Within

by Aaron Bunce

  “Men claimed that Marstus took the staff from a crypt deep within Mt. Syanid, lifting it from the withered corpse of Alen-Sadi himself, the ‘ancient one’,” Greta said, “Marstus stood before Darius’ stout walls. He climbed atop the still bodies of thousands of his slaves and desert kin and demanded that Darius drop to his knees and surrender. The King, confident victory was at hand, laughed at the Warlord and ordered his archers to loose a volley.”

  Greta held her hands up as if to block out of the sun, “So many arrows flew fast and true that they blotted out the sun. Yet, Marstus did not move. He did not waiver. Arrows rained down, piercing the ground for hundreds of paces in every direction. Only his head was saved from the onslaught for he wore a mighty helm.”

  Roman remembered her description. It was forged from an odd, black metal and adorned with the long curving horns of some long-dead beast. “It was plumed,” Greta gestured with her hands, “with blood-red feathers as long as a man is tall. The arrows rang loud as they bounced off the metal of Marstus’ helm. But they riddled his body, from neck to boots. The shafts of a hundred arrows protruded from all over his body. The Ishmandi Chieftain did not fall, however. He did not stagger, or even cry out in pain.”

  Greta struck her hands forward as if she wielded the staff and shouted. “Marstus’ voice pierced every man standing against him. The force of his words ripped through the battlefield like a gale wind, knocking even the heavy horse to the ground.”

  “The stone came alive,” Greta continued. “The magic of the staff sent the mighty walls of King Darius’ hold crumbling to the ground, and all the men atop them to their deaths. The piles of crushed stone and bodies came to life. Rocks tumbled and stacked until a dozen monsters of earth and death lumbered before them. Darius’ men fought bravely, but the stone constructs had been imbued with Marstus’ murderous will, and would not be stopped. The monsters crushed men, women, and horses alike, never showing regret, or mercy. They say that King Darius wept, that the sight brought him to his knees. The King laid down his sword, and in a moment that would change our people’s fate forever, Darius surrendered.”

  The next part of the story was sketchy for Roman, for almost every bard told the story slightly different. He preferred Greta’s telling.

  “Darius, still weeping at the staggering loss of his men, bowed down to Marstus. Humbled and defeated, Darius handed over his sword and crown to the tyrant. His only plea was mercy for his people. Despite his nature, Marstus agreed. As the King stood, Marstus took up the King’s sword and struck him down. Marstus took up Darius’ seat, proclaiming himself King.”

  Bards sang that the usurper exiled the remnants of Fanfir, the old, the weak, women with child, the children, and the soldiers left alive, all except Darius’ line. Marstus put his sons to the blade, save for one, his youngest son, Alrik.

  Cassendyra, a dalan Maiden, raised Alrik, tutoring him in ways of speech and runes. Roman’s people believed that it was Cassendyra, in the form of a white pony that carried the young prince to safety, cloaked in rags of a commoner.

  They loaded every sea-worthy vessel and set to sea, sailing for many moons to cross treacherous waters. Cassendyra, through young Prince Alrik, led the fleet of ships across the Kartherous Sea. Storms battered their fleet. Their food ran out, and disease took the weakest and oldest of them, but finally they arrived in a foreign land.

  Roman clung to those stories, those bits and pieces of history. It was more than he ever got from his father, who told Roman, it is more important to know where you were going than where you came from. He taught Roman how to survive, by instructing him on the proper elevation of a bow shot for a moving deer, or the angle of a knife to properly split ribs.

  Everything about his life, before and after his father’s death, felt fragmented and out of sorts. He couldn’t deny the feeling that large portions of his life were a mystery. One he was not intended to figure out.

  His father often delved into dwarf and dalan lore, sharing deeply in his knowledge of the land, war, and culture. But when Roman pressed him for stories of his past, specifically of his mother, his fondness for tales ended. Any relevance Roman could glean from his parent’s past was, as it usually was, locked away.

  Those memories of his father haunted him. He resented him and hated himself for it. He knew his anger was irrational, but it was an emotion not easily shaken. His frustrations always seemed to lead him to the same enigma, the same emotional dead end, his mother.

  Roman shook himself from meandering thoughts, forcing his focus onto the tangible things around him. He looked at the trees. Their leaves had been a vivid green not long ago, yet now they were gilded with color. Many were already starting to drop.

  Off to his left, a pair of horses nickered, clearly bored as a group of men hefted neatly tied bundles of wheat into their wagons. One of the men noticed Roman and Tusk and threw him a friendly wave. Roman passed several more groups, mostly men and boys clearing the remainder of their crops. The fields ended, and large clumps of maple trees took over the landscape. Above the large bushy trees, several large vultures circled, spiraling endlessly.

  The road faded into the grass and as they broke through the tree cover Garon’s farm came into view. Everything looked just as it did the day he walked away. The golden fields of wheat sat neatly tucked into the surrounding woods, past that lay Garon and Greta’s small cottage. A lazy trickle of smoke rose from the stone chimney.

  Tusk took to the ground, sniffing excitedly from tree to tree, no doubt picking up the markings of Garon’s wolfhounds, Jak, and Fig. The two large dogs freely roamed the farm, chasing away unwanted pests and predators. Roman shared a good relationship with the two large dogs, although he wasn’t sure Tusk would feel the same way.

  Tusk grew excited by the prospect of new places, dogs, and smells, and bounced on his front legs, his ears and jowls flapping. His bellows echoed through the trees, making one dog sound like many. There came no response, however. Jak and Fig, usually so attuned to anyone’s approach, were nowhere to be seen.

  A wagon sat at the edge of the southern field, yet there was no horse hitched. A pair of old wood-handled scythes lay in the dirt next to a messy, untied pile of cut grains. Tusk stopped, working his nose frantically over the tools and wagon, his tail stuck straight out behind him.

  “What is it, boy?” Roman whispered as he knelt down next to the bristling dog. A scent had clearly put him on edge.

  “Go! Check it out, boy.” With only a slight pause, Tusk was off, galloping around the house.

  Roman hopped over the wooden fence enclosing the wheat field and made for the house. The wood-beam cottage sat on the crest of a hill and looked out to the southeast, affording anyone looking out the second-floor windows a breathtaking view of the landscape in the mornings. Roman passed the small shed and smokehouse as he walked around to the back. More fields lay beyond. The peak of Garon’s barn protruded through the tree canopy past that.

  Tusk’s excited barks echoed off in the distance. The dog’s attention lay elsewhere. Roman walked up to the back door. His hand shook as he raised it to knock. It hung there for a moment, but before he could talk himself out of it, he rapped lightly on the frame.

  His heart hammered in his ears as he waited, listening for signs of anyone approaching.

  Maybe Garon is out in the barn, or tending to his cows, he hoped.

  Moments passed, those stretched out into what felt like an eternity before Roman reached up and knocked again, this time much harder. Despite his desire to see Greta and little Alina again, he hoped, deep down inside, that no one would answer the door.

  “Greta, are you home? It’s Roman!” he called out, knocking once again, and with the final knock the latch popped, and the door swung open. Roman felt terror at the prospect of being caught in old man Garon’s home uninvited, but he knew Greta would probably be in the kitchen. He would step in and check, then duck back out before anyone was the wiser.

  The door swung open wit
h a gentle push, an unfortunately loud squawk splitting the silence. The iron hinges had seen too many seasons, and too little oil, and announced his arrival like trumpeting heralds.

  “Greta…its Roman,” he called out tentatively into the house, but once again the still air delivered no response.

  He walked through the rear entryway. Iron banded barrels were stacked one on top of each other against one wall. Boxes and burlap bags of dried food and other goods were pressed up against the opposite wall.

  Roman stepped through the doorway and into the kitchen. Along the wall to his left was the stone fireplace. The fire had burned down to coals. A heavy iron pot hung from a hook, a small amount of water still bubbling and hissing away in the bottom.

  Food littered the table in the room’s center. Carrots and potatoes lay forgotten, partially peeled and chopped on a heavy chopping block, yet there was no knife. Roman picked up one of the chairs, setting it back on its feet and sliding it back under the table. He walked through the remainder of the first floor.

  “Hello?” he called out when he reached the stairs, and after pausing for a moment to listen, pulled himself up one step at a time. The thick wooden stairs felt all too familiar under his feet. They creaked and groaned predictably under his weight.

  Roman stepped out into the hallway but flinched and jumped back as his foot landed on something hard on the floor. He stumbled and almost toppled down the stairs. Only a wild correction in his balance saved him.

  Roman held his breath and crouched down. Lying on the landing, where he had stepped, was a kitchen knife. He recognized the blade from the substantial time he spent with Greta in the kitchen. He couldn’t remember ever seeing it anywhere other than the chopping block. The knife was not what he had stepped on, however. A severed human finger lay in the middle of the hallway floor.

  He repelled when he saw it, spinning away and looking anxiously back down the stairs. He subconsciously picked up the knife as he worked through the scenarios in his head. It was too long to be a child’s, and too slender and fair to be that of a man.

  “Greta!” Roman called out, running from doorway to doorway. The house appeared to be empty. He stopped by the drafty window in Alina’s room. All of the little girl’s familiar wood toys were still lined up in their specific place. The window faced north, overlooking Garon’s northern field. Only the roofline of the barn was visible through the trees.

  If Garon is working in the barn with Arrin and Devlin, maybe he doesn’t know that Greta is hurt.

  Roman considered that Greta bravely scooped up Alina and bustled into town on her own for help, leaving Garon and the boys to their work. Garon hated to be interrupted, no matter the reason. Greta understood that fact better than anyone.

  A thought struck him. Why is the knife up here? Surely if she had an accident, it would have happened down in the kitchen, while chopping food?

  Roman dropped the knife, letting it rattle to the floor. The other possibilities seemed wrong to him. Too horrific to even consider.

  He decided he needed to locate Garon and find out what happened, and if the old man didn’t know, then Roman would tell him. If Greta had taken the back way into town, as she often did, then they might have passed each other moving in opposite directions.

  Roman stepped over the finger and ducked back down the stairs, fumbling and stumbling over several steps in his haste.

  Or does Garon know, and did he take her into town himself? Roman considered. Not knowing fed his panic. He ran out through the storage room but stumbled on one of the bags sitting by the inner doorway.

  He kept his balance just enough and hit the door with little regard. Wood cracked and splintered as the door crashed open. In his rush, Roman tripped over the raised lip of the threshold. He tumbled hard, falling face first into the dirt.

  “Dammit!” he cursed, feeling clumsy and embarrassed.

  Roman rolled over and started to stand. A rustle in the bushes next to the house caught his attention. He turned just in time to see something large emerge from the dense needles of a bushy evergreen. With dirt in his eyes, all he could see was teeth and hair, and then it was upon him.

  Chapter 9

  Never again

  The animal was wet and caked with foul-smelling mud. Roman cried out in alarm. His cries faded to curses as they rolled together on the ground. He couldn’t see anything as the animal fell over his face, its wretched breath burning his nose as it started to lick him

  “Curse you dog, get off of me. For hell’s sake you stink,” Roman growled. Tusk’s cold, wet nose jabbed in at his face as the dog happily licked him.

  “You stupid…you scared me half to death!” Roman cursed the dog, who now playfully bit his hands.

  “Where did you? What did you get into? You’re covered in…never mind, I don’t want to know,” Roman croaked as he tried to push the filthy dog away.

  Roman stood and wiped his muddy hands on his pants. The stink of wet dog clung to him like an oppressive blanket. Tusk shook, sending dirt and water spraying in every direction. Roman cringed and shielded his face with his arms. When he had finished shaking, Tusk sat back on his haunches to scratch his ears. He panted happily with what looked suspiciously like a smile.

  “Yeah, you’re getting a bath now. How do you like that?”

  Tusk barked raucously in reply, his happiness not easily stifled.

  Roman checked by Garon’s shed. The two rickety doors were held shut by a crude iron lock. He gave the door a quick pull to confirm it was locked and moved on. Tusk pushed his way past him and gave the door a quick sniff before walking away, completely uninterested in the shed.

  He continued and checked the smokehouse. Soot stained the wood around the edges of the door. There was no lock in place, and the door was already slightly ajar. Tusk wedged his nose into the opening and pried the door open. Empty racks of hooks hung from the ceiling, but other than a few scraps of shriveled up food, it was empty.

  The wonderful aromas of hickory smoke, molasses, and spices followed him as he walked away. Behind a small grove of scraggly bushes lay Garon’s watering hole. An underground spring fed the oval pond. The underground source kept the pond cold, even during the hottest season. Roman didn’t have to look hard to see the dog prints and obvious signs of Tusk’s swim. Even now, mud and silt clouded the water.

  Roman looked at the muddy mess of the pond and then back at the dog. Tusk barked and wagged his tail excitedly. He shook his head and turned to walk away, but something caught his eye. A bare footprint had been pressed into the mud several paces away.

  He looked closer and found another one, then a handprint, but the ground was torn up around it. Roman bent down next to it. His fingers, he found, fit perfectly into the gouges dug in the dirt. The reed grasses at the water’s edge were flattened to the ground.

  He couldn’t see anyone willingly swimming in the cold water, not with winter so close at hand. Roman left the waterhole, still puzzling it all over.

  He pushed through the shoots of wheat and potato mounds of Garon’s north field, moving towards the barn. He could see well enough through the trees to tell that the barn stood open. Roman’s heart fluttered for a moment. Garon, and possibly his boys, were in the barn, and although he didn’t look forward to seeing them, he realized that he needed to find someone. The unusual quiet of the farm had quickly damaged his nerve.

  Tusk ran out ahead of Roman, his head hovering low over the ground. He almost tripped over him several times when he stopped to investigate a smell. Roman stepped over him, taking a more direct route through the trees towards the barn.

  Roman slowed when he reached the barn, tentatively poking his head around the door to look inside. The barn’s interior looked exactly how he remembered it. Hay bales were stacked neatly on one side. Garon’s heavy iron plow, his ox yoke, and straps lay in a heap on the other. The building was clean and neatly organized, but empty. He ran to the back just to be sure.

  He ducked back outside and turn
ed on the spot. Garon’s cow pasture lay just behind the barn. It was the only place he hadn’t checked. He ran to the fence and skidded to a halt, leaning heavily against the aged wood. His mouth fell open as he tried to understand exactly what he saw.

  Every animal in the yard, every cow and goat Garon owned, lay on the ground, dead. Their carcasses littered the grass of the entire pen. The wind shifted, and Roman had to cover his mouth as he gagged. It was the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh. He could feel sour starting to churn in his stomach.

  Roman had never seen anything like it, an entire farm full of animals left to rot.

  Did they die from some disease? Or were they killed by something? Each new possibility seemed scarier than the last. Something in the pen caught his eye. It shone like a beacon amidst the sea of death. It was a lone patch of blue fabric, teasing his eyes like a mirage.

  Against his better judgment, Roman slipped between the fence rails and walked towards it. He turned back, only to find Tusk pacing on the other side of the fence. His tail hung between his legs, and he refused to come any closer.

  He walked between the remnants of two cows. Both animals lay on their sides. They were not bloated as he would expect, and strangely, there were no flies buzzing about. Their skin hung like tattered fabric over their bones, and their eyes and tongues were shriveled like fruit left in the sun. They looked like they had been dead for a fortnight, or longer.

  Roman pulled his shirt up over his nose. A stench hung over the field like an overpowering curtain, one that the fresh air could not penetrate. He continued through the sea of dead animals, towards the patch of color, every animal around him in the same shrunken, advanced state of decay. His pace quickened as he approached.

  Roman dropped to his knees. He recognized the apron immediately. The blue dyed fabric had faded since he saw it last, but the pattern and stains were just as he remembered it.