by Paul Freeman
“Is it a market day today?” he asked.
The driver regarded him coldly, hawked and spat. “Every day is a market day in Flagston, but that’s not why we’re headed there, if that’s your reason for asking.”
“How so?” Tomas felt a cold feeling of dread pool in the pit of his stomach.
“Magistrate’s burnin’ a witch today. Whole town and folk from all over the countryside’ll be there to witness that. Might be we’ve missed it already on account of us havin’ wheel trouble along the road.”
Tomas turned away from the gap-toothed grin and kicked his horse on.
The closer to the town he got the more the traffic increased. He ignored shouts of protest and waved fists as he bludgeoned his way through the crowds, using the weight of the horse if needed. The gates of the walled town hung open, allowing in a steady stream of would-be voyeurs as well as farmers and traders with goods to sell. A small group of guards slouched lazily against the wall, paying scant attention to the growing crowd filing into the town.
Once inside the gates, the stench and sounds of humanity, living tightly packed, washed over him. So many people in one place with buildings leaning one on top of another, and all around, the outer wall looming, made Tomas dizzy. It had been a long time since he lived among so many people. By now he was forced to dismount lest he attract the attention of curious guards. He led both horses in the direction of the swelling crowd, borne along a sea of grinning and excited townsfolk.
A great cheer went up as he approached the town square, followed by a high-pitched wail. The screech made both his mind and stomach lurch. “Aliss!” He barged his way through now, shoving any obstacle roughly aside. “Make way! Make way!” Ignoring any protestation, he kicked and prodded a path through the crowd.
More screams sent a ripple of laughter though the crowd drawing shouted insults and taunts. “Burn, witch!”
Tomas’ sword was drawn now as he moved into the square. At the centre was a raised platform, on that platform, tied to a stake and surrounded by a wall of fire, was Aliss. Thick, cloying smoke filled the air. Her agonised screams reverberated around the square.
Tomas shoved his way through, sword in hand, not registering how it was now stained red as spectators failed to move out of his way quick enough. Panic was a trailing snake following where he went as he snarled at people to move and used his naked blade and blacksmith’s strength to clear a path. Suddenly he was in open space. Three guards moved to intercept him. The first put up a hand to stop him. Tomas took his arm off at the elbow. The other two hesitated, expressions of shock creasing their features. Tomas stabbed one in the chest and viciously wrenched his blade free, before swinging it full force into the exposed neck of the third. The guard fell as a geyser of blood sprayed the panicking crowd.
As he mounted the wooden steps of the platform he could feel the ferocious heat pulsating from the fire. His heart wailed a silent scream of ache when he saw his woman at the centre of the inferno, her hair and clothes burnt away, her skin scorched and blistered. He ignored the burning agony of the flames as he beat away the fire with his own bare hands and lifted his woman free.
He carried her down, not knowing if she were alive or dead, barely able to look at her disfigured face, where the skin was black or red-raw. Charred meat sprang to mind, the thought sickening him. A line of guards waited. When he reached the bottom of the steps he gently placed Aliss down. He thought he heard her groan, but couldn’t be sure. Don’t let her die like this, he offered a silent prayer to any of the gods who bore witness to such injustice.
He turned to face the guards as one stepped out. “Drop your sword,” he demanded. Cold, hard eyes regarded the blacksmith.
Tomas looked beyond the guards at the devastation he had caused. Small knots of people littered the square, tending to folk he had injured because they would not move out of his way fast enough. The bodies of two guardsmen lay where he had cut them down when the black rage overcame him. A third screamed in agony, calling for the All Father to aid him, as the bloody stump that was once his arm was wrapped in bandages.
“I fear it is too late for that now,” Tomas answered. He met the glare of the guard captain without flinching. “Stand aside or you will all die,” he added coldly.
“Who are you?” the captain asked. Tomas could hear a tremor creeping into the man’s voice.
“I am the terror of the night, he who walks in the darkest places with death as a shadow. I am the force that will not bend nor stop. I feed on fear and pain, my thirst for blood is unquenchable.” Tomas brought his sword up.
“I can’t do that. You have murdered two soldiers, injured a dozen people here. And you are in league with a witch!” The captain’s eyebrows shot up. “I know your face,” he suddenly said.
“I am not the man you think I am,” Tomas replied and then lunged.
The captain’s head spun on his severed neck, before hitting the cobbled ground with a sickening squelch. Two more soldiers dropped, one clutching his belly, the other grabbing at a slash down the front of his chest that ripped open his chainmail armour before rending flesh and bone. The others fled from the whirlwind of death.
Tomas cradled his woman in his arms and rode though the deserted streets of Flagston, the smell of blood and burned flesh lingering in the air.
Djangra Roe: Flagston
Djangra Roe climbed the steps of the platform, his boots echoing off the wooden planks as he crossed the raised structure. He examined the fire-blackened pole at its centre before turning to look out over the town square. From his lofty perch he could see where the cobbled stones were still stained red in patches. He scratched the grey bristles covering his chin as his gaze wandered across the square, down a street flanked by two-storey dwellings, picturing in his mind the route used by the witch to escape.
Waiting for him at the foot of the steps was the magistrate along with a handful of his guards, and none too pleased to be made to wait on the pleasure of Duke Normand’s mage. He reflected on his parting from his lord. The duke had not wanted him to leave, still living in fear of the dream-witch. Roe had assured him that she had flown far too far to have the power to manipulate his dreams. “I need to find a witch who can follow her trail, otherwise she will haunt you for the rest of your life,” he had explained.
“Send someone else,” the duke had responded in his usual gruff manner.
“No. This is a thing I must do.” And that was that. Djangra had left a fretful duke behind while he searched the countryside for a witch, one powerful enough to follow the thin trail of magic left by the priestess of Eor, yet not so wilful that he could not bend her to his own. Now here he was, after travelling many days around Normand’s small duchy, standing in the spot where a witch made good an escape from a raging mob. Had she used magic? he wondered, he could find no trace of a taint that surely would have lingered, a faint crackle in the air, a taste of… of what? What does magic taste of? He mused. Cloves, he decided, bitter like cloves.
He climbed back down and approached the magistrate. “She was aided in her escape, you say?” he said.
“Aye, by a blacksmith. I have men out searching for the pair of them now. They won’t get far,” the magistrate answered. “Now, I have business to attend to…”
“You may attend to your business when I say you can,” Djangra answered, his voice low and even.
“And who in the name of the All Father do you think you are to be giving me orders?” the balding, official spluttered.
“We have established that already,” the mage said. He could sense the tension building from his own men at his back and those of the magistrate’s, fingers edged towards swords, feet shuffled on the cobbled street.
“Yes, you say you are Duke Normand’s counsellor. As a courtesy I have given my time and answered your question, but this is my town. This is…” Djangra interrupted by stretching up to whisper in the ear of the taller man. All colour faded from the magistrate’s complexion. Suddenly he clutch
ed his chest as he sucked in deep breaths. He dropped to his knees, a strangled sound coming from the back of his throat. His men stared at him, confusion written on their faces.
“Well, help him up. The man has obviously taken a turn,” the mage instructed the magistrate’s guards. “Have a good day, sir.” He bowed to the kneeling official who was still struggling for air as his men gently eased him to his feet.
Djangra Roe calmly walked from the town square, Three men-at-arms, bearing the red dragon of Lenstir on their white tunics, fell in behind him. “This is not the work of any ordinary blacksmith,” he muttered to himself, as he mused over the tale he had been told of the witch’s escape and the role of the blacksmith. He doubted there were more than a handful of men in the entire kingdom who could boldly interrupt an execution, literally pull a condemned witch from the flames while slaughtering a handful of trained guards in the process.
“Horace?” he addressed one of the men-at-arms.
“Aye?”
“Do you think it possible to decipher a trail from all the tracks leaving town? If the girl is a witch she has left no signs of magic for me to follow, so, we must assume the rescue was all the work of our blacksmith… or whatever he is.”
“Aye, perhaps. A horse leaving at speed and carrying an armoured man and girl will leave deeper tracks than most, if they have not been trampled already.”
The mage looked into the pockmarked face of the warrior, briefly wondering the reason for his scarred skin, a pox of some sort no doubt, he decided. “They tell me you are the best tracker in Lenstir. I have been told your skills are legendary. The word mystical was used.” Horace’s expression remained the same; if he was affected by the flattery he showed no sign. “Is what they say true?”
“Aye.” The answer was simple and direct. Djangra smiled at the honesty of it. Surely there was no idle boast here.
“Do not fail me. I shall wait in yonder tavern. I have a strong urge to clear the dust from my throat.”
Horace nodded before ambling off.
The tavern was quiet with very few patrons to approach. Djangra instructed his remaining two men-at-arms to wait outside, no point in intimidating the locals if he wanted to glean some information from them. The ceiling was low, the room filled with smoke from a turf fire blazing in the hearth. Three off-duty guardsmen huddled together in a corner supping tankards of frothy ale. An old man appeared to be sleeping at another table with his sleeves soaking up liquid from an upturned cup, with his head resting on his arms. A woman, displaying ample cleavage and looking bored slouched against the bar. Her eyes shot to the entrance when the mage walked in, lighting up at the prospect of custom.
“Good day, sir.” A portly innkeeper with tufts of grey hair either side of a bald head, greeted the mage. “What’s your pleasure?” He wiped his hands on a stained off-white tunic. The woman sidled over, managing to display even more flesh than before. Djangra stopped her with a raised hand. Her eyes dropped in disappointment as she slumped against the bar once again.
“Wine would be nice,” he answered with a smile. “Tell me, friend,” he said, handing over a couple of copper coins in payment and then adding a silver to the small pile, “there was a witch burning here a day ago. You’ve a pretty good view of the square from here. Did you see much of what happened?”
The innkeeper scooped the coins into his hand before sliding them into a pouch which disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Nah, not a lot. Jalia here.” He indicated the girl with a nod of his head, “she were right outside, saw the whole thing.”
“Is that so?” Djangra smoothed down his whiskers as he turned his attention to the girl. “Share a jug of wine with an old man, would you?” He slid a silver coin under her hand.
“Thank you, sir. That would be right nice.” She beamed. The mage took the jug from the innkeeper and poured a dark red liquid into two clay goblets. He handed one to Jalia with a smile and sipped from the other.
“So what did you see? Did she use magic to escape her bonds and the flames?”
“No, sir, it were that blacksmith… leastwise they say he’s a blacksmith. Never seen him before meself, but I wouldn’t mind gettin’ to know him a bit better, if you know what I mean. A fine figure of a man he was.” She grinned and quaffed the wine, spilling much of it down her chin. Djangra smiled a painted on smile and refilled her cup.
“They say he’s the blacksmith from the village Woodvale, up aside o’ the Great Wood. Nothin’ good ever comes out o’ that cursed forest,” the innkeeper joined in.
“How so?” the mage asked. “Enlighten a humble stranger to your fair land.”
“It’s haunted, sir,” the girl said. “Full o’ dark creatures and spooks that’d steal yer soul.”
“All them valley dwellers and other folk what live next to the forest are a bit queer in the head,” the innkeeper added.
“Is that so? So how is it you are so sure it was this blacksmith who rescued the witch?”
“She was his woman. Some o’ the magistrate’s guards recognised him. He attacked them several nights past when they was bringing her in for trial. They’ve been huntin’ him ever since,” the girl explained before helping herself to more wine.
“One o’ them guards is a regular o’ Jalia’s,” the innkeeper clarified.
“Ah, I see. So, how would a stranger find this village?”
“Go west out of town and follow the road for two days,” the portly innkeeper answered.
“Thank you, you’ve been of great assistance.” He placed two more silver coins on the bar. The woman’s hand snaked out to claim one for herself. Djangra smiled and turned to leave.
“Don’t go wanderin’ into that Great Wood. Folk who go in there often as not don’t come back out,” the innkeeper called after him.
His two men waited outside, leaning against the wall. “Horold, fetch the horses and bring them here. Ronwald, find Horace. Tell him we are leaving.”
“What if he hasn’t sniffed out the trail?” the man-at-arms answered with a question.
“Never mind that.” Djangra looked into the distance, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “We’re riding west. West, in search of a hamlet and a haunted forest.”
Jarl Crawulf – Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle
He opened one eye, struggling to exert the effort needed for that simple function. Ice water flowed through his veins in place of blood. He was beyond cold, he felt as if his very bones had frozen into strips of glacial ice. The muscles of his jaw clenched tightly as his teeth chattered uncontrollably. Hair – wet and greasy clung to his face. Darkness enveloped him; the sound of the sea breaking on rocks filled him with petrifying fear, making him groan and stir. Like a great, sea-creature rousing from slumber, he pushed himself up onto one arm. The effort required was too great, his own weight too much to bear and he dropped back to the hard ground. The smell of the ocean clung to him, lay thick in the air all around. His thoughts were too groggy to bring clarity to his thinking, everything felt out of focus to him. The how and the why of where he was, were questions beyond him, the where, even more so. Falling, he remembered falling. Perhaps he had sunk all the way to the ocean floor and was now in the dark realm of Baltagor, or had the Lord of the Sea’s trickster daughters lured him to his doom? As they had tricked countless sailors into the turbulent seas, since time began. Surely death would not hurt so much.
He heard voices then. In the dark he could not tell if they were carried on the wind, from some far off place, or if they were close by and about to stumble on him. Either way it made no difference; he could not move. If he was not already dead, he soon would be. Perhaps the voices were the Soul Reapers come to harvest his soul for Boda’s Nacht Realm. Such thoughts filled him with dread. As a warrior, it was his reward to spend eternity feasting in the hall of Alweise and fighting his enemies on the vast plains and in the high, rocky reaches of Eiru, home of the gods. Could some trick of fate deprive him of his ultimate reward? Who knew the minds o
f gods?
Memories came back to him—he had fallen from the cliff—had he died with a sword in his hand? Or had the watery depths of Baltagor quenched his life? Would fate be so cruel as to judge him by the manner of his death? Pain wracked his body, shooting through him in icy, dagger-stabs. He dug his fingers into the ground beneath him, cutting his hands and tearing the skin from his fingers on loose stones and the hard rock beneath.
The orange glow of torches, flickering in the wind allowed him to see the cave he was lying in. Huge dark shadows danced around the wet and jagged walls. Was it the Soul Reapers or his enemies come to finish him off?
The voices were closer now. He tried to focus on the words, but they made no sense to him.
“Over here!”
He was found. He dug his fingers into the hardness of the rock beneath him, ignoring the pain of breaking nails and shredded fingertips as he tried to summon the strength to get away. Grunting with the effort, he shifted his body.
“Hold still.” Words drifted over him as blackness found him once again.
If he dreamed dreams good or ill, he had forgotten them when he woke. Although not quite as dark as before, it still took a little time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He lay on a bed with a straw-filled mattress beneath him. Stone walls surrounded him and above he could make out the dark reed of a thatched roof. The air was thick with the smell of wood-smoke and the strong scent of smoked fish. He reached his hand up to his aching head and felt a cloth tightly binding his scalp.
“You got a right nasty bang on your head there. The gods alone know how it is you were not dead when we found you in the cave. We was searchin’ for shellfish washed in by the tide when we found you instead. Come off a shipwreck did ya?”
Crawulf regarded the man with narrowed eyes, taking in the small dwelling as he did so. The stranger was stirring a pot hanging over the fire. The smell of a fish stew drifted over to Crawulf, making his stomach grumble. He realised he was starving.