by Brad Carsten
She wasn't listening. Perhaps Quinn was right. Perhaps he should just throw her over the back of his horse and ride.
“Liam,” Quinn shouted. Liam turned in time to see the thing streaking out the trees towards her. It moved so quickly, he didn't have time to form a proper image of it. He raised his bow, the string snapped, and the creature was knocked aside. Its torso slammed into her, and she was thrown back into the dirt. Liam shot the other two arrows, as it darted off. The first missed, hitting into the ground with a puff of dust. That thing was moving too quickly. He aimed the next arrow ahead of it, to compensate for its speed. He shot, and the creature disappeared back into the shadows of the trees. He didn't hear a howl but was sure he’d hit it. He leapt from his saddle, drawing three more arrows and ran in front of her. “Get to my horse. NOW. Go.” He caught movement as that thing broke from the trees again, this time off to the side. He got two arrows off before it reached them. Liam dropped his bow and drew his dagger. The creature leapt. He fell back, screaming, and abruptly everything froze around him.
The creature hung in the air, mid jump, its massive jaws stretched apart, its dark lips pulled back to expose a set of cruel looking teeth. Ropes of spittle hung between them. He got to see what it looked like, but even so, it was smudged, like it couldn't quite hold its form. Behind them, Quinn sat frozen in his saddle, his cudgel raised, his mouth open in a scream. Silence hung over the forest. There were no insects, and not a leaf rustled in the trees.
Liam realised the woman's hand was on his arm and her other was clutching onto something—a jewelled necklace.
She stepped over to one of her fallen men, swaying like she was drunk, and drew the sword from his scabbard. She raised it in both hands above the creature’s neck and swung as hard as she could.
It took three strikes for the head to come off, and then everything returned to normal. The creature, carried by its own weight, slammed into the ground alongside Liam, spraying up a cloud of dirt. Behind, Quinn's horse continued galloping towards them.
Liam’s eyes snapped to the woman, but this time it was his turn to be afraid. Who was she and what in fate could have happened?
The woman's face paled. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the ground.
Chapter 9
When Liam arrived, Madam Blithe was carrying in some more wood for the fire. Just over her shoulder, he could see the woman lying on the bed. “How is she?”
“Well, she’s still breathing, so that's something, but she’s hardly moved all day.” Madam Blithe fed a few pieces into the fire and carefully laid the rest on the floor alongside it for later. The room was warm, and cosy, if sparsely decorated. Times were hard, and many in the village had been forced to sell off their things to survive, and the inn was no exception.
“The poor dear. I don't know what's wrong with her, but she doesn’t have a fever, and her heartbeat is normal. At first, I thought she was just exhausted, but”—Madam Blithe’s brow knitted together in concern—“It doesn’t make sense. All we can do is leave her to rest, and fate willing, she'll wake up when she's ready.” Madam Blithe straightened the blankets and then excused herself to get a bowl of warm water and some fresh bandages, and Liam took a seat on a chair in the corner of the room.
The woman’s arms rested above the blankets, where a spot of blood had leaked into the bandages. Above the bandages were more scars. This wasn't the first time she had cut herself. But why would she do that?
Who was she, and what was she doing so close to the village? And what in light happened when everything froze like that? Liam had begun to question his state of mind at the time, and whether it played out as he remembered, but what else could have happened? His eyes slid down to the necklace peeking out below the neckline of her dress, and he couldn't help but wonder if that had anything to do with it. From the north came rumors of enchanted items that could do all sorts of strange things, but freeze time? Was that even possible? He had never heard of such a thing.
There came a tapping at the window, where a finch had settled on the windowsill and was tapping the shutter to get inside. Liam could just make out its shape through the slats.
He returned his attention to the woman. It was all very strange. She was strange, and yet she intrigued him.
Tap, tap, tap.
Where was she going? What was she doing so far away from anything, and why was she out at night? Didn’t she know about the nightspawn? Perhaps she had lost her way, or she didn’t know any better. He had a lot of questions and as of yet, no answers.
Tap, tap, tap. The tapping was getting wilder, more erratic. The bird began to throw itself into the shutters, and Liam hurried to the window to chase it off before it did itself an injury. He pushed open the shutters and the bird fell into the room onto the floorboards. Its wing was bent back and it scraped around in circles leaving patterns in the fine layer of dust on the floor. With the trouble in the kingdom, the room hadn’t been used in some time. The village didn't get too many visitors anymore.
The bird opened and closed its beak as though gulping for air. Liam bent to scoop it up gently and carry it downstairs, when black liquid oozed out of its mouth and nostrils and eyes. The liquid spread out across the floor soaking into the grooves between the boards, and the cursed bird shriveled up right in front of him like it had been out in the sun for days. He may have been wrong about all that happened in the woods, but the finch—there was no mistaking that.
Liam looked up slowly from the bird to the woman, and his blood ran cold.
***
“I'm telling you what I saw,” Liam said, feeling his anger rising. Not at Quinn, but at himself for bringing a wretched into the village. A cursed wretched! “I faced one ten years ago when I took those soldiers to Gosspree-nor. You have no idea what they can do.”
Quinn had grown up with the stories, as had every child in the kingdom, but hearing about them and coming face to face with one were different things entirely.
We were taking a child out of the village, back to the capital, when one of those things came after us and started picking off the kingdom soldiers one by one. It was throwing them into the trees—impaling them. It was throwing their horses up like they weighed nothing.” Liam remembered the screams and shuddered. Ten years had passed, and he could still picture it clearly. He hadn't told anyone what happened in Gosspree-nor, not even Tarla. He didn't want it getting out and then the villagers harassing him with questions, and he certainly didn't want it getting back to the wretched, but Quinn had to know what they were dealing with.
“Three of them were staying in the inn. We had two knights and a handful of kingdom soldiers with at least another fifty knights and a thousand soldiers on their way, and still we left. We fled at night wondering if even half of us would make it out alive. You’ve never felt evil like that—never. In the town, we came across a pig ramming its head into the wall over and over until the blood was dripping off the stones onto the ground. You don't want that coming into the village.”
Quinn was looking at him in astonishment. “You never told me what happened in Gosspree-nor. I didn't realise... plague, Liam.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So what do we do? I mean, the village is going to notice if pigs start ramming their heads into the walls. Light failing, they’d notice that.”
Not much frightened Liam. Perhaps the thought of actually leaving his farm for good one day and setting out into an unknown future, or finding love and losing it again, or the nightspawn screeching in the stillness of the dark, but then there was the thought of facing the wretched again. The screams of dying soldiers often woke him up at night in a cold sweat, and he’d light as many candles as he could to chase the shadows away, but he was tired of running.
He drew a knife out of his pocket and his hand began to tremble. “We put this through her heart and be done with it.”
“Plague, Liam,” Quinn forced the knife down away from prying eyes. They were standing outside the inn, far from any windows and s
hielded by the old storage shed that they used to get into as children to plunder the milk pails. Even back then it was old and rundown. Now it was falling apart. The weeds reached a third of the way up the wall, and the door had swollen shut. No one had been there for some time, but Quinn checked that they were alone, and still he lowered his voice. “Don't you think madam Blithe would notice something like that? Wretched or no, they’ll find out who it was and string you up. And how many more wretched would that bring down on our village?”
“So, what else are we supposed to do? Last night, she couldn't remember anything. She didn't know who she was or what had happened to her, but what happens when she gets her strength back—when she starts to remember who she is? She's in a room she doesn't recognize. What if she thinks we took her or that we cut up her arm like that?” He didn't know what else to do. He had brought a viper into the village, putting everyone at risk. That was on him, and now he had to deal with it. For all he knew, she could have attacked that carriage and killed everyone there and would come after the village next.
“Look, we don't know anything for certain yet—” Quinn said.
“We know that she's a wretched. What else do you need to know.”
“Even so, we can't just kill her. You risked your life to save her. You brought her here. You’ve been sitting with her all day looking out for her, and now you're talking about putting a dagger through her heart? Whatever she is, would you be able to do that by your own hand? Surely there’s another way?”
Liam knew fear was clouding his judgement. Getting rid of her had been his first and only thought, as he stumbled out of her room and down the stairs taking them three at a time, but Quinn was right. Deep down, he wondered if he'd be able to go through with it, when he had the knife and was looking down at her asleep on the bed, with her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling. The thought turned his stomach, but what other choice did they have? She could kill everyone he cared about. She could kill Tarla’s family and then there’d be nothing left of the woman he had once loved so dearly. But even so, he didn't know if he could drive the knife home. Doubt was flooding his mind, and he didn't know if he could go through with it. “So what do you suggest?”
“We’ll get her out of the village. It's too late now. There isn't the chance of a one-sided dice that I'm going to be caught out at night again, but first thing tomorrow morning, we’ll load her into a wagon, and take her back to the carriage. We’ll leave her there and then whatever happens to her happens. But at least we won't have any blood on our hands. Alright?”
Liam nodded, distractedly.
For a moment, he thought about the bounty they’d get for her if only they could get her to a barracks. That way, the soldiers could deal with her, and they wouldn't just be loosing her on the countryside, but the closest barracks was a good week's ride away, and he certainly wasn't about to take the chance. Already they'd be pushing their luck. No, Quinn was right. They would just take her out of the village. They would leave her with some food and water and then ride until their horses collapsed.
“First thing tomorrow morning?” Quinn said, again, a bit more adamantly this time.
Liam nodded, but his mind was far away. “First thing.”
He slipped his knife back into his pocket, glad to be rid of its cold and cruel weight in his hand, but he hoped that they were doing the right thing. “Just pray that she doesn't wake up before then.”
Quinn blew out his cheeks. “If she does, we may have to use that knife after all.”
***
Liam and Quinn decided to share what they knew with Master Blithe. He was one of the more sensible men in the village and knew how to keep a confidence. He had been running the inn for years where secrets were shared over a pint and deals were struck. He wouldn't have lasted as long if he couldn't keep a secret. Besides, the wretched was staying in his inn, and his wife was looking after her. He deserved to know.
Master Blithe served in the army for many years before settling in the village. He had seen some terrible things, but still, he lost a few shades of colour when they told him about the wretched. He scrubbed his thick neck with his hand as he pondered what to do.
“First thing's first,” he said, in his usual contemplative manner. “We get Eadda away from the room. We won't lock the door, mind, just in case the wretched does wake up, but I ain't having her at risk. Though, convincing her could be the trick. She's as headstrong as a mule by the river. But I'll speak to Madam Edesia and see if there isn't anything we can give to the cursed wretched to keep her asleep. And you two ain't to go far until she's out of the village.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Liam said. Fortunately, he still had his bow. He hadn't managed to get back to the farm since they arrived in the village. He had left it in the lounge with his maps. If she woke up, he’d be there to see that she didn't cause any trouble.
“Just don't say nothing to no-one,” Master Blithe said. “The last thing we need is the Branbills getting wind of this. They'll stir up trouble we don't need. You brought her in quietly, and we'll get her out the same way. Plight, I retired here to get away from this sort of trouble.”
While Liam helped him prepare the wagon, Master Blithe set Quinn to repairing the old sign that had broken loose in a storm a few weeks back. The villagers came to Quinn when they had any small jobs that needed doing. Not because he was good at repairing things, but because he usually didn't have anything better to do with his days. Now Master Blithe just wanted him to keep a watch outside.
“She’d better not wake up before the sleep draft arrives,” Master Blithe said, as he led Liam around the back of the inn.
***
The stranger ran in front of Kaylyn, drawing his bow, as the creature broke away from the trees. Its teeth were bared, and the sound it made, Kaylyn tried to remember what it was, but images and sounds were merging into each other. The stranger shifted into someone else: into Master Nimbly, her wagoner, who had now turned back to speak to her through the tiny window. He was explaining that they had taken a wrong turn, that the road was dark and winding and—something streaked past him. Blood sprayed across the window, and he was gone—simply gone.
A soldier screamed. Another’s horse reared. He went for his sword and it hadn't cleared the scabbard before he was snatched out of his saddle, and his screams retreated into the night.
Kaylyn was getting to her feet. The wagon jolted, as the horses took off for the trees, throwing her back into her seat. Hooves drummed the ground. The wagon rocked dangerously from side to side. Kaylyn tried to get up—to get to the door, but the wagon tipped, and she was thrown to the side. She hit her head, her legs were thrown up and she thudded onto her back.
She blinked up at the cushioned seats above her, turning. The bottom fell away, and she hit the floor again with her legs on the bench and the rest of her lying awkwardly on what used to be the side of the wagon. Just past her, the window smashed, and the ground slid past, spraying up stones and dirt and glass and bits of wood. The wagon hit into something, coming to an abrupt halt, and Kaylyn was thrown into the opposite bench. Above her, moonlight streamed in through the gap where the door used to be painting lines through a cloud of dust. The hinges were still there, hanging into the wagon, but the door was missing.
Kaylyn’s head rang as she slowly pushed herself up off the floor. Blood rushed to her head whiting out the scene around her. She was only vaguely aware of what was happening. They were on their way somewhere—a village and... Someone was screaming. The sound was like glass in her head. It was everywhere. It was all around her. She tried to stand, to reach the block of moonlight above her, but her legs threatened to give way like they were made of water skins.
She could probably squeeze through the driver's window, but she saw the blood sprayed across it and hesitated. Something took him, and whatever that was, it was still outside. By the light of mercy, something took him. No, she pushed the feeling aside angrily. She wouldn't let that stop her.
Kaylyn forced open the hatch, trying to ignore the blood, and squeezed her head and shoulders through it. The gap was rather narrow, and with the wagon on its side, lay at an awkward angle. She reached out for the ground to try to steady herself, but it was further than it looked, and she slipped and landed face first in the dirt, and her legs came crashing down behind her.
The screaming had been replaced by a gurgled prayer. One of the soldiers had been pinned under the wagon. She could just make out his pale face in the moonlight. His lips moved, but no words escaped—only the sound of blood bubbling in his throat.
Kaylyn crawled towards him wishing she could do something, but her power was destructive; it couldn't heal. There was nothing she could do, and she hated herself even more for that. She reached out a hand to comfort him, to tell him that someone was there with him in his final moments, but she didn't have the strength to move quick enough. Her head throbbed, and her vision was moving in and out of focus, and by the time she reached him, his lips had stopped moving. By Fate’s cruel hand there was nothing she could do.
She pulled herself up using the wagon for support and took in the scene around her. There were many dead. A soldier lay a few paces away, and something was leaning over him, eating—It was eating his leg. She could hear the muscles ripping free of the bone.
Anger filled her, and she opened herself to Gaharah. It filled her, polluting her. She wanted to empty her stomach, but she resisted. Her mind was slipping away, and still she drew in more filth, more power. Waves of anguish washed over her; Wave after wave it came. She had seen her father dying, and yet, the filth was even worse. Anger and hate and sickness and despair. She was anger, she was hate, she was sickness and she brought despair. It called to her to submit. Her mind was slipping away, but she fought to hold on.