watched in horror as jagged teeth sank into the plump woman who had just moments ago been teasing him. She screamed and tried to pull away, but the teeth sank deeper. The middle-aged, stooped man jerked his head wildly, ripping chunks of flesh from Elsa’s neck. Tomas seized him by the shoulders and shoved him hard. The attacker rebounded far too quickly for someone of his age. Gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, Tomas passed it through the old man’s chest. Anyone with his senses intact would have reacted to a direct hit to the heart, but not him. He wriggled, trying to free himself from the blade, completely oblivious to the pain. The few candles still burning in the dusty common room provided questionable lighting at best, but he swore that the blood leaking from the wound was darker than it should have been. He responded by burying the blade deeper and giving it a twist.

“Down you go,” Tomas said with grit in his voice. “Time to meet the gods and be judged for your actions!”

To his astonishment, the old one jerked sharply and the blade slid from his body. He stood firm—his chest oozed dark blood—and growled.

“What in the name of the gods is this?”

Could it be? Was it one of those
things
from Grovenwell? He had heard about many of the men having been decapitated before they were burned and decided it was worth a shot.

“I can’t stand here and chat, I’m afraid.”

With one clean swipe, he took the head from the beast’s shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud, rolling several feet before coming to a stop next to the entrance. Its body remained standing, slightly stooped, for a moment before crashing to the planked floor.

Tomas’s chest heaved. He shook his head, not wanting to believe what had happened.

“Elsa!”

He knelt down to check on her. She was lying still in a pool of blood. He watched for her chest to rise and fall, but Elsa was still. He knelt down and gasped at the size of her wound; the damned thing had been inflicted with nothing more than teeth. Most of her throat had been ripped clean from her body; a gaping hole in her neck was all that remained.

“By the gods!” He whispered between sobs. “Not you, Elsa. Anyone but you!”

Tomas sank to the floor and took the woman into his arms. He held her against his chest and wept.

* * *

P
hilip scanned the horizon, not sure how to react to the bizarre silence that had enveloped the village. No birds chirped, and no townsfolk were walking about. The air, chill as it might be, had a bite to it that seemed unnatural, and he rubbed his hands together to feel some semblance of warmth.

The warmth he sought never came.

As he approached the old schoolhouse, a tingle shot up his spine, nearly forcing him to his knees. Something was very wrong; the building’s twin oaken doors had been left open; they swung, hinges creaking, with every gust of wind that passed by. He drew his sword and walked slowly up the short series of steps that led to the entrance. His heart was beating wildly, but he did what he could to calm himself. There was no reason to allow those emotions to control his decisions—not at a time like this.

The lord of Solstice stepped into the building, from the cold of winter; into a nightmare of the likes he had never fathomed possible. The first of only two rooms was painted with blood. The walls were freshly smeared with a coat of deep, wet crimson, and a great many spatters decorated even the high ceilings. Bodies, of all of which were unidentifiable, covered the floor. Tiny lakes of red pooled wherever the old building’s planked flooring had a weak spot or a knot. Philip’s breath caught deep in his chest, and he nearly dropped his sword, turned, and ran from the room. He forced into his heart whatever courage could be summoned and advanced to the entrance of the second room. He wanted to cry out, perhaps run to gather his entire family and flee from the village, but he owed his people more than that, and he was no coward.

The door leading into the part of the school meant for older children was also wide open, and so he gripped the hilt of his sword and entered. Not four paces away, two tiny shapes crouched low, their attention focused on a blood-soaked, broken body that might have been a boy in his early teenage years, as far as Philip could tell. There was only one small window in the room, making it difficult to see more details. Philip gathered his courage once more and made his way to the young pair.

These poor children
, he thought.
I don’t know how they managed to survive, and now they’re trying to wake a child who shall never see the light of day again.

He coughed, clearing his throat. “Young ones. That child is not sleeping. Please, come away from him.”

The smallest of the pair whipped around with impossible speed and Philip saw the dead look in its eyes.

“Gods!” He backed away and tried to grip his sword more tightly. His palms were sweating, making the blasted thing difficult to hold. “What did this to you?”

Both creatures were advancing now.

“Please, stay away from me!”

––––––––

B
ALIN OF Dor made his rounds, ensuring that each body had been decapitated and burned before making his way to the tent that served as his quarters when travelling. While most lords would have chosen opulent furnishings that were similar to those in which they were accustomed at home, the captain of the king’s guard opted instead for simplicity. The small table in the center of the room had been constructed in a way that allowed it to be folded and carried on a packhorse. It was a new design that had come from one of the brightest inventors in Vinter’s Edge, and he had been quite impressed when it was presented to him almost a year previous. Balin adored the craftsmanship and practicality of the piece so much that he had personally requested one for use when he travelled.

Just as he was about to sit and sort through the pile of documents awaiting him, the tent flap rustled and he found himself standing face-to-face with his fat, balding assistant.

“Why are you back so early, and why did you go in the first place? I asked you to send someone else.”

“Right you did,” Johak replied. “But you should be thankful I disobeyed your orders.”

“Oh?” Balin stared down his nose at the short, aging man. “And why would I be thankful for such a thing? The next thing I know, you will tell me that I should relieve my soldiers from duty and do a jig in the middle of the road until I’m eaten by one of those cursed beasts. What is the meaning of your little—”

“I never entered the village,” he interrupted. “I was close, but there were good reasons for me to turn back.”

Johak motioned towards an empty stool next to the table. “May I sit?”

Balin nodded, and he sat.

“Please continue with your story. My interested is
piqued
.”

“Very good, sir,” he said, as he reached for a half-filled decanter and an empty brandy glass. “I believe Solstice will soon be overrun with the dead. From my small camp just outside the village, I prayed to Gehash the Beloved, as you have asked me to do on many an occasion.”

“And he responded to your prayer?”

Johak nodded. “I believe he did, sir. A feeling of wrongness came over me, and I ran from the place as quickly as I could manage. I have never felt such a thing in all of my days.”

Balin scratched his beard. “You have given me much to think on. You did well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“There is no need to thank me. The job of a leader is to carry out the mission entrusted to him and keep his men safe from danger while doing so. While he must sometimes second-guess his advisors, he should never do the same with his own gut feelings. Do you know what my gut tells me?”

Johak shook his head.

“It tells me that not only were your prayers answered, but also that what must now transpire is only the beginning of events that are far worse than any of us could possibly fathom.”

“I don’t think I take your meaning.”

Balin smiled. “I can see that much in your eyes. The only thing you need to know at this moment is that the world is in grave danger. I do not believe Alvanshia means for the majority of mankind to survive what she is planning. Ensure that your faith and resolve are both strong, for we must now take action to prevent total damnation. Be ready to march at my command!”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Johak returned the brandy glass to the table and stood from his chair. He drew the cloak that had been tied to his back for days—at least as far as Balin could tell—around him and took a moment to smooth the creases from the fabric before turning to leave the tent.

“There is one more thing.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“With each creature slain, a cursed man is free to walk in the realm of souls. Please do not take this job lightly, for it is the work of Gehash.”

“Of course. I hold nothing but the utmost respect in my heart for those who have passed from this world and into the next. And now I have a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“Are we to destroy another village?”

“I am not ready to answer the question; that is why I must think on it. I do not intend to make blind choices if there are other options.”

“A wise choice, indeed. May I take my leave?”

Balin nodded and waved a hand to dismiss his assistant. He watched as the short, stocky fellow left, the thick flap of the massive tent falling back into place with a great
swoosh
.