The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) (7 page)

“Hurry up, you fool!” He yelled at the plump mystic who consistently trailed him by several paces. “You have left a kitten to fend for itself in a lion’s den!”

He had seen for himself what these creatures could do with nothing but their bare hands and gnarled teeth. Olivar Bastrik would pay with his life if the lord of Solstice was allowed to fall victim to the destruction of the Vel’Haen.

Vel’Haen.
It was the word Philip had used earlier to describe the monsters. Abytheos liked the sound of it. It fit much like a pair of boots straight from the cobbler’s leathery hands.

“The door’s unlocked,” Olivar breathed as they approached the shop. “The first room is where I keep the things I sell. Straight back through the hallway are the storerooms I spoke of.”

Abytheos stepped onto the porch and stopped. Reaching into his front coat pocket, he removed the well-worn book he vowed never to be without.

“What good will such an old tome do us?” Olivar asked.

“Absolutely none,” Abytheos returned. “It’s the blessings inside the book that count.”

He kissed the brown leather cover and returned it to his pocket.

“You will believe in the One-God soon enough, fat one. Mark my words!”

* * *

“W
ho’s there?” Philip asked. He silently begged his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but there wasn’t even a small window in this room to provide illumination of any sort. He thought something had stirred nearby—it was possibly a large rat—but he could see nothing. The sickly-sweet odor of death was much stronger in the room than it should have been. The men had only been dead a few hours as far as Philip knew, and the cold temperatures should have slowed the decay of flesh. He felt around until he found a wall, hoping that he could retrace his steps back to the door. No light shown in from the hall, and he cursed aloud for not bringing a candle. The moment the curse left his lips, the stirring returned; this time it was much closer, and a lord’s intuition told him that it was no rat.

Using the wall for support, he tried to walk faster, but he wasn’t fast enough. Unseen hands seized Philip by the ankles. A sudden jerk was all it took and he was facedown on the floor. He groped all around, searching for his attacker, but found nothing. The hands gripping both ankles pulled harder, slowly dragging him away from the wall. No amount of fighting could free him; the hands held fast. The pungent fragrance of rotting meat grew stronger and Philip felt a second pair of hands seize his arm. His heart fluttered as he tried to cry out and the screams caught in his throat. Try as he might, Philip could not move. He was frozen stiff, two sets of strong hands in a death grip that nailed him to the floor.

Oh, gods... This is it. If any of you bastards are listening, I’ll do whatever I can to serve you! Gods above, please save me...

Philip De’Fathi took a jagged breath and cringed against a sudden sharp pain shooting through his chest. He saw several bright spots of color dancing in his vision. The spots faded as soon as they appeared, and he felt himself floating above his own limp body.

There was nothing but darkness.

* * *

“T
here is no one here!” Abytheos shouted. “Where did you say your storerooms were located?”

“Just through that door,” Olivar replied, pointing. “The room to the left has the
man
. The one to the right are where I put the victims’ bodies.”

“I have a feeling I know where we shall find our country lord,” Abytheos whispered. “Grab a candle and lead the way.”

Olivar did as he was bid, leading the priest to the small room where the two victims were. Once they were outside the door, Abytheos nodded for him to open it. Olivar stalled for a brief moment and then turned the knob. The door had barely lurched open when the priest made a quick jerking motion with his right hand. A flash of candlelight against steel was the only indication that Abytheos had produced a dagger that must have come from a pocket hidden somewhere within the thick leather cloak, or perhaps they had been tied under his sleeves. He signaled for Olivar to follow close behind and glided into the room. 

“Over there!” Abytheos called. “They’ve already got him, you fool!”

Before Olivar could react, the priest knelt and with a single swift motion, buried his weapon into one of the monsters straddling Philip. He watched as the dagger sank hilt deep and was jerked from the creature’s ear. It fell lifelessly to the floor in a heap. Without pause, Abytheos sank the dagger into the next one, and it also fell the moment the weapon was pulled free.

“He hasn’t died; not yet. We need to get him to a clean room and inspect his wounds!”

Olivar nodded, trying to fight off the fear that threatened to overtake him. Those men had been corpses just hours ago.

“Stop dawdling and grab his feet,” Abytheos snapped. “We have a long night ahead of us. Standing there with your tongue hanging out will do us no good!”

Olivar doused the candle and placed it on a wooden crate. He bent and grabbed Philip’s legs. The two men did their best to carry the burly lord of Solstice to safety.

“My quarters are at the end of the hall. There is plenty of light there and a clean bed to place him in.”

Abytheos nodded.

Olivar feared that the priest’s words were true; this would be a much longer night than he thought.

––––––––

C
OLORS SWIRLED all around, threatening to drag Philip back into the darkness with each attempt to open his eyes, but he struggled until the fog lifted and his vision cleared. He was lying in a soft bed, blanketed in white sheets that stopped at his chest. Aches and pains shot through his body; his face felt the worst. Upon further inspection, Philip realized that his nose had been broken, but that was the least of his problems. What had knocked him off his feet and tried to kill him? No one else had been there when Olivar left to fetch the priest, yet someone had grabbed him.

He tried to sit up, but a nagging headache intervened. He sagged back to the pillow and groaned.  The door opened; both Abytheos and Olivar entered the room. The priest’s face was set with a grim expression. The mystic’s face was again hidden in the folds of his deep crimson hood.

“You were lucky,” Olivar said, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. “You could have been killed.”

“Or worse,” Abytheos muttered. “You are a damned fool for allowing him to stay behind. And you,
my lord
, are a damned fool for poking around where you shouldn’t have.”

“I—I didn’t know there was any danger,” Philip replied. “What in the name of the gods happened?”

“And now you know that there
are many
dangers.” Abytheos sighed. “One of your mythical Vel’Haen attacked you. What exactly where you doing in there by yourself, and without a source of light might I add?”

“None of that is important now,” Olivar said. “There is one more creature that we must deal with. How should we proceed?”

Abytheos turned to face Philip. “I want to show you how to kill it. As soon as you are strong enough to rise from the bed, of course.”

“I am starting to feel better; I think I can walk—slowly at least. If there is a way to kill these foul beings, I must know of it immediately.”

Olivar stood from the bed and stepped back a few paces. Philip braced himself against the soft mattress and hoisted himself to a sitting position. He waited for the dizziness to subside and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Are you sure that you are feeling well enough for this?” Olivar asked. “You don’t want to introduce any unnecessary strain if it can be avoided.”

“I think I can manage,” he replied, standing slowly.

He felt light on his feet, but managed to stand without his knees buckling. The colors threatened to swirl again, but Philip fought them off until his vision cleared.

“You are probably feeling groggy,” Olivar said. “Your nose was broken, and I fear that you twisted your wrist quite badly. I had to give you a potion to ease the pain, which will also cause some dizziness. How well can you see?”

Philip dismissed Olivar’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Thank you for your concern, but as I have said, I am fine.”

“That is good, but please try not to make hasty movements with that hand for a few weeks. I can assure you that when the potion wears off, the pain will be excruciating.”

“Will the two of you stop bickering? It will soon be morning and there is much work to be done before I can rest. Take me to the creature at once!”

Abytheos turned and left the room. Olivar shrugged and held out a hand. Philip smiled and shook his head, indicating that he would walk without help. The two men followed the priest into the hall and through the door to the storeroom housing the prisoner. Abytheos used the stub of his candle to light others that were sitting upon sconces on the walls.

“The creature awaits us,” Abytheos said in a hushed tone. “There are only two ways to kill it, but the method we are using can be achieved through multiple techniques. In this case, we shall insert a sharp object into the brain, directly through the ear.”

Abytheos flipped his wrist and a flash of steel glinted against the candlelight. Philip blinked to make sure he had not imagined the priest’s dagger appearing as if from out of thin air. There was almost certainly more to this man than meets the eye, he realized. He would have to take measures to get to know Abytheos Haym as well as possible before he could ever begin to trust him.

“Take notice of the blank look in its eyes. It is the same stare one sees in the eyes of a dead man. There is no soul inside. Whatever once made this lifeless shell a man has long since died. The only thing remaining of its humanity is the desire to hunt—the urge to feed. It is worse than an animal, for there is no longer a mind to control those most primal of desires.”

Abytheos approached the table. “Whatever you have done to the soul of the man who used to reside in this body, I pray that it is returned to the realm of the One-God. May this body—this perversion of nature—rot in death!”

With another quick flourish of his wrist, the priest plunged the dagger into the Vel’Haen’s head. The sickening sound of steel carving into meat echoed in Philip’s head as the blade entered through the ear and found what had once been the living brain of a man none of them had met before. Abytheos jerked the blade free and its eyes closed. The Vel’Haen lying before them was dead. His family, friends, his very life was unknown to any of them. He would never return home to his town, nor would he ever embrace his wife or children—if he had had them in life—and comfort them with a kind word. He was damned. Some sort of curse or magic spell that only a blade through the head could dispel had possessed his body. And now, with the priest’s own caring hands, the curse had been lifted. This man would hopefully find new peace in death.

“That is the only way to kill them?” Philip asked.

“If you mean by harming the brain, then yes. My tiny blade will do the deed, but there are other ways to kill them. Fire also works, but that tends to be somewhat
messy
.”

“Name them all,” Philip said. “I fear that they will soon fall upon us in much greater numbers. I want to ready the villagers.”

“That is a wise decision, My Lord. To fully answer your question, your Vel’Haen die when the brain is pierced or otherwise becomes damaged directly. The easiest—and safest—method is severing the head completely from the body. Cut it off with a sword or destroy it by other means, including fire, and it simply dies, the same as any man. This is the only way to cause the creature harm. Nothing else will affect it.”

“If they are no longer
men
, exactly what are they?” Philip asked.

Abytheos smiled. “Why, they are Vel’Haen! You said so yourself.”

Philip scratched at the stubble jutting from his chin. “Vel’Haen—Those who are arisen from below to conquer by night—it is only a rough translation, although it seems fitting. But those are nothing more than legends. My father told me stories of them when I was a lad. My mother would shake her head in disapproval and scold him when I could not sleep and begged to hide under their covers in the middle of the night. If you will forgive me for saying so, I find it difficult to believe in the existence of those legends. Surely these creatures must be something entirely different.”

“Those stories must be specific to your family,” Olivar said. “I have never heard of them. Tell me, from where did these legends originate?”

“I do not know how widespread they were. There was a storybook that was passed from family to family in the place where I was raised. Our copy was passed between the noble houses for the children to read. If I remember correctly, it was titled,
Tales of the Winterstone
.”

“What did you say?” Abytheos asked, eyes wide. “The title—what was it again?”

“
Tales of the Winterstone
. At least, that is how I remember it. I could be wrong; it has been many years. The book was filled with stories about the great horrors and adventures of those who lived in the towns along Winterstone Wall ages ago. Why do you ask?”

The priest lowered his gaze. “No reason. I thought it was familiar; but I am mistaken. The only thing of great importance now is that you stop doubting the legends that were imparted to you as a child. Stranger things have happened in Alvanshia than a man discovering that the frightening stories plaguing his dreams were based more in truth than he once thought. We must prepare for what lies ahead. Solstice must be defended from further infection!”

“You actually think that this could become a widespread issue? I know what I just said, but isn’t it also possible that we have killed the only ones?”

“Philip,” Abytheos said, placing a hand on the lord’s shoulder. “You seem to be a man of intellect, but clearly you have forgotten our earlier discussion already. I am afraid we did not eradicate the Vel’Haen with a single dagger plunged into the heads of three dead men. There are many more awaiting us! Did I not promise to show you more of these beasts tomorrow?”