by Aaron Bunce
Julian felt it a split second before the latch of his collar came free. A shiver ran down his neck and into his body. The gnarl’s released their grip on his arms as the collar fell free. His knees buckled and his weight instantly carried him back, but he had been waiting, watching, and anticipating this moment.
With a surge, Julian caught the gnarl by its forearm and pulled with as much strength as he could muster. The creature screeched and fell sprawling into the pit behind him. He managed to keep himself from falling backward but his legs were so weak he crumpled and rolled painfully off the lip of the stairs.
Julian tumbled and used the momentum to get his feet back under him, but his legs felt like jelly. The gnarl splashed loudly into the water behind him as its counterpart howled in rage. Julian wobbled down the next step, teetering and almost falling, unsure how far he could go or what he would do when he got there.
Julian locked eyes with Sky, and then looked at the wretch, whose face lay obscured behind the curtain of long brown hair. One of the masked men appeared before him, his hand held out before him. In the next moment Julian was flying backward, the green glow of the man’s bracelet and mask burning into his vision.
Julian hit the ground, the air in his lungs instantly blasted away. He rolled over and tried to push himself up, but a strong hand wrapped around his throat and pulled him up to his knees.
“You are a troublesome one. I’ll throw you in myself,” the man said and lifted Julian into the air by his throat.
As the man stood, his cloak fell open, exposing the handle of a shiny dagger. Julian plunged his hand in and ripped the dagger from its sheath, and before the masked man could stop him, he drove the weapon into his heart.
The man looked down as Julian drove the dagger in again and again, twisting it for good measure. Julian dropped to the ground as he toppled backward down the stone steps. Julian managed only a single wobbly step back down the stairs before a strong arm hooked around his neck and squeezed.
He didn’t have time to struggle before the first blow jarred his back. The force cut into him painfully, but he recovered. The gnarl held him in a crushing hold, and as he struggled, he felt a horrible tearing sensation in his midsection. Pain shot down his legs and then they abruptly went numb. It was only when Julian dropped his head to pull on the creature’s arm that he noticed the tip of the blade sticking out his abdomen.
The gnarl pulled the blade free and drove it hard into his back again, and then again. Julian’s hand went weak, and the dagger fell to the ground. His insides burned as the gnarl slowly pulled the blade free. The hairy creature snarled and snorted over his shoulder before shoving him hard to the ground. He landed with a crack, face first against the stone.
Julian managed, with great difficulty, to roll over onto his side. He pressed his hands against the gaping wound in his belly, but with every pounding beat of his heart more blood forced its way past his fingers. He felt the warmth spreading down his back, tickling his skin as it pooled on the stone beneath him.
He tried to push himself along the stone, desperate to get to his friend, but his legs wouldn’t move. They felt dead. With his life slipping between his fingers, Julian turned his head and looked at Sky, whose face had gone as white as a sheet.
The wretch pulled his hair back and looked at him too, with beady, penetrating eyes. He smiled, right before he drove the tip of the black sword between Sky’s ribs. Julian screamed from the pain and anger. They tore him open as badly as any blade.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his dearest friend. He watched his life drain away as it was consumed by the monstrous weapon and the wretch wielding it. After only a few grueling heartbeats, the wretch pulled the sword free. He stepped onto Sky’s withered body, breaking it apart in a dusty, crumbly mess, looking at Julian all the while, the crooked smile still painted upon his face.
Julian’s head was buzzing and his heart, which thundered a moment ago, was beating so much slower. His fingers were slippery with blood, and it continued to trickle onto the stone and down the stairs in dark puddles.
The gnarl knelt down to pick him up off the ground, but the wretch, who had already mounted the stairs, waved it away. Julian’s face burned as he watched him approach, and as he knelt next to him, Julian lurched, trying to pull him down. But the man kicked his hands down and stood on them for good measure. Julian cursed him, wishing only to tear him apart with his bare hands.
“I’m going to leave you here, alone, so you can die thinking about me,” the wretch said in a silky voice.
Then in an unexpected move he reached up and pulled the hair away from his face. He took the great curtain of unkempt brown tangles and tossed it back, then knelt down, right in Julian’s face.
“I will make all of the people understand the pain they caused me. They will share in my agony, my fear, and my loneliness. They betrayed me. When they were supposed to love me, their King. I will make all of them suffer, starting with you,” the wretch said.
Julian took in the man’s features, his narrow nose, high cheekbones, and dark beady eyes. And then he recognized the man for whom he truly was.
Djaron Algast, last of the bloodline and deposed King, whom all believed perished in the wilderness, was in fact alive and now as youthful as the day he was forced out of Ban Turin, twenty winter thaws ago.
Julian was a baby when the Earls rose up and dethroned the King, but as a child he snuck into the locked storeroom and found a collection of paintings. Most were of the King and his young daughter. His father refused to destroy them as the Council decreed, but also understood the danger if he left them out in the open.
Julian’s eyelids flickered for a moment. He felt very tired and wanted nothing more than to curl up and fall asleep. Djaron removed his foot from Julian’s wrist, but he no longer had the strength to pull it back to his body. He was cold and numb, and the blood barely trickled from his belly.
“I found them,” Djaron said as he stood back up. “In their day, they ruled over of all of these lands. None were powerful enough to stand before them, not even the dwarves in their mightiest day. The Nymradic favor me, and when they bring our world to its knees, I will be there by their side, standing as a prince in the ashes.”
Spider appeared behind Djaron. “There is but one left in the pool, they say it is weak and should be left to die. We are done here. What of the others above? The leftovers, what should be done with them?”
“Feed them to the pale ones, feed them to the durjj,” Djaron said coldly and walked away.
Julian barely heard him. He was slipping away, to comforting thoughts of Tanea. He rolled his head and scarcely felt the cool rock against his skin. He could just feel his heart beating within his chest. It was so slow, yet there was another beat there, one faster and stronger, urging it on.
“Tanea,” he croaked, but he would never see her again.
An odd sense of peace settled over him and everything grew very bright and warm. He was warm, and his body felt weightless. But then he coughed and was jarred back to the pain.
He was alone. The goblin slaves and their sedan chair burden were gone, and only the gnarls were left, dragging the bodies of the dead away, one by one.
He looked at Sky’s body one last time before slumping back to the cold stone. He managed to pull his hands to his body, but he couldn’t feel them. Julian closed his eyes, focusing on the soft rhythmic beating of Tanea’s heart deep inside. It was all he had left in the world.
He just had to wait now. Wait for the end.
Chapter 44
You!
The curtains rustled angrily in the cold, starchy wind.
“Melissa,” Frenin whispered, spotting the woman sitting quietly in a chair in the far corner of the room. The oil lamp burned low, its meager flame no match for the wind.
Frenin trod softly into the room, taking care to avoid the loud, creaky spots in the home’s old flooring. Alina slept in the bed to his left. She looked like a curled up ball bene
ath the covers in the darkened room.
Frenin knew he had to be fast. He knew that if Teague and his men had not already found Roman missing from his room, then it was only a matter of time. He hated the idea of waking the girl from her sleep, especially at such a late hour, but he had no other choice.
Creeping slowly around the bed, Frenin leaned in and ever-so-gently shook the still form beneath the sheets. But the girl did not respond. He shook her again as a horrible thought struck him.
Frenin reached up, his hands cold and shaking and pulled the sheets back. It took his old eyes a moment to sort out what his saw in the dim, flickering light.
“Damn,” he cursed under his breath.
Tucked beneath the covers where Alina should have been, was a large ugly doll. Frenin’s wife made it many winter thaws ago when she was with child. It had sat alone and forgotten on the old rocking chair in her unused sewing room ever since, collecting dust. Frenin straightened, and the stiff muscles in his back knotted up in a painful mess. He grimaced and turned to Melissa, who slept quietly in the chair a few paces away.
“Melissa, wake up! Melissa!” Frenin whispered and shook the shook the woman’s shoulder.
Melissa didn’t wake at his prod. Instead, she tipped forward and crumbled into a heap on the floor at Frenin’s feet.
“Oh my goodness!” Frenin said and hopped back a step in alarm.
He bent over and looked into the woman’s face. She stared blankly up at the ceiling, her once crisp, intelligent blue eyes now dried out milky orbs.
Frenin’s heart leapt in his chest. A wave of confusion and fear swept over him as he spun on wobbly legs. Without his trusty cane at his side, Frenin felt exposed and defenseless. He looked from the open window, the cold air still billowing in past the heavy curtains, to the empty bed, and back to Melissa’s body on the floor.
His mind worked too slowly over this new development. All of his plans, his hopes, hinged on Alina being safe and secure in his house, just as he had left her. He hobbled towards the open window, a disturbing thought swirling through his head.
Did the murderer return for Alina? He wondered. But why?
The soldiers already blamed Roman. They thought him capable of killing Greta and the people in the orchard. Frenin’s thoughts took a particularly dark and troubled turn. He had complicated things.
I released Roman. Teague will now assume that he broke into my house and took Alina, he surmised.
“Damn you, Frenin, you old fool. Damn your meddling,” he cursed.
Then another troubling thought rattled him. The same one he had been fighting against since the horrible attacks began. It was the realization that he might have been wrong from the start.
Have I misjudged Roman completely? By setting him free, did I seal Alina’s fate and betray the safety of the town? Frenin thought, but he shook those thoughts away. Roman was a good young man, like his father. He was no murder.
Despite the cold wind blowing into the room, Frenin felt heat flush his body. He staggered against the best post as a pain stabbed through his chest. He tried to pull his hand up to massage it away, but his right arm cramped up. He braced his weight for a moment, teetering on the verge of falling, trying to catch his breath.
Frenin tried to flex the pain from his arm but it barely moved, and his fingers curled up like a dying spider. He closed his eyes and forced his breath in and out, willing his heart to slow.
He had to sit down and think. He had to figure out what he would do, and what he would tell Teague and the others. He was a survivor, a thinker, and a leader. He just had to relax and put his mind to work. But first Frenin knew he had to close the window, it wouldn’t do him any good if he froze to death.
Clutching his arm to his body, Frenin limped towards the window but stopped suddenly when a bright flash cut through the darkness outside. The bright arc of lightning was followed almost instantly by a ground-shaking crash of thunder. It was an odd sound when not accompanied by the wet clatter of raindrops.
It was not the oddity of the lightning or the thunder that struck him, as nothing about this storm had been commonplace, but as the bright light from outside cut through the heavy curtains, it illuminated two shadows tucked behind the billowing fabric.
“Come out of there! I see you…who is there?” Frenin demanded, his voice cracking and straining as his chest continued to tighten.
The curtains rippled and shook, flowing rhythmically in time with the pulsing wind. Another flash of lightning flooded the room, and long white fingers appeared around the fabric, and in a slow, deliberate motion, pulled them aside.
Frenin stumbled back as two shadowy figures emerged from behind the heavy treatments, and then squinted through the failing lamp light as he tried to discern their faces.
“Why were you hiding back…?” Frenin started to ask. He looked to the second figure, much shorter than the other. “Alina, is that you?” he dared ask, slumping to the side to move his weight off of his aching left leg.
Alina’s small form shifted, her copious brown hair unfurling like a tangle of seaweed caught in a swirling current. The larger figure pulled her in closer as they materialized from the shadows.
Frenin’s mouth went suddenly dry, “G-G-Garon, where have you b-b-been? What happened to your wife, to Greta, and the boys?” He fell back as the imposing figure of Alina’s father strode easily into the lamp light.
Garon had always been an intimidating person. What with his long face and angular features, and exacerbated by the fact that he was usually drunk and angry. Frenin couldn’t remember the last time he saw the man smile.
There was something different about him as he walked fully into the light, something that put goosebumps on Frenin’s skin. Alina stood quietly behind him, holding tightly to a single, thick finger. Their eyes met for a moment, and she quickly dropped her gaze to the ground, as she did, the thick coils of coppery-brown hair spilled out over her face, effectively shutting Frenin out.
“I have returned for the child. Why was she taken from me?” Garon asked quietly, his voice deep and resonant.
The man sounded different to Frenin somehow…but he couldn’t focus enough to tell how. His chest was so tight, and the pain in his arm was excruciating.
“Roman found her when he came out to your place. He found Greta too. What happened to her, Garon? What happened to your wife?” Frenin asked, gasping.
He staggered sideways as his leg gave out, and he managed to catch the chest of drawers. He took a deep breath and found some relief, but the pressure would not relent.
Garon followed a step, and then another and simply shrugged his indifference. Frenin looked up into Garon’s severe face as he came to stand over him. He was dizzy now, the man’s face and the ceiling beyond spun around crazily, disorienting him.
The crushing pain in Frenin’s chest made it almost impossible to breathe. It was all he could think about. He gritted his teeth against the pain, and then fell to his knees, the wood floor smashing against him.
“I…need help!” Frenin gasped, a horrible and fatal realization flooding through him.
Garon nodded. “You are dying.”
Frenin clutched pathetically at his throat and looked up into the farmer’s face. He showed no emotion at all. Without warning, Garon’s hand shot forward and closed around his neck.
Frenin batted at the farmer’s strong hands and thick, muscular fingers, but the man felt impossibly strong, and he was too weak. He looked pleadingly up into the man’s face, trying to find reason within his blank expression and large prismatic green eyes.
As his vision started to close in around him, Garon’s mouth slowly spread into a crooked and horribly misplaced smile. Frenin felt Garon’s hand grow suddenly very cold against his skin, and then all of his aches and pains, even the withering pressure in his chest, became a passing concern.
A tremendous wave rippled through his body, from his toes up through his chest, and then surged into his neck. For a moment, Fre
nin felt a tremendous swell as every emotion welled up inside him all at once, and then he knew no more.
Part 5
Taking control
Chapter 45
Claimed by fire and spirit
Dennah fell into herself when Banus first descended upon her. She didn’t do it consciously, but a part of her mind shut down in a desperate attempt to survive.
It felt like a waking nightmare, flashes of pain and sensation that she could neither rationalize as dream or reality. They were fragmented and blacked out by periods where she knew absolutely nothing at all.
She came to for a moment and could feel rough and violent hands groping her. She could also feel the silky brush of lips and tongue, tainting her skin with sticky saliva.
Dennah didn’t know how long it went on for, but she no longer registered the irritating prick of the straw on her stomach and chest, and the air no longer felt cold. She felt pain, and horrible pressure and once again the pain became like a poison in her mind. She slid willingly back into the fog, eager to simply not feel anymore.
The indecipherable moments flashed by, and she continued her erratic battle between oblivion and agony. She tried to deny time its true meaning, willing it winged speed on its journey, hoping that it would wrap her in its currents and carry her away to safer times.
Then it all changed. A sharp noise split the air, and the storm’s fury billowed in all around them. Dennah snapped to, her mind flooding away the cobwebs in a surge of energy that would see her fight or flee. Her hands and ankles were still bound. She was still trapped.
It took a heartbeat for her to rationalize the chaos. People were fighting, and she heard an animal growl and snarl angrily. A cloaked figure appeared out of the darkness, a cane clutched tightly in hand.
Banus slipped out of the fog of her periphery. She hadn’t even realized he was there. She heard him speak, his noxious drawl dripping with cynicism and foul intentions. She couldn’t understand what he said. The little man flicked his hand, and Dennah felt the sting of leather on back.