A strong wind could be heard outside. A few hanging pots fell to the ground causing Dragon to pop his head up to yap at whatever it was. Outside the window a black fog could be seen moving slowly toward the cottage. “Dragon, you see that?” Lynad asked, pointing toward the open window. “No, of course you can’t. You’re blind as a bat.”
Slowly, the fog began slipping into the cottage. As it entered it began to look less like a cloud and more like a slender human-like figure. The silhouette was similar to that of a large man’s which frightened Lynad to no end. It stood in the middle of the one-room cottage for what felt like an eternity. Lynad, heart racing and mouth dry, tried to speak but couldn’t. The figure moved closer to him until it was standing directly over his bottom half. One of its limbs, made of pure smoke Lynad now realized, gently grabbed his blackened hand and pulled it up to inspect it. The figure’s limb turned his hand left then right and then left again to observe all the affected areas before gently laying it back down on the bed.
It then turned to survey Lynad’s severed foot. Its limb lifted Lynad’s leg to better study the injury. After a minute or so, the figure thrust its right smoky limb into Lynad’s leg which caused such considerable pain that Lynad passed out in agony. When he came to, hours later, the fog was gone. He pulled his hand up to see what the figure had done to it, if anything. Nothing. It was still black and he could still make a fist with no pain. He noticed Dragon across the room, facing him and barking a little louder than he was accustomed to. “Come here, boy,” he said, expecting Dragon to do as he was told. But Dragon kept his distance and continued barking from afar.
“Crazy dog,” he said as he took a glance at two feet at the end of his bed, one normal and pale in color and the other black as night. “God’s hell!” he shouted in fright. He wiggled his new big black toe before reaching down to feel the dark flesh that no one, save a few witches of an ancient order, had ever seen before. Confused yet excited, he jumped down to walk on it. No pain. “Dragon, what in God’s hell did that thing do to me?” Dragon responded with continuous barking. Just then he noticed the bucket he had placed his foot in two days ago. He walked over to it and saw the bloated foot still there, floating in red water.
Cecracy
It had been two days on horseback. He was used to traveling from one side of the island to the other as many of his targets lived far and wide. The Shroud’s headquarters was mobile, much like the assassins, thieves, and mercenaries that formed the guild centuries ago. Its present whereabouts was only known to the two dozen members that were considered active. Cecracy, a member and prodigy, was on the cusp of greatness as the guild conclave unanimously chose him for its most ambitious assassination in a hundred years: to kill a king. Today he was not going to be killing anyone, however – unless an unavoidable circumstance presented itself. This, the first phase of his mission, should not be difficult, he thought.
Twigs and dried leaves snapped and crunched below the hooves of Dagger, the name of the horse given to him after a particularly high-profile assassination he performed a few months back. According to the map, he was nearing the witch’s cottage. He had little experience dealing with witches as they were becoming somewhat an endangered species. The most common estimation puts their numbers at fifty island-wide. This, of course, doesn’t take into account the other six islands where humans are not welcome. Perhaps a few witches braved the northern waters and started new lives on Havendore. They wouldn’t be alone as The Great Purge forced all the different ones to colonize Lajif, a tiny island south of Tresladore. Those that didn’t leave, of which there were a few hundred, were rounded up and executed in King’s Square. Witches, dwarves, and those with physical abnormalities were most commonly considered different then and Rinehart I, in his religious zeal, believed he was doing the will of the God of the Earth.
He hopped off of Dagger and tied the reins around an oak tree a few feet from the witch’s cottage. “Good girl,” he said as he patted her mane. “I’ll return shortly.” He looked around and admired the forest the witch had called home. If he were to retire one day this is the type of spot he’d choose, isolated and quiet. In truth, he didn’t like many people. He never had. Considered small and awkward as a boy, he had fought hard to ignore what others thought or said about him. Even to this day he cares deeply about his reputation, even if it’s only among other assassins.
He was greeted with the perfume of a dozen elixirs when he entered the cottage. He heard and saw a large boiling cauldron in the corner. To his right sat a young woman with her head in a book. He gave her a smile that she didn’t acknowledge. “Voracious reader, that one,” the witch said as she entered from a back room. He bent down to read the book’s title. “A History of Wizardry and Witchcraft,” he read aloud. “Sight set on being a witch one day, little girl?”
The girl slowly raised her head to acknowledge him. Her face was solemn, serious. He was unaware that she had been a disciple now for seven years and could hold her own in battle. And she wasn’t a little girl anymore even though her features proclaimed otherwise. She wore a large black robe that concealed not only her age, but what she was capable of.
With a wave of her finger, three books shot off a bookshelf and slammed into the back of his head. “God’s fire!” he shouted in displeasure. He pulled out two daggers, ready to thrust one into her neck and the other into her chest.
“Stop!” shouted the witch. “She’s just a girl.”
“Girl or not, no one attacks a Shroud and lives.”
“You kill her and I don’t give you what you came here for,” she said, asserting that she possessed the upper hand.
She was right, but it had been a decade since he had been that embarrassed – and at the hands of a girl no less. He wanted to murder them both right then and there, but he didn’t consider himself a murderer. He was a soldier doing the God of Fire’s will, not his own. He reluctantly re-sheathed his dagger and joined the witch at the cauldron.
The witch held in her hands two vials of dark red liquid. One vial had a red cap and the other a blue one. “The red one will do the trick if ingested or injected into the body. The blue one is the antidote in case you need it.” She handed the vials to him as he handed a small sack of gold to her. She looked at his face closely for a moment and felt like she had seen him before.
“Are you a Fortineth?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to. He wasn’t proud to be a Fortineth and, to some extent, never identified as one. His father was, and is, a military man who paid little-to-no attention to his family. Cecracy was the oldest of the brothers and felt as if he followed in his father’s footsteps when he left them behind to join The Shroud, one of the many regrets of his life.
“Yes, you are a Fortineth. The Goddesses have a message for you,” she said.
“I don’t follow the Goddesses,” he replied.
“Nevertheless, when the old man dies you will take his place,” she said.
He felt indifferent about the message as he didn’t know who the old man was or is. Could she be referring to Father? He didn’t respond and left the cottage never to return.
Part III
Braume
“They’re too many,” a voice shouted from the back.
The room was dim and dusty. Rarely had Braume attended these meetings, but he felt he had no other choice. The Royal Guard had gone too far this time and he wanted revenge. He had never been so filled with rage in his life. There had been a few murders here and there over the years, but none were this close to home. He didn’t know where all this was going and he didn’t care. He knew Dentrik had a plan that included him and he was ready to play his part.
There were about fifty men crammed into this little space. The stench of each man’s sweat was almost unbearable for Artyom who sat at the front next to his father. Artyom had heard of his father’s exploits in the War of the Plains and was secretly hoping he had a chance to prove his bravery in battle. Braume wished the same
for him.
“We don’t even know if it was the Guard that killed Evgeni and the Jonus boy,” another man said. He looked at Braume and slightly bowed his head, “All respects, Bear.” Braume nodded, letting the man off the hook.
“They’re soldiers, they know how to fight. We don’t,” said a third man in the crowd.
“Cowards, the lot of ya!” shouted Dentrik as he slammed his hand onto a table. “There comes a time in every man’s life where he has a chance to actually be a man. That time is now. If we let the raping and murdering go on year after year there’s not going to be any of us left, and our sons and daughters won’t be by our seed. Is that what we want?”
A few murmured here and there. The three men that spoke earlier stayed silent. Braume recognized the truth in Dentrik’s words, fueling his anger even more. He felt a slight sting of regret for not attending these meetings all along. Perhaps he could have prevented his father’s murder. Perhaps not. Either way he felt he had made a grave mistake for not being the example he thought he was.
“Braume the Bear is with us tonight as many of you have noticed,” Dentrik continued. “He is joining the fight.”
A few men slapped and patted Braume’s shoulders, indicating their fondness and admiration for him.
“The most honorable man among us,” Dentrik said, pointing at Braume. “The one man who kept his head down and did the right thing. The one that wanted to be a good citizen and live in peace. The one that was once a proud soldier in the Royal Guard – is now seated among us, willing to lead the charge. We should not take this lightly, that the most respected and celebrated one among us is now willing to take up arms and fight. Fight for his children, fight for his father, fight for us,” the murmurs turned into roars of excitement and agreement.
Braume thought ahead to what may come of this little rebellion. He saw himself lying on his back in the middle of a field. Clanging of swords and cries of pain all around him. He looks to his left and sees a man swinging a shovel at a fully armored Royal Guard. The soldier cuts the shovel in half with one swing of his sword and then swings it again across the man’s throat, nearly severing his head. He looks to his right and sees Dentrik, impaled, slowly sliding down a wooden pike. He sits up to see Artyom underneath a dead horse, howling in pain. His face bathed in tears.
“Bear, any words?”
Braume comes to and realizes Dentrik would like him to speak to the crowd. He stands up, a little shaken from his vision. “He’s right,” he says. “I really see no other choice here. If we don’t fight back they’ll continue to break our will until it’s too late.” Staring at Artyom, “If we die, we die, but at least we’ll die as men.”
Annie
“Please, you have to save him,” the man cried.
A boy, no older than eight or nine, rested on the witch’s table. He had been dead for over an hour now. The man had ridden like hell to the witch’s cottage. He, like any other father in a situation like this, was desperate and knew Layhe witches were quite powerful. Perhaps she could do the impossible for him.
Not many children had been brought to her doorstep over the years. In fact, no child, save Annie, had crossed her threshold in twenty years.
Annie, who was now nearing her twentieth year, stood beside the witch awaiting orders. Her hair had been turning white for the past year now. A few strips of black here and there, but her transformation was coming along nicely. The witch hadn’t restored her voice yet, which was a considerable handicap Annie had learned to overcome. She had spent much of her time researching spells that didn’t require spoken words. She discovered that the movement of fingers and intense concentration could bring any man to his knees. She was powerful, but she knew she was far from meeting her true potential.
She had witnessed the witch resurrect various animals over the years, but never a human. She knew, from research, that it was possible, but there were consequences. The revived subject would have no memory of their past life, would not be able to speak, and would live in excruciating pain for the rest of their days. Blood, in a revived subject, does not move through the body properly and they would always feel as if something inside of them is wanting to burst through their skin.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” the witch said.
“Please, use your magic and bring him back to me,” the man begged.
Annie saw the desperation in the man’s face and wondered, very briefly, how her mother was. Once she chose to follow the witch she never returned to The Hamelesh which, at times, saddened her. However, it was true then and it was true still, had she stayed in The Hamelesh her life would have been boring and predictable.
“Please, I’ll give you anything. You want gold?” The man pulled out a small sack of gold and tried to hand it to the witch. “I have more…at home. I can bring you more. Please do this for me.”
“It’s not about what this is worth or what you can give me,” she said. “If he lives again he will not be your son, or anyone’s son for that matter. He’ll be a shadow version of himself. Do you understand?”
Her master was right. He didn’t realize what he was asking for. The boy, if revived, would only be a mutation of his previous self. He wouldn’t understand human affection or social expectations. He would have a ravenous appetite for insects and small rodents and would behave much like a wild animal. Annie remembered reading about one revived subject that murdered and cannibalized his mother and five siblings only to be killed by his father later that evening. The father in that story went on to burn down his home and hang himself in a nearby barn.
The man slammed his hand down. “Do it or I will bring the Royal Guard to this godforsaken hellhole and have you burned at the stake,” he threatened.
It was just then the witch realized who the man was. He was Gandor of the House of Goldrak. Quite an influential man in the southern part of the kingdom. She realized there was actual authority behind his words, but Layhe witches don’t respond well to threats. Yet, she had grown fond of her little place in the woods and would prefer to live out her remaining few years passing on her powers and knowledge to her young disciple. The decision was clear – revive the boy.
“Fetch the scroll,” she instructed Annie.
Annie grabbed a rolled-up scroll from a cluttered bookshelf and handed it to the witch. “I’ll need you to stand back,” she advised Gandor as she unrolled the scroll.
Annie’s heart was racing. This was going to be the most powerful spell she had ever seen the witch cast. This sort of spell is what she had been dreaming about for quite some time. Some spells, like resurrection, take a toll on the caster and Annie knew the witch would need time to recover once this was all done.
The witch placed her hand on the boy’s forehead. Closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Kav dor jahal yu tril han efsee,” she chanted.
Annie studied the witch and realized how painful such a powerful spell can be. She had served the witch for years and knew what her face looked like when she was in pain. Tears surfaced on the witch’s cheeks as she chanted and her face seemed to tighten. This spell going to kill her, Annie thought.
Just then the boy raised up suddenly and gasped for air, like he had been underwater for days. He huffed and wheezed uncontrollably for a moment before he looked around the room and screamed.
“Son,” Gandor said. “You’re back. It’s okay, you’re okay.” He moved in to embrace the boy, but he was shoved back violently.
“Gahhhhh,” the boy screamed as he ran around the room frantically, destroying bottles and chairs in his wake. He grabbed books from the shelves and heaved them across the room at Gandor.
“Please, son…it’s me,” he said trying to console the boy.
In all the commotion, Annie didn’t notice the toll it had taken on the witch who was now sitting on the floor against a wall.
“What have you done to him?” he shouted at the witch. “Why doesn’t he recognize me?”
“I tried to…I tried to warn yo
u,” the witch said slowly.
Gandor then grabbed the witch by the shoulders and shook her with the same anger his undead son now showed. “Fix him, you witch,” he roared. “Fix him now or I will kill you myself!”
Annie stretched out her arms and froze everything in the room. Gandor, the boy, and even four or five books that were in the air were now stuck in place. Gandor howled in pain and the boy screamed louder.
“Let them go, child,” the witch said.
Annie thought about how good it felt to have power over someone, especially someone who meant harm to her or a loved one. This was a feeling she wanted to get used to. However, her master was right yet again. If she murdered this man the entire region would come looking for them. They’d spend the next few years in hiding and if they were caught they would be pressed to death or burned at the stake.
“Listen to your master, little one,” Gandor said with terror in his voice.
She pulled her arms back and everything and everyone fell to the ground. The witch gave her a nod, a sign of respect among witches. The boy cowered in a corner and Gandor climbed to his feet. “What now?” he said, hoping the witch would volunteer to keep the boy.
“You take your son and leave and never reveal our whereabouts,” she said sternly, showing a little more life than earlier. “Because if you do, you and the rest of your family will have similar fates to your boy over there.”
“My son? That thing?”
“Yes, your lordship,” she said. “He is your son and you will treat him as such.”
Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1) Page 4