Changeling: Prelude to the Chosen Chronicles
Page 17
Hard packed mud cooled the soles of his feet as he took the right hand fork that he knew would lead very close to a cart track. He never saw anyone on it or even near it, especially this late in the night so he paid it no mind when he walked the short ridge next to it. Even if there were people on it, it was highly unlikely they would even see him up there.
Trees and bushes grew thickly in places and he carefully manoeuvred himself around them. The way became a bit more treacherous as a heavy mist descended. It was a sure precursor to the oncoming storm. Even with his gifted vision the mist would still block his sight so he trod carefully.
Lightning flashed, eerily illuminating the forest in frozen images that would halt the heart of a living man. To the boy, the pictures the light created seemed to evoke the true spirits of the living foliage about him, and brought chills when haunted faces exposed themselves from the dead and dying trees. Everything was so alive, even those that were dead danced in the light of the storm. Faces caught in expressions of horror, sadness and on the occasion, joy and laughter. When the grumbles of thunder followed, the boy could almost make out words, as if the sky were talking to him in some secret and sacred language he was not privy to know. He wished he did.
Another series of flashes flared in the night sky. Expectantly, the boy waited for the roll of thunder as the storm closed in. What followed was not thunder. A high-pitched scream penetrated the night, giving voice to the petrifying tree spirits caught in the grips of pain. Only when the scream fell off and ceased did the deep resounding boom follow.
The boy stopped in his tracks. Following the direction of the sound, he looked down through the greenery to the cart trail. Had it not been for all the leaves in the way he would be able to see clearly, as it was he could make nothing out. It was very possible that his imagination was working over time. It was also very probable that whatever made the cry was some sort of forest animal turned into dinner for a predator. Dismissing it with a shake of his head, the boy returned his attention back to following the trail that would lead him home.
“No! Please!”
That definitely was not an animal.
Coming to an abrupt halt, the boy crouched, his heart hammering in his head. Whoever cried out was very near and he had no intentions of being caught–again. Gazing from underneath the leaves cupped in anticipation of rain, he took a couple of careful crablike steps in the direction in which the cry came and was able to see the tracks of the cart trail. Someone was on the road at this late hour.
The high piercing scream cut the night again, this time coming closer. Every instinct yelled at him to flee, but something about the voice held him fast, something plaintive and panicked. Lightning flashed and he saw the source of the terror stricken cries.
A girl ran down the track, her rough grey woollen dress torn and stained with mud and blood. Her dishevelled chestnut coloured hair gleamed like fire as lightning flared in the sky. Tendrils that made its escape from her long braid down her back gave her a haloed appearance. He could clearly make out the dark bruise swelling the side of her mouth and the tracks the tears left down her face. Holding up the ragged ends of her skirt as she ran, the boy could see and even smell the blood on her legs.
The girl was obviously in distress and had been attacked, but the boy stayed frozen to his hiding place. Whoever did this to her could very well do this to him if he were caught, and he pivoted so that he could quietly make his departure from the scene.
He felt for the girl, he truly did, but he was not going to risk his life. In any case, she probably would turn and attack him for what he was, whatever that was.
With a last glance back he could see the girl turn and look down the path. He could not see what followed her, but whatever did caused her to gasp aloud and she tried to hasten her escape.
It did not take long to see what she saw. Coming around the bend four men in heavy leather armour strode along the track, the chains linking their protective coverings jingled with each forceful step. They did not have to run to catch her. Their steady full-length strides were enough.
All were filthy, as if they had been out in the wilds for a very long time. What caught the boy’s attention was that each of them carried, on their hips, a sword. They were dangerous men. The type who had killed Auntie and thus people he wanted no part of.
One of them, one with a large protruding stomach, held a torch that lit up the night, making the boy’s eyes water at the sudden brightness. The other three laughed as they caught site of their prey. The one with the long tangled light brown hair and moustache pointed to the girl as she stopped, trapped along the trail. “Darlin’ don’t run. We’re not finished with you, yet.” The implied threat was clear in his husky voice.
The other three laughed. The one with the torch picked at his nose and then proceeded to pick at his teeth. The boy recoiled at the disgusting act, but found he could not move from the prime place to watch the scene before him play out. He knew that what he was seeing was frightening but he could not tear his eyes away.
Panting, the girl stood defiantly, but the tears gliding down her face and her trembling stoic form ruined the image. The boy could see very clearly that even in defeat she still defied them and a part of him admired her while part counted her a fool who should run as fast as she could.
With a nod of his head the man who was obviously the leader pointed with his chin for the others to go and grab her. The one with the torch stayed where he was, too interested in feeding himself with what he found in his nose. The two others, as filthy and dangerous looking as their leader, lecherously smiled and ran to the girl.
The girl turned and ran, but not fast enough. One of the two made a grab at her, missing by only a hair’s breath to land on his stomach with a whoof. The leader broke into guffaws at the sight of his man bested by a girl. Not to be outdone, the second man lunged for her legs and with a shrill squeal the girl landed hard, the impact with the ground cutting off her cry.
She squirmed and tried to kick and punch her assailant, but it was plain that her efforts were completely ineffective. The man caught her two thin wrists in his meaty hand and with the other closed in a fist, punched her across the face. Her efforts to free herself came to an abrupt end as her head bounced with the impact.
The boy, never having seen such violence, except to himself, had to cover his open mouth lest he make a sound that would deliver him to these men. He felt for the girl, he wanted to do something to help her, but he knew that it would only mean his death if he did.
Lightning flared, quickly followed by a thunderous crash and a wash of wind blew through the trees. The storm was nearly there.
The tableau illuminated by the lightning was terrible to the boy. The man on top of the girl pulled her by her hands to stand before the leader.
“It’s a shame that you decided to run.” The man rubbed a grimy hand; knuckles covered with thick calluses stained in dried blood, and grabbed her delicate chin in his vicelike grip. “What I don’t understand is why such a fine young thing like you, who managed to hide from us for so long would stay around and not run away.”
The girl spat in the face of her attacker and said nothing.
Stunned by the girl’s brazen defiance, the boy could not believe that she would encourage them to cause her more harm. He had never witnessed such courage in the face of adversity and a part of him felt silently ashamed of his own lack of courage. Even though she was captured she still fought, something he never did. Now, more than before, he wanted to see her survive this ordeal.
Wiping off the globule of spit, the man, his face red with fury, hauled off and punched her in the stomach, knocking her from her feet. It was all the second and third man could do to keep her upright on her knees as she vomited from the impact, coughing up bile and what little food she had managed to scrounge. Once she was done, the man who failed to catch her grabbed a fist full of her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to gaze up at them from her kneeling position.
“You were with the caravan, so you know what’s there.” He leaned his filthy and blood splattered face close to hers. “Tell me and I will kill you quickly.”
Gasping, she matched the stare. It was plainly obvious to all that she was not going to say a word.
The man clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shook his head. “So much the worse for you, darlin’, but I do promise you I plan on enjoying every moment and so will my men.”
Taking a step closer, he pressed his large muscular body against her thin frame and kissed her. When he released her she gasped for breath. His eyes were clouded with lust. It was obvious to the boy, who had never seen such a thing, that the man wanted more and was thunderstruck when the man grasped the top of the girl’s woollen dress and tore it. The sound of fabric ripping preceded another bought of thunder.
Her chest heaving in the firelight, the men leered at her high full breasts, but it was the man in charge who would take his first taste of her. A licentious smile pulled at the man’s face and he pressed up against her, kissing her ruined mouth, the side of her face and down the side of her neck while his men held her in place. His large muscular hand squeezed her left breast and she cried out in agony.
Normally such a reaction would have encouraged the man, but this time something unexpected happened. Pulling away, he stood staring at his hand as if something had bitten him and then he glanced back at her exposed chest. White liquid dribbled down from large dark nipples, staining what was left of the front of her dress.
The shock of realization washed over his face. “Find the baby!” he screamed.
The man with the torch, finished with his pickings, snapped to awareness and without another word ran back down the path in which they had come.
“No!” screamed the woman, beginning her struggle in earnest.
Without the torch, they were plunged into darkness, illuminated only by lightning. The boy could still see everything and wished for once he did not have the gift. Frozen in his hiding place, incapable of taking any action, he could see as the man slapped her hard across the face. He could see her fall onto the ground and the two other men pin her arms down. What followed made him blanch.
Roughly, without thought or care to the woman, the man hoisted her skirts above her waist while the other too snickered, obviously looking forward to their turn with her. Ignoring his underlings, the man lay on top of her, brutally kissing and biting her. He followed the line of her bruised jaw, down to her neck and then down to her chest. She cried out as he found a sensitive nipple and bit hard.
Her squirming seemed only to entice him more and he lifted the front of his leather kilt as he placed his knees between hers, forcing her long thin legs apart. Leaning up on an extended arm, he lifted his other hand and squeezed her full breast until the milk dripped through his fingers. She bit her lip, moaning as she stared blankly up at the sky.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” the man whispered huskily as he brought his milk covered hand down and rubbed the fluid along his erect member. Without another word, he positioned himself and with a thrust jammed himself deep within her. His satisfied grunting drowned her cries of pain.
Tears ran down the girl’s eyes as he drove himself deeper with each violent thrust. The man, who had missed her in her flight, panted at the sight and with a free hand fondled himself in anticipation that he would be next.
The boy could not believe what he was witnessing. Nothing could have prepared him for the brutality of what he was seeing. He wished he could stop it, but it was too late and he thought that maybe it would be best if he leave now, while they were engaged in their act, but a mewling sound and the returning light of the torch pinned him to his spot.
In the bright light of the fire, he could see the man’s pale hairy rear as he thrusted repeatedly into the girl, his heavy groaning pants becoming more insistent, more urgent.
The fat man with the torch appeared with a small squealing creature. “I got it, Cadwallader,” he said, completely unaware of Cadwallader and the woman. “I got the baby. She had hidden it in a trunk in one of the wagons.”
With a shudder and a groan, Cadwallader finished and laid his full weight on the baby’s mother, panting his release. Turning his head to glare menacingly at the man, he said, “Good for you, but your timing is lousy.”
He disengaged himself from the girl, looked down at his now partially erect member covered in blood and let his kilt down.
Hearing her baby, the woman rolled onto her side and tried to crawl to the man holding the infant, weeping with effort.
“What do you want to do with it?” The fat man lifted the howling naked infant by a single leg.
“Beti!” screamed her mother, horrified at the site of her daughter hanging in mid air, twisting and turning.
Cadwallader snapped his head around and noticed for the first time that his prisoner was no longer under his control. Without further ado he took two strides and brutally kicked the woman in the abdomen, causing her to roll away and removing any chance she could have to obtain her daughter.
“That’s what you were staying around for, wasn’t it?” he sneered, spittle flying out of his mouth. The woman lay on the ground panting, clutching her stomach. “Answer me!”
The storm in his voice cut through her pain and through the rain of her tears she nodded, sobbing.
“Slit its throat,” he ordered the man with the torch and he turned back to stare down at the woman. “There may not be anything of worth in what we raided, but I promise that you will wish you had died along with the rest.” With a nod of his head, he let loose the other two men to take their turns with her.
Clutching his ash wooden sword, his long pale fingers squeezing the fibres hard enough to leave dents, the boy realized he could no longer remain a bystander. They were going to kill the baby for no other reason than it was a baby while they took their perverse pleasures with its mother. Anger long repressed and deeply hidden swelled within him.
Jaw clenched, his teeth grating, he shook his head in denial of everything he had experienced at the hands of others and in denial of seeing it done to another. All his life he was told to remain hidden, that being different would cause him his death. It was no lie, but what Auntie and Geraint had failed to teach him was that people would hurt and even kill others just for the sake of it. The pleasure he saw that man take in the brutalisation of the baby’s mother was the epitome of how evil people could be.
Then a horrendous thought crossed through his mind. What if the men who had killed Auntie had done this to her? The thought captured his breath, threatening to never return it. It took several gasping breaths to make him breath evenly.
He had no choice. The Gods had placed him there for a reason and he prayed to them for their protection for what he was about to do.
Time shifted. Lightning flared in a white wondrous sheet that seemed to go on forever. He watched the man with the baby slowly pass the torch to Cadwallader and went to slip the long knife from its leather sheath attached to his leg. Through it all the infant’s howls seemed protracted and no longer human. His first concern was the child.
Stepping from his dark hiding place beneath a short elder tree, he ran to the fat man holding the baby. He paid no attention to the shocked expressions as he stopped, and using his wooden sword, sliced down on the man’s outstretched arm with the baby dangling from his vice-like grip.
With howl the man dropped the baby and his knife as he pulled back, gripping his shattered forearm. The boy took no notice or care and let Geraint’s training take over as he redirected the downward stroke for a horizontal one landing in the middle of the man’s chest.
A sharp
crack like thunder from forked lightning snapped and the man was flung off his feet, flying down the path in which he had come to land with a sharp thud on the hard packed earth.
Turning to face the other three, he noticed that the leader, Cadwallader, stood back, his face white with shock and horror before turning red with rage. The boy felt, rather than heard, the man’s orders to the other two to come and attack him.
Pivoting in place, he stepped clear of where the infant lay screaming for her mother, and met the two men. Years of rage fuelled by fear he never knew he had, bubbled and exploded to the surface. In his mind, these were the people who had brutalized him when he was a boy. To his heart, these men were the same ones who had crippled and killed Auntie and destroyed his home. For the first time in his life he let loose his anger, revelling in the thrall of revenge.
His wooden sword that had shattered upon impact with the fat man was still useful. He ran towards the other two, closing the distance before they could even draw their swords let alone a breath. Using the stick he slashed one across the face with the broken ends, exploding an eye. He could feel the wash of spray across his arms and his doe hide shirt.
Ignoring the screams of the incapacitated man, he turned the wooden dagger and thrust it deep into the chest of the man who had missed catching the girl. Holding him upright, he glared down into the man’s brown eyes, noticing the whites were yellowed. Bright red blood spluttered out of the man’s mouth and the light went out of his eyes. The boy let the corpse fall to the ground.
There was one man left, and he turned to face him as the first drops of the rainstorm fell.
The horror on the man’s face was not upsetting to the boy. For the first time he enjoyed the terror his appearance caused in others and used it. Slowly, methodically, he took a step towards the man.