The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle)

by Scroggins, David

  “You may read the reports, but please do spare me any details that are not of immediate importance.”

  “As you wish,” Jaren replied, adding another slight bow of his head that, while appropriate when addressing royalty, still managed to annoy Randil. “I could leave the document on the table and provide you with a summary of events, if it suits you, Your Highness?”

  “At this moment, it pleases me so much to hear those words come from your mouth that I would consider paying you a gold piece for the courtesy of a summary.”

  Jaren bowed his head again and fell to one knee. “I am not worthy of such a generous gift!”

  “Perhaps not. Now do get on with it. I’m sure Lord Duban has at least twenty more men lined up behind that door waiting for an audience with their king. Do not waste my time or theirs.”

  “As you wish,” Jaren replied. He walked over to the massive table where the lords of Vintermore, and of the lands beyond, often gathered to discuss pertinent matters. He placed the folded papers upon it, returned to the king, and cleared his throat.

  “If I am to skip matters of lesser importance, I have only one piece of news to report. I was given a note by one of General Balin’s men. It appears that the situation in the area he is patrolling is much worse than we thought.”

  Randil leaned forward and tugged the short growth of hair on his chin that was the closest he could come to his father’s beard. “Oh? Is it those damned creatures again?”

  “Aye sir,” Jaren said, nodding quickly. “But it’s worse than just a few of the devils here and there. Balin took it upon himself to burn entire villages to the ground because of them. I have not seen it firsthand, but the rumors tell of whole families dying in their beds and rising up the next morning to devour their neighbors. The note he sent with me details these accounts in full. I have read it—with his insistence, of course—and have found it disturbing enough to keep me awake at night.”

  The messenger gulped and continued. “If you do not mind my saying so, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in four days. Begging your pardon, but something must be done to save those poor souls.”

  “And what would a royal messenger suggest is done about it?” Randil asked. “By all means, if you have the solution, pass it into my hands and it shall be granted. Otherwise, do not question your king!”

  “Not at all!” Jaren’s eyes went wide. “I would never take it upon myself—”

  Randil bid him silent with the wave of a hand. “Of course not. You are a good and loyal man, and you shall be rewarded generously for your efforts.”

  “Thank you!” he replied. “I only wish to serve the kingdom in the ways in which my talents allow.”

  “And you have done well,” Randil said, smiling. “I only have a few more questions for you, and then I shall see to it that you are given the best sleep you have had in a lifetime.”

  “As you wish. I will of course answer them to the best of my knowledge.”

  “For the first question: Where are Balin’s men now?”

  The messenger was silent for a moment before speaking. “A small farming village to the North called Solstice. It’s just along the far reaches of Winterstone Wall.”

  “Yes,” the king replied. “I am aware of the village and its location. A bastard lord who does not like following customs oversees that area of my kingdom. Are any of those bloody beasts there?”

  “We are not yet certain. Balin has men investigating.”

  He nodded. “Good. Now for my final question: How many people know that you came here with this news?”

  “I told no one! I had to stop for a bite to eat a handful of times, but I never spoke to anyone about these matters. “

  “Thank you for your time, Jaren.”

  King Randil snapped his fingers and a figure enshrouded by black robes stepped forward from the shadows.

  “Pardon me, Sir!” the messenger exclaimed. “I thought no one else was here! Please forgive my bad manners!”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” the darkly clad man whispered. “I do not like to announce my presence. I am here to act in our king’s best interests, and at times that means I must make myself scarce.”

  “This man is called Addar. He is my most trusted advisor and may hear any news that is fit for my ears.”

  Addar nodded his hooded head and waved a hand in greeting before turning to face the king. “What shall I do for our friend?”

  “Give him something that helps with sleeplessness and have the guards show him to his room. He had done well and is deserving of our thanks.”

  “Naturally,” Addar replied.

  The robed man stepped forward and reached into a pouch that hung from a cloth belt by a thin leather strap.

  “Take this now and tell the guards stationed outside to find you a suitable room.”

  Addar placed something into the messenger’s hand.

  “What is it?” Jeran asked.

  “A concoction of my own making. It is a pill that will help you sleep. It shall erase all nightmares from your memory. You will awaken feeling like a new man.”

  Jeran nodded, put the pill in his mouth, and swallowed.

  “I trust any man who has gained the admiration of our beloved king.”

  “Wise words from an even wiser man,” Addar answered. “Now off with you before the effects take hold and you find yourself passed out in a horse trough.”

  The messenger bowed before the king once more and made his way to the door. Randil waited for him to leave the room before addressing his advisor.

  “What did you give him?”

  “It was a rather potent poison. The effects are violent in nature, and it will take some time to begin working on him. He will feel warm and ready for his bed by the time he reaches his quarters. In two hours’ time, he will fall into a deep sleep from which he shall never awaken. In four hours’ time, his blood will turn black and his heart will stop beating, although that won’t be the end of him. He will actually live for another hour beyond that. You see, the mixture of herbs somehow keeps a man alive without his heart beating. He will experience agonizing pain, I am afraid.”

  “A little extreme, no?”

  Addar removed his cowl, exposing a bone white face, long wispy hair to match, a pointed nose, and long, thin lips. “Nothing is ever too extreme. One cannot be too careful. In fact, I suggest we do the same to every informant, to keep word from spreading of course. If we run out of trustworthy men, I can make anyone do your bidding with a simple potion. A great ruler such as you does not want to encounter widespread panic, and we both know that no man can keep his lips sealed forever.”

  Randil started to voice protest, but the pain seared through his skull and he winced. “Let it be so. Give each one the same dose of poison and place them in the same sleeping quarters. When they are dead, have them taken from the castle wrapped in linens. If anyone inquires about the bodies, tell them they fell ill at the supper table.”

  “It is for the best,” Addar said. “You have always been a just and intelligent king—attributes you no doubt picked up from your grandfather—and in the tradition of those attributes, I have a final advisement for you.”

  “What is it?”

  The robed man smiled. “It is more of a plan. I think we can wipe out this entire scourge that has taken hold of Vintermore, and the execution shall be a simple thing.”

  Randil breathed deeply. “Explain this plan.”

  “It will only take a moment to detail,” Addar said. “It starts with wiping a tiny farming village to the North from our maps.”

  Chapter 12

  THREE MEN stood outside in the snow, staring at the small ramshackle structure that was the home of Jentha Lonigan. She was not with them; Philip had demanded that she be taken somewhere safe. In the end, he had decided to leave her with Merriam; he trusted his wife to take care of the woman more than anyone else in the land.

  There were no sounds coming from inside, which could have meant any
number of things, but it chilled Philip to the bone all the same. He eyed the old, weatherworn door that was barely hanging on by a single rusty hinge. Was the woman’s husband still inside?

  “Valthian, stand guard; go back several paces so you can be ready if anything springs forth from the building.”

  His eldest son drew his sword and nodded.

  “Father—”

  “Please,” Abytheos interrupted. “Call me Reverend. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Fine, Reverend. Are you able to defend yourself if it comes down to it?”

  The holy man smirked and held up both hands. With a single flourish, tiny glimmers of steel flashed from underneath his long coat and vanished as quickly as they appeared. “I think I can manage.”

  Philip blinked. Abytheos grew more mysterious by the hour. He was certainly a man to keep an eye on. “That will do. I will only be inside for a moment. Stand ready in the event that I require assistance.”

  Both men nodded and Philip drew his sword. It was an ancient blade that had passed through the hands of countless ancestors. The smooth leather-wrapped hilt calmed his nerves; gave him some sense of comfort. He took a final look around and slowly approached the door. The idea to call out to the woman’s husband entered his mind, but he dismissed the thought. According to the reverend, nothing was left of the man’s mind. He was a sniveling beast just like the creatures at Olivar’s shop.

  Not wanting to waste another minute, he pushed the door open and crept into the small building. There was almost no room for him to maneuver if the situation had called for it, but there was no need. The shack was empty, save for a few bits of broken furniture. A large window—it was the only one the place had—had been shattered. Small pieces of glass were scattered about the floor, but he suspected that the remaining pieces would be on the other side of the gaping hole. A thin trail of blood leading up to the window, and beyond, was the only trace remaining of Jentha’s family. Philip sheathed the sword and ran from the place.

  “It escaped through the window. We have to track the thing down and subdue it before more people are hurt.”

  “It could already be too late,” Abytheos said. “We do not know how long this woman’s husband—or what is left of him—has been on the loose. Countless could be dead already, or worse.”

  “That’s why we need to save this conversation for another time. Does anyone have objections to splitting up? We can cover more ground that way.”

  Valthian and Abytheos both shook their heads.

  “My son,” Philip said, approaching the young man. “You do not know the danger posed by Vel’Haen running freely about town. They have nothing inside that makes them human. If you see one, strike him down. The simplest way to slay them is to behead them.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you also understand that there might be more, and they could resemble men and women that you once knew as your neighbors. But know this—there is no soul left in those who have turned. One look into their eyes will tell you as much. Be prepared to strike without a moment’s notice. If they get their teeth or claws in you, you will fall ill and eventually become one of them. If you see this happen to anyone, they must also be dealt with swiftly. Please be wary of the Vel’Haen, for they are dangerous creatures.”

  Valthian nodded gravely. “I will. You can count on me.”

  Philip turned to Abytheos. “I do not believe I have to explain the risks to you, Reverend.”

  “You would simply be wasting more precious time,” Abytheos replied.

  “Then we are off. Valthian, I want you to circle the outskirts of the village. Go from home to home and make sure people are alive and well. I shall make my way to the marketplace. I’ll check the schoolhouse and make sure anyone who is wondering about knows to get to safety as quickly as their feet will carry them.”

  “Then what is left for me to do?”

  “Plenty, friend. I want you to make sure that my wife and youngest son are secure. After that is done, fetch Olivar and bring him to me. We may need to treat the injured and calm those who are frightened.”

  “Consider it done,” Abytheos replied, bowing his head slightly.

  Philip nodded in thanks and turned towards the heart of Solstice. He inhaled deeply and ran.

  * * *

  Tomas De’Fathi sat in his favorite spot in the old inn he so often frequented. The Hound’s Rest was slow at this time of day, and that was just how he liked it. Sure, it was fun to get involved with the games, singing, and merrymaking the evening crowd enjoyed so much, but when it came down to it, he preferred having the place to himself. The fewer drunkards making passes at the barmaid, the better. That meant there was more for him. He looked down at the empty mug of ale resting on the battered table, wondering how he had managed to drink it so quickly. It was probably due to it having been watered down so much. Again.

  “Elsa?”

  A young, plump woman approached the table. Her hair was set in sloppy pigtails; her apron was torn and stained in more than one spot.

  “What is it, sweetie?”

  “Every bloody time I order ale, it tastes like someone dipped the cup in the horse trough outside!”

  She smiled. “Maybe someone did.”

  His eyes grew wide. “Why would you go and ruin a perfectly good drink like that?”

  “Because Master Elwin said you’re too young to drink it strong.”

  “Bloody fool old man. Well can I at least have another? This one seems to have gotten up and run off before I could so much as blink at it!”

  Elsa reached down and plucked the cup from its resting place. “You have had too much already. And no complaining to the master about it; he said he wasn’t having any of it until you were old enough to grow a man’s beard.”

  Tomas slapped a hand against the hard, warped surface of the table. “Well I never!”

  She chuckled. “And you never will again if you don’t show some respect, Sir De’Fathi. Now if you don’t mind, a paying customer just walked through the door and needs tending to.”

  She turned without so much as a second glance, leaving him stunned and without company. He watched in awe as she strode through the rickety door that led into the kitchen, her generous bosom lightly bouncing with every step. Despite her rudeness, he often found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her best features.

  Who cared if she didn’t have all of her teeth? She smiled with her mouth closed anyway.

  He frowned at the empty place on the table where his drink had been and decided it was time to get going. He did a quick check to make sure he had all of his possessions and was about to force himself from the hard bench when he caught his first glimpse at the patron who had been at least partly responsible for Elsa’s dismissal. Tomas wasn’t sure about what was so special about him that would make her neglect one of her best customers—and her greatest admirer—and he certainly wasn’t as pleasant to look at. The man wore a tattered shirt and walked with a slump. He wasn’t even looking for a place to sit; instead the bastard paced nervously in circles inches from the front counter.

  Tomas watched as his favorite barmaid returned from the kitchen and paused for a moment at the counter. She gazed at her new customer as if she wasn’t sure how to approach him.

  “That should teach her to neglect good company,” Tomas muttered.

  She seemed to have gathered her courage and stepped closer to the man, but he continued pacing. Elsa glanced back in Tomas’s direction, but he just shrugged.

  I guess she wants me to save her. No thanks. She wouldn’t even refill my—

  The silent argument he was having with himself was cut short when the patron stopped moving and faced Elsa. She let out a bloodcurdling shriek and tried to scramble backwards, but she slammed into the counter and the odd fellow lunged, grabbing her by the hair.

  “What the—” Tomas managed to squeak.

  He leapt from the bench and drew his sword. He ran to Elsa Deros, hop
ing to scare her attacker away, but the man didn’t shy away from his target. Each stride felt like an eternity, and the young lord watched in horror as jagged teeth sank into the plump woman who had just moments ago been teasing him. She screamed and tried to pull away, but the teeth sank deeper. The middle-aged, stooped man jerked his head wildly, ripping chunks of flesh from Elsa’s neck. Tomas seized him by the shoulders and shoved him hard. The attacker rebounded far too quickly for someone of his age. Gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, Tomas passed it through the old man’s chest. Anyone with his senses intact would have reacted to a direct hit to the heart, but not him. He wriggled, trying to free himself from the blade, completely oblivious to the pain. The few candles still burning in the dusty common room provided questionable lighting at best, but he swore that the blood leaking from the wound was darker than it should have been. He responded by burying the blade deeper and giving it a twist.

  “Down you go,” Tomas said with grit in his voice. “Time to meet the gods and be judged for your actions!”

  To his astonishment, the old one jerked sharply and the blade slid from his body. He stood firm—his chest oozed dark blood—and growled.

  “What in the name of the gods is this?”

  Could it be? Was it one of those things from Grovenwell? He had heard about many of the men having been decapitated before they were burned and decided it was worth a shot.

  “I can’t stand here and chat, I’m afraid.”

  With one clean swipe, he took the head from the beast’s shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud, rolling several feet before coming to a stop next to the entrance. Its body remained standing, slightly stooped, for a moment before crashing to the planked floor.

  Tomas’s chest heaved. He shook his head, not wanting to believe what had happened.

  “Elsa!”

  He knelt down to check on her. She was lying still in a pool of blood. He watched for her chest to rise and fall, but Elsa was still. He knelt down and gasped at the size of her wound; the damned thing had been inflicted with nothing more than teeth. Most of her throat had been ripped clean from her body; a gaping hole in her neck was all that remained.