“And who are you?” James asked.
“My name’s Alton. After I spoke against the woman at a town meeting, she fixed my cows with the evil eye, and put the wasting curse on them. Ask any of my neighbors. They’ve seen my animals dying. And she’s done worse.”
“Such as?” said James, impatiently.
“Well, take the woodcutter and his family. They were nice, normal folks, then suddenly they vanished. Then the blood-drinkers showed up. And Remi’s little boy, he took ill after spying her one day up at Widow’s Point. Died a fortnight later.”
James said, “Your mayor doesn’t seem to think she’s the cause of these ills.”
“Toddy’s a wonderful, kind man, but he can be a bit of a fool.”
James shook his head as other townspeople hurried by. “Where’s Father Rowland?” he asked Alton.
“Just follow everyone else to the church across the square. That’s where we’re going.” Suddenly, he gasped. “Look!” He pointed to the east and they could see how the sun was now darkening to an orange color as if heavy smoke were obscuring the orb.
As the farmer pointed, James noticed a glint of metal around his neck, a chain that moved as his tunic shifted. At the base he caught a glimpse of something black.
James had not been called “Jimmy the Hand” as a boy for nothing. With startling swiftness, he reached out and pulled the chain high enough to reveal a black pearl in a metal hand hanging from the chain. “Who gave this to you?”
The farmer’s eyes grew round and he stepped back as James released the chain. “I . . . I found it.”
“Where?”
“Ah . . .”
“We found a similar charm - around Merrick’s daughter’s neck,” said Jazhara.
“It’s just a simple bauble,” said Farmer Alton.
Solon moved suddenly, far quicker than one would expect of a man his size, and came to stand just behind Alton. “Don’t be thinking of leaving any time soon, my friend.”
James drew his sword slowly for dramatic purpose. He didn’t think this blustering farmer was particularly dangerous. But he also felt time was running short and he needed answers. “Again: Who gave you that charm?”
Alton attempted to move away, but Solon grabbed his arm and held him fast. “I think you’d best answer the lad; he doesn’t appear to be in a mood for foolishness.”
Alton glanced at Jazhara, whose expression was cold, then to Kendaric, who also looked as if he were running out of patience. Suddenly the farmer blurted, “I’ll tell you everything! It wasn’t my idea. I was just an honest farmer, minding my own business when he came to me. I trusted him; everyone does. He offered me gold, lots of gold, to poison my own cows and blame the witch, so I agreed. She’s just one old lady, and she’s going to die soon, anyway. But I didn’t know what he really was. I thought he was human when I agreed to work for him. I didn’t know - ” Suddenly the man’s tumbling words were cut off by a strangled, gurgling sound as the chain around his neck abruptly tightened. Alton staggered backward, his eyes bulging and his face turning crimson as he clawed at his neck. Solon found himself holding the man upright as his knees buckled, and he let the farmer slowly sink to the ground. Blood began to flow from the wound in Alton’s neck. As the farmer’s eyes rolled up into his head, the sounds of muscles snapping and bones breaking could be heard. A moment later, the farmer’s head rolled free from his body and dropped to the ground. Solon released the man’s arm and the body crumpled to the dust.
James stared at the corpse and then at the darkening sun. He motioned for the others to follow and hurried toward a small building on the edge of the village common. Upon reaching it, they saw it was a simple church with a large, open entrance. No benches or pews were provided, so the congregation stood, listening to a man in white robes, who must surely be Father Rowland.
“Again, I say, if we wait much longer, we will be swept away by a tide of evil. And where, must I ask, is the justice in this? I will tell you where justice lies. It lies in the strength of our arms, the purity of our souls, and the burning that will rid the world of the witch’s evil!”
Several of the townspeople shouted agreement.
“He sounds a wee bit harsh for a priest of Sung,” Solon observed.
James nodded. “He does seem to be in an awful hurry to get rid of the’witch.‘”
“And to have others do the deed for him,” Jazhara added.
The priest’s voice rose. “Some say this witch has summoned wolves who walk like men at night, blood-drinkers who devour the souls of the innocent, turning them into monsters like themselves! I say she has summoned darkness incarnate — spirits so foul they drain the life from good people like you and me. Either way, the blame for this lies on her doorstep. This darkness approaching signals the final attack! We must move now!”
Some of the men cheered and shouted threats, but James could discern their fear for many of the responses were halfhearted and weak. He pushed through the villagers to stand before the priest.
“Welcome, stranger,” said Father Rowland. He was a man of middle height, with dark hair and a small, pointed beard. Around his neck hung a simple ward of the Order of Sung. His white robes showed faint stains and dirt, as if old and oft-washed. “Have you come to help rid us of this blight?”
James regarded him steadily. “I have, but I doubt the blight is what you say.”
The priest looked at James, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Alton is dead,” James said.
The priest looked shocked. “Farmer Alton is dead? Another victim of that wicked woman!” Looking past James, the priest shouted, “Is this not enough? Isn’t it time for us to act?”
More voices were raised in agreement, but James heard Jazhara shout, “James, be wary! There is something not right here!”
James looked and saw that several of those who were shouting had a vacant expression, their staring eyes fixed and lifeless. James turned toward the priest, then with unexpected swiftness, reached out and grabbed at the amulet around the man’s neck. With a single yank, he tore it away and held it up. Before his eyes it shifted and changed, from the benign icon of Sung to a hand holding a black pearl.
“These are servants of the Dark One! They must die!” shouted the priest, his hands reaching for James’s throat, fingers bent like talons.
James tried to jump backward, but suddenly was seized by hands, holding him in place. He could hear Jazhara shouting, “The people are innocents! They are possessed! Try not to harm them!”
James felt the priest’s fingers at his throat and shouted, “I’ll try to keep that in mind!” He let his body go limp and dropped away, the priest’s fingers slipping over his head for a moment. From the floor, James could not draw his sword, but he could reach the dagger that was tucked in the top of his right boot. He drew it and slashed upward, striking the priest in the leg.
Father Rowland shouted in pain and fell backward, and James rolled his legs under him in a crouch as strong hands tried to hold him in place. Then he leapt forward with all his strength and, as he had hoped, the hands lost their grip upon him.
Several townspeople stumbled forward, and he barely avoided being pulled down from behind. The priest was retreating. James glanced quickly from one side to the other. Jazhara was wheeling her staff, keeping the villagers at bay. Kendaric was being borne down, pinned to the floor by a pair of strong farmers, while another was attempting to kick him in the head. Brother Solon was using his warhammer to shove people away as much as strike them, in his attempt to reach the wrecker’s side and render aid.
James tossed his dagger from his right hand to his left, and drew his sword in one fluid motion. He shifted his blade and struck the closest man across the head with the flat; even so, the rapier’s thin blade still cut the man, but it wasn’t a deep wound.
The blow sent the man staggering back a step, blocking those behind him for an instant. An instant was all James needed. He lunged forward, as Father
Rowland began to weave a magic spell. Before the priest had finished, James had skewered him through the stomach.
The man looked down in stunned amazement, then his eyes widened in pain as James yanked free his blade. Then the priest’s eyes rolled back into his head. But rather than fall, he continued to stand. His head lolled back and his mouth hung open, but from within a deep, alien voice declared, “Though our servant lies dead, our power remains undimmed. Taste the bitter draught of evil . . . and despair.”
The priest crumpled to the floor and James wheeled, ready for the next attack, but rather than being assaulted, James was met with the sight of the townspeople standing around, blinking in confusion. Several looked at one another, or at Kendaric and Solon, or Jazhara, and then the babble of voices began.
“What happened?”
“How did we get here?”
“Why are you bleeding?”
James held up his hand and cried, “Silence!”
Voices stilled. James continued, “This man was no priest of Sung. He was an agent of the very darkness he claimed to be fighting. He kept you distracted from the true source of the evil.”
One of the women in the group screamed. “The sun!” she shouted, pointing at the morning sun.
James turned. It was even darker. “It’ll be night soon,” he said, not trying to explain what he couldn’t. “Get to your homes and bar the doors. We’ll see to the cause of this.”
The villagers fled. Some had to be helped by friends, because of the battering they had taken from Jazhara’s staff and Solon’s warhammer, but James was relieved to see that the only corpse in the room was Rowland’s.
Kendaric looked frightened, but he also seemed to have kept his composure. He brushed himself off as they all gathered around James.
“Did the rest of you hear what he said?” James asked.
“No,” answered Kendaric. “I was too busy being attacked.”
Jazhara said, “I heard him speak, but not what he said.”
“I heard it,” said Brother Solon. “He was an agent of darkness, there’s no doubt of that. That he could take the guise of a servant of the Pure One is troubling. Even a false icon such as he wore should be difficult to endure by a servant of evil.”
“These are very powerful enemies,” said James. “I’ve heard that voice before.”
“When?” asked Jazhara.
“Years ago, from the mouth of a Black Slayer. The servants of Murmandamus.”
“But Murmandamus was destroyed,” said Jazhara. Then she glanced at Solon and Kendaric, unsure of what more she should say. As Arutha’s court mage, James had told her some of the truth behind Arutha’s slaying of the false moredhel prophet, and the recent troubles in the Dimwood, for there were rumors that he was still alive.
James nodded. “I know he was, but while we may not be dealing with that black heart, we are certainly facing someone who is nearly his equal in power. And that means we’re up against something far more dangerous than we thought.”
“You knew it was dangerous when we told you about our ship being taken,” said Solon. “You’re not backing out now, are you?”
“No,” said James, glancing at the darkening sun. “Especially not now. I can feel things rushing forward and if we hesitate, I think we are lost.” He realized he was still holding his weapons and he put them up. “We don’t have time to send for reinforcements, and we don’t know how effective William will continue to be at keeping Bear away from here. I think this will end before more than two days pass, one way or the other.”
“What now?” asked Kendaric, crossing his arms as if cold.
James let out a long breath. “When darkness finally comes, those blood-drinkers will be back, and I think they are here for no other reason than to keep us busy. So whatever we do, we have to do it quickly.” He looked at Jazhara. “One thing strikes me. Rowland and Alton were too anxious to get rid of that witch for it to have only been about finding a scapegoat. There’s something about her they feared.”
Jazhara said, “Then we should go talk to her.” Glancing at the sun, she added, “And quickly. I think we have less than two hours before night falls again.”
James nodded. Walking past Jazhara he said, “Let us go visit the witch at Widow’s Point.”
As they climbed the hillside toward Widow’s Point, the woods turned ominously dark. The fading sun created darker shadows on the trail than usual. “It’s like traveling at twilight,” whispered Solon.
James laughed. “I feel the need to speak softly, too.”
Jazhara said, “Stealth may be prudent, but time is fleeting.”
As they rounded a bend in the trail, James held up his hand. “Someone’s ahead,” he whispered.
They moved forward and James soon clearly saw a figure crouched in the gloom. It was a boy of no more than nine years of age. James walked up behind him, making no effort to be silent, yet the child’s attention remained fixed upon a small hut near the cliffs. When James put his hand on the child’s shoulder, the boy shouted in alarm and nearly fell down in surprise.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Jazhara. “We mean you no harm.”
The boy’s eyes were large with terror. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Jazhara, and this is Squire James of Krondor. That’s Brother Solon, and Kendaric. Who are you?”
The boy’s voice lost its quaver, but he still looked frightened. “I’m Alaric. I’m here to watch the witch. Pa says they’re going to burn her real soon, so I wanted to see her do some black magic stuff before they get her.”
“I think you should hurry home before it gets much darker,” said James.
Jazhara asked, “Is she in the hut now?”
“I haven’t seen her. Sometimes she wanders the beach below Widow’s Point. I’d be careful; she’s really dangerous.”
James said, “Thank you. Now, get on home. Your family will be worried about you.”
The boy didn’t need any more urging and turned and ran down the trail.
They walked on toward the dwelling and James shouted, “Hello, in the hut!”
There was no answer.
James approached and climbed the single step to a wooden porch.
The small stoop had an overhang from which hung a variety of gourds. Jazhara inspected the corpses of a couple of small animals hung there to dry and then an assortment of herbs. “This ‘witch’ is either a practitioner of magic or simply an old woman well-versed in the arts of remedy. I recognize several of these plants. They are used for poultices and herbal teas.”
The hut had been constructed on a wooden platform, the porch extended out a few feet from the front wall. Looking down, Solon said, “At least she’s dry when it rains.”
“And it rains a lot along this part of the coast,” Kendaric added. He wrapped his arms around himself as if he were cold and said, “Not only is it getting darker, but it feels like rain is coming.”
“Just what we need,” said James. He pushed aside a piece of hide strung across the lintel, serving as a door. Inside the hut were a crude table and a single stool. A cauldron simmered before a fire.
Kendaric looked at the brown mixture. “Not a witch? Then what’s that?”
James walked over and inspected the bubbling liquid. He took a ladle from a hook over the fireplace and dipped it into the cauldron. Raising it he sniffed, then sipped it. Turning to Kendaric he said, “Soup. And very good, too.”
He replaced the ladle when a voice at the door said, “Come to burn me?”
James turned to see a frail-looking old woman standing in the entrance, holding a bundle of sticks.
“Well, don’t just stand there, staring. You expect an old woman to gather all the wood for her own burning?”
The old woman looked barely larger than the child they had just sent home. Her skin was almost translucent with age, and her hair was completely white. Her tiny fingers looked like skin over bones, but she had all her teeth and her eyes were bright and alive.
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James smiled. “We’re not here to burn you, woman.”
“Oh, that’s what they all say,” she said, pushing past Kendaric and throwing the bundle of sticks down next to the hearth.
Jazhara said, “You practice magic?”
The old woman sat down on her small stool and shrugged. “I know a thing or two. But mostly I mix up remedies for people, or tell fortunes.” Her eyes got a faraway look. “Sometimes I see things, but that’s . . . difficult. It’s rarely pleasant.”
Kendaric said, “I’m from the Wreckers’ Guild in Krondor and I’ve tried to raise a ship recently sunk off the Point. Something is blocking my magic. It’s powerful and I need to know what it is.”
The old woman studied Kendaric for a moment, then turned to face Jazhara. “You practice the craft?”
Jazhara said, “I am the court magician to Prince Arutha.”
“Ah,” said the old woman, a bemused smile on her face. “A woman magician. Time was you’d have been put to death for even claiming to know the arts in Krondor.”
“Times change,” said James.
“In some ways, maybe,” said the old woman. “Others, not at all.”
James said, “Well, perhaps someday we can sit in more comfortable surroundings and discuss it. But right now we have other worries.” He gestured outside at the fading sun.
“I saw,” said the woman. “That’s why I thought you might be from the village, come to burn me.”
Jazhara said, “That was ‘Father’ Rowland. He was rallying the villagers to come here and do just that.”
“How did you stop him?” asked the woman.
James said, “With my rapier. He was no priest of Sung.”
“I could have told you that,” said the old woman. “His pores just oozed evil. I think that’s one of the reasons he wanted me gone; he realized I knew him to be a charlatan.”
“There had to be another reason,” said Solon. “You would hardly have been a compelling witness against him just because you sensed the evil in him.”
The woman nodded. “It is because I know the secret of Haldon Head and Widow’s Point.”
Krondor Tear of the Gods Page 24