No. At least not physically.
“Amantius, are you hurt? He didn’t put a knife in your belly did he?” Jaga used the end of his bloodied falchion to point towards a nearby body.
“No, I’m fine.” Amantius muttered. The words felt distant, as though someone far off had spoken them.
Jaga nodded his head. “Good.”
“They ran this way!” Someone shouted. Who and from where Amantius could not tell.
“Stay here. Compose yourself, lad.” Jaga said with a pat on the shoulder and then ran off, quickly disappearing behind a line of wagons.
Amantius sat there, in the middle of the road, reliving the sequence of events in his mind a dozen times over. The plan had been simple: pop out of woods, scare the travelers, and then steal their goods when they had run away. Quick, easy, nonviolent. But everything had spun out of control so quickly. No one had expected the merchants to be armed, to put up any kind of resistance, especially to a host of hell-beasts from the Otherworld. They resisted, though, and now the road was littered with their corpses.
What have we done? What have I done? Amantius felt numb. His eyes shifted to the man he had killed, motionless and bloodied. A fresh wave of guilt pulsated through his soul; his gut began to retch. Luckily he was able to remove his helmet before he vomited.
After his stomach had been emptied, Amantius marveled at how quiet the world had become. Moments ago there had been a skirmish, a bloodbath, with the screams of the dying echoing off the nearby wooded hills. Now, though, the only sound came from fallen leaves rustled by a gentle wind. He sat up, using a nearby wagon wheel as a backrest. He fumbled around his belt for a skin of water, hoping to wash away the foul taste in his mouth. As he did so he heard something new: weeping.
Amantius immediately grabbed for his sword, and with a shaky arm aimed its point at a pile of moving blue and green blankets. “Who…who is there? Show yourselves!” I guess they know I’m not a demon now.
A head popped out, a woman’s, followed by a golden-haired girl’s. Both wore terrified expressions, though Amantius could see the fierceness in the woman’s eyes. It was the same look that transcended all species: the look of a mother protecting her child. He knew from chasing woodland creatures through the forests of Accaria that she was equal parts afraid and dangerous, and any wrong move would be the last he would ever make. That was not all, though, for there was something about this pair that seemed strangely familiar.
“I know you,” he heard himself say, his words hardly more than a whisper. “Where have I seen you before?”
Neither offered a reply, the golden hair child continued whimpering while the mother scowled. A glint of sunlight flashed off something metal from within the wagon, the glare blinding Amantius for a brief second. He shielded his eyes and instantly saw the woman clutching a dagger at her side. No! There’s already been too much killing!
Amantius stepped back and lowered his sword. “I don’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want any of this.” He gestured with his free hand. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
He stood in silence for a while, keeping his eye on the fingers wrapped around the hilt of the woman’s dagger. He was not sure what to do. Part of him was afraid that if he let these two survivors leave one of his comrades would see them and slay both the mother and her child. The other part of him was terrified of having to kill them himself, whether out of self-defense or because of duty to Morganna’s cause. How could I kill a child?
The golden-haired child suddenly stopped sobbing and wiped her eyes, focusing them on Amantius. Her stare made his skin crawl, as though he had already committed the terrible atrocity. Within a blink of an eye, though, everything had changed. Her wide-eyed terror disappeared, transformed into a softer, even comfortable expression. The little girl seemed to be no longer afraid of Amantius, but rather the exact opposite.
“I remember you,” she said, her eyes red from her sobbing, “I remember you! You’re the Orc’s brother!”
Amantius dropped his sword, suddenly remembering everything. The golden-haired girl in the wagon was the same that gave Ulam the lavender flower in the market square when they first arrived in Silverwater. The woman beside her was her mother, the foul woman who had incited a riot that nearly got both Ulam and Amantius killed that same day. Seems like forever ago.
“And I remember you,” Amantius said, a dash of hope in his words, “you were the little girl who was nice to us.” He had to use every fiber of his being not to glower at her mother, remembering full well everything that had happened that day. This bitch might yet still try to put a hole in me. Should’ve held onto my sword.
“Yep! That’s me!” The little girl nodded fiercely, her smile brightening an otherwise dark atmosphere. She tried to crawl towards Amantius, but her mother’s free hand snagged her by the ankle and dragged her back to her bottom.
A hundred thoughts shot through Amantius’ head, tangling in his mind like vines on a trellis. Of them all, though, there was only one he absolutely needed to ask. “Ulam. His name is Ulam. Is he still…” He almost could not finish the question from fear of the answer. “Is he still there? Is he still alive?”
“I saw him.” The woman finally spoke, her voice as vitriolic as Amantius remembered. Her muscles loosened, though she still kept a tight grasp on the hilt of the dagger. “A couple of weeks ago, with the Count”
“Thank the Gods!” Amantius fell to his knees again, a wave of relief washing over him. He’s alive! I need to let him know I am too, let him know how to find me. He needs to escape Aldamar before he too is betrayed.
Somewhere down the road, there was an inhumane howling, the high pitched notes riding on the wind. Amantius knew it was the victory cry of his allies and realized they would be returning soon. The howl caused both mother and child to begin trembling again, the little girl burying her face into her mother’s bosom. He saw the woman’s eyes dart in the same direction, her fingers grasping the dagger’s hilt. The horrible image of a butchered golden-haired child came to Amantius’ mind, driving a spike of fear through his heart. He knew the tandem had to run now if they were going to have any chance of surviving. Or any chance of contacting Ulam.
“Do you know the way to Silverwater?” Amantius asked, capturing the woman’s attention.
“Aye,” she replied, her expression still grave.
“Then run, before they get here. I’ll stall them, somehow.” Amantius jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword, sliding the blade into its sheath. Without hesitation the woman leaped from the wagon, dragging the little girl behind her. She slung a satchel filled with provisions over her shoulder and then swept her child into her arms, the little girl’s face all the while still hidden by the woman’s body. The woman took a few steps and then turned, the scowl on her face now gone, replaced with gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said, tears welling. “I’ll never forget this.”
“Just do one thing for me,” Amantius replied, his eyes still focused on the road ahead of him. “When you get to Silverwater find Ulam, the Orc. Tell him his brother lives.”
“What if he won’t see me? What if he doesn’t believe me? I haven’t been the nicest person to him.” The woman yelled back.
“Just say the name ‘Pelecia,’ to him. It’s our mother’s name. That should be enough to convince him.” Amantius saw figures wearing animal furs appearing around a bend in the road, “Now go!”
He staggered down the road towards the others, his legs still heavy with dread. He did not risk a glance behind him, fearing the attention would expose the mother and child’s escape. His veins turned to ice as the returning warriors approached him, his heart pounded in his ears. A few of the more bloodthirsty members of their party came first, their helmets tucked under their armpits. Both were covered in gore, the red ooze matting not only their cloaks but their faces as well. Upon first sight Amantius would have believed the pair had feasted on the blood of the slaughtered, but he dismissed the thought as bein
g far too deranged.
“You don’t have to worry,” the first man said, “we’re on your side. So you can go ahead and close your mouth now.”
“Aye, you might swallow a fly if you’re not careful.” The second chimed in while both of them chuckled.
As they brushed past Amantius the rest of their small group came into view, the glint of moonlight on Jaga’s armor announcing his arrival. The sight of the old warchief was somehow comforting, his presence being one of the few aspects of this mission that Amantius did not dislike. Behind him were the initiates, many of which were as gore-laden as the veterans, a sight that unsettled Amantius even further. Together the whole squad laughed and sang, each member taking a turn to celebrate their prowess in combat.
“You should have been there,” one of the initiates said as they drew near, “they would have gotten away if Skitch didn’t catch them. That damned guy is the fastest runner I’ve ever seen!”
“Oh please,” the one named Skitch said. He was short and lean, looking more like a thief than a warrior. “It wasn’t nothing more than an afternoon jog. Get some grub in m’belly and I’ll show you what speed really looks like.”
Amantius forced a smile for the sake of appearances. The banter between the initiates barely registered in his mind; all he could think about were the mother and daughter running desperately to their salvation. He took heart that no one had sounded an alarm yet, that no one suspected anything. With the sun having long set, they would also be aided by the cover of darkness, which Amantius hoped would be enough to save them.
Jaga approached next and gripped Amantius by the forearm in a display of respect that the latter did not think was warranted. “You better now? Find your legs?”
Amantius nodded, forgetting momentarily that he had killed a man. Suddenly an image of the dead man’s horror-struck eyes flooded his mind, creating an avalanche of self-loathing that swept across his whole body. His knees began to buckle, and his stomach turned rotten once again.
“Easy,” Jaga’s grip was all that kept Amantius from crashing to the ground, “you’re fine, lad, just take it easy.”
Amantius fought back the tears. That little rush of excitement or fear he had felt had completely vanished, leaving him feeling hollow inside. He was embarrassed, confused, hurt, and angry at the same time. He was so ashamed he could not look Jaga in the eye, shaking from a combination of humiliation and the ice-cold wind. I want to go home. I want to be on Mount Meganthus with Ulam again.
“The first time is never the easiest,” Jaga muttered, just above a whisper. Though his voice was gruff, there was a touch of empathy behind his words. “I remember the first man I killed, too.”
“Really?” Amantius said, now looking the old warchief in the eye.
“Oh yes,” Jaga replied, nodding, “you never forget the first time. But just because there have been many more, so many more, since then, that doesn’t mean it gets any easier. Your mind just processes it differently.” He slapped Amantius on the back. “Take it easy on yourself, lad. You’d have to be psychotic not to feel some remorse.”
Jaga’s words were encouraging, and although they did not remove the feeling of anguish gnawing at Amantius’ soul, he took heart in knowing that what he felt was natural. He was happy to know there was not something wrong with him, that he was not a freak. But if I’m not the abnormal one, then what does that say about the others?
“Remember, lad, psychopaths.”
Chapter 26
Ulam
It had been a nightmare; the unfortunate woman’s anguished face still seared into Ulam’s memory. He had spent the morning after burying her, giving her as proper of a grave as the hard soil would allow. As for the fiend that had kidnapped and fed on her, Ulam set fire to his corpse. He figured he could never be too cautious with curses or diseases.
Poor weather forced Ulam to stay an extra two days in the Sanctuary, causing his already limited provisions to run thin. Realizing he would not be able to survive much longer in the frozen wilderness he hurried back to Silverwater, relieved when his eyes spotted the familiar outline of the castle. He was famished, his legs begged for a reprieve, but he knew resting would mean certain death. The wind was too cold, too unforgiving, and a layer of frost blanketed the land. The thought of a fire and a warm bowl of stew kept him going, giving his aching body the strength necessary to stay the course. Just a little further, I am almost there.
Silverwater’s city guards were huddled around a fire as Ulam neared the northwest gate. He could see four on duty, all of which wore enough fur to be mistaken for a family of bears. Upon seeing the approaching Orc, one of the guards broke away to offer him a cup of a steaming liquid.
“It’s just water, no one thought to bring food with them,” the guard shrugged, “but the heat should warm you up a little.”
“My thanks,” Ulam muttered while taking the mug. He wrapped his big, Orcish hands around the outside, absorbing as much heat as he could. “How do you stand living here?”
The guard shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like it, even the old folks don’t remember ever seeing frost. There’s something unusual about this year, and the sun hiding behind the clouds for this long doesn’t help.” He looked at the axe slung across Ulam’s back, an inquisitive expression passing over his face. “Where did you come from?”
“Up the road,” Ulam grunted, then drained the cup of warm water. He did not want to speak of his trip to the Sanctuary, especially to someone he did not know. “I must go; I need to see the Count.”
Silverwater’s streets were largely abandoned, the frigid weather preventing anyone from being outside for too long. There were a handful of community fires blazing about, acting as unofficial checkpoints for people traveling from one side of the city to the other. Ulam used these to his advantage, standing near the blaze whenever he could, though he involuntarily flinched every time a flame jumped high. He still did not like fire, the terror of black smoke filling his lungs and the searing pain on his skin still fresh in his memory. But on this day he assumed freezing to death was not only much more likely, but also much worse.
Ulam crashed through the castle doors like a battering ram, eager to be out of the elements. A few of the Castle Guards nearby came rushing over, relieved to find the nearly frozen Orc standing before them. They hurried him to the fireplace in the antechamber while another poured a bowl of soup for him, the scent of fish reawakening the ravenous hunger in his stomach.
“Care to explain your absence?” Captain Karraman’s voice echoed from somewhere behind him. Ulam did not care to turn around, he simply grunted while slurping the soup.
“We’re already missing many men, and a few more have died because of this weather. We need everyone we can muster at the moment, and I can’t have my guards disappearing.”
And where have you been? Ulam wanted to shout the words at him, the frustration only tempered by a full mouth of burning hot soup and the desire to consume more. He still had dozens of questions about the night they terrorized the farm community, specifically why they filled sacks full of hearts and livers.
“Well?” Captain Karraman came into view, “Are you going to tell me or not? As your captain, I demand…”
“Leave him be, Jalkett,” Count Aldamar’s measured, yet commanding voice called from deeper within the castle, “I gave him leave to pursue an inquiry for my personal gain. Ulam, proceed to the library, I will accompany you after I have a brief discourse with Captain Karraman.”
Ulam quickly finished the rest of his bowl, pleased with the warmth spreading through his limbs but lamenting the lost chance at seconds. Though he wholeheartedly expected the inner depths of the castle to be inhospitable with a frigid staleness, he was pleasantly surprised to find each room was of a tolerable warmth, especially the library.
Ulam stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by dozens of shelves overpopulated with dust-covered texts. Fires burned in the dual fireplaces located on each side of the room,
providing enough light and warmth to make the library a cozy place. On the table nearby was the book that revealed the location of the Orc Sanctuary, exactly where he had left it. Beside the book, though, was an ornate chalice engraved with a crescent moon, which he knew he did not leave behind. So Aldamar found the book too.
“Shall I pour you a drink as well?” The Count’s voice sounded from behind Ulam. Had his joints not been stiff from hiking through rough terrain, the Count’s voice would have caused him to jump.
“Wine warms the soul just as much as the body,” he continued. Count Aldamar silently glided across the room and filled an empty cup with wine. “Besides, I feel we have a great deal to discuss.”
Ulam grunted. That we do. He followed the Count’s movements, noticing the man’s eyes were focused on the book resting on the table.
“Have you found it?” Aldamar said without removing his eyes from the text. “Have you found the Sanctuary?”
Ulam nodded. I found more than the Sanctuary. The dying woman’s pleading eyes flashed in his mind: dark green and filled with fear, pain, and gratitude. A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered her weeping, a river of sorrow ran straight through his heart. The smell of the cold, hard ground from her grave was still fresh in his mind, as well as the odor of burning flesh that had lingered in the air. Even then, standing in front of Count Aldamar, Ulam had trouble wrapping his mind around everything that had occurred during his excursion. Did all of that really happen, or was it all just a dream?
“Abandoned, I assume?” Count Aldamar continued. “Much time has passed since any news reached Silverwater. Though that is not unusual considering the Orcs are a fairly private people. A pity, really, I have always had a particular affinity for your race. Of course, you already know that.”
The Count raised his chalice in the form of a salute and drank, Ulam mimicking the motion. The man wore a thoughtful expression on his face, his eyes forever looking into the darkness. As they stood quietly in the library, Ulam even believed he witnessed sadness spread across the Count’s face, an unusual display of emotion from an otherwise stoic man.
The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) Page 20