The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith

by Douglas Van Dyke

  “At first I had good reasons. I had some bad news to bring to you from your home, and I didn’t want to tell you this morning. I did not want it to ruin your concentration in the challenges. I think you would have failed and been stuck there at the seminary had you known.”

  Trestan showed little reaction in his face as she spoke into his inquisitive, brown eyes. He did support her to speak further, by gently rubbing his fingers on her embraced hand. Cat continued despite a tear rolling from one eye. “Then, I guess it was more selfishness that I held it back. We had planned for this day for so long…Trestan I waited so long for you. I didn’t want anything to disturb our night together, for what happened is already in the past and can’t be changed. Either way we would ride to your village first thing in the morning.”

  “Cat, my love, just tell me,” Trestan said.

  She took a deep breath, and brought her other arm forward around Trestan’s shoulders. “Forgive me for not saying it earlier. Trestan, your village was attacked almost a week ago.”

  Trestan felt his jaw drop, even as it seemed as if the floor had dropped out from under him. Cat used her hands to steady and comfort him. “It was Revwar and Savannah, returning to take the holy relic. They killed a lot of the temple priests and some villagers, burned the church, then set fire to other buildings as well.”

  Trestan’s muscles tensed. He did not say anything immediately, but Cat saw his other hand angrily clench into a fist. Trestan closed his eyes, as if that would shut away all the worries that assaulted his mind at that moment. Katressa knew this was hurtful, but he deserved to know. He had to know everything. “Your father was…wounded.”

  * * * * *

  Village of Troutbrook, 33rd day of Florum, nine days before the “Embarking”…

  Hebden Karok set down his smith’s hammer for the day. It was almost evening, and he decided work was slow enough he could close shop early. The blacksmith of Troutbrook dipped his sooty hands into a bucket of water and splashed his face clean. After the hot, sunny day, Hebden was eager to wash up a bit and relax with a drink. Next to him, his teenage apprentice looked at him questionably.

  The village smith spoke to him, “Mikhael, I think it’s a good day to finish early. Wouldn’t you say?”

  The younger man, son of the local general store owner, nodded and smiled. “I would like that very much. My mother is cooking a rare treat tonight, and I’d like to be properly cleaned up before I sit at the table.”

  Hebden and Mikhael set about storing their tools and closing up shop. Hebden admired his apprentice. Although Mikhael grew to become a hard worker, the older smith found that sometimes when he looked at the young man he missed his son. It had been four years since the younger smith had gone off to the seminary at Kashmer, though with good fortune Trestan would be returning shortly. Although Hebden’s son did not follow in the footsteps of his father, it turned out that Mikhael had an aptitude for the hammer and anvil. It was a good thing that the general store owner had three other children from which to learn the family business, for Mikhael was on his way to becoming Troutbrook’s next smith.

  “Pardon me for a moment,” requested Hebden, “I’m going to refill my water.”

  Hebden took a second bucket, one kept cleaner for drinking and cooking water, and made his way across the main street of the village to the well. The old smith passed several children playing out in the street, enjoying the bright day. The children jumped from spot to spot in the street, as defined by an arrangement of several sticks placed for their game.

  The marble well was located out in front of the Church of the Sacred Harvest. Dedicated to Yestreal, the God of Sun and Weather, it was the main point of worship for this village of farmers and herders. Hebden drew water from the well, sparing a glance at the item displayed prominently on the well. A green stone, shaped much like an egg, was perched in its age-old place of honor. It was unremarkable except for several white markings on its surface.

  Long had it sat there and somehow blessed the village with good crops and soil. Even the villagers discounted it as nothing special, until a day four years ago when a band of adventurers came to the village and stole it. Crops and herds alike became diseased and withered from infestations. Thanks to the efforts of some helpful adventurers and two village boys, (Trestan and his friend Petrow), the holy relic was recovered and returned to its rightful place. Since then, the local church and a wizard from Orlaun named Korrelothar worked together to safeguard the stone by means of spells woven around it. Although it looked vulnerable to a thief, it was actually surrounded by a tight weave of magic safeguarding it. In the years since the return from its abduction, the relic continued to give prosperity and fertility to the lands of the village.

  Hebden took the full bucket in hand, offering the relic once last glance before returning home. As he looked into its smooth sides, he heard the sounds of several horses. Hebden looked up from the well, casting his eyes down the village’s main street to the south.

  His eyes took in an odd sight. A stone bridge to the south spanned the brook which lent its name to the village. A large group of armed men were slowly riding over the bridge. They wore no standard uniform nor bore any pennants of heraldry. They were a mixed group, dressed mostly in leather armor. Most of the foremost riders carried either bows or crossbows. Once over the bridge, several of the riders fanned out to form a line along the banks of the water.

  Hebden stood immobile, perplexed at the appearance of so many armed men. Other villagers who saw the spectacle were held in a trance as the scene unfolded before them. Many people were situated very close to the riders and the bridge. Several merchants had carts of wares at the south end of the street, many fishermen stood along the banks as the armed riders took up positions near them. There was a moment of uncertain silence as the horsemen and the villagers faced each other.

  Then a command was given by a rider on the stone bridge. Those riders with crossbows started to cock back the bowstrings in order to load them. Those with bows reached into quivers and proceeded to notch their missiles into place. The riders on either end of the line drew steel from their scabbards as they wheeled their horses towards the defenseless fishermen. People started to panic and cry out in confusion. The commanding horseman atop the stone bridge waved an arm forward, yelling a command to fire. The peaceful day became a bloody nightmare. Bows and crossbows alike loosed a volley, striking several villagers. Screams came from the throats of those stricken, and for many it was their last sound. Villagers surviving the initial attack scrambled in seemingly random directions to escape any further harm. Carts of candy and fruits toppled their loads as merchants bumped past or dove to the ground next to them. Wounded people cried out for mercy as fleeing neighbors tripped over them. The horsemen went about calmly reloading their bows as if observing nothing more than a game hunt. Hebden watched in horror as the riders who drew swords charged down the fishermen. Men ineffectively tried to use their fishing poles to block razor-edged steel. A few tried to plead for their lives, before losing their blood in the current of the stream.

  Hebden stood frozen in panic next to the well. He watched the bloodshed on the south end of the village continue unabated, spreading into madness. It was only a voice from behind that jolted him into action.

  “Get to your homes and shops! Get inside and bar the doors!”

  The speaker was one of the bodyguards of the local lord. The same force doubled as the law enforcement in the area. Wearing his light blue livery, the speaker and another similar dressed guard stood out from among the rest of the villagers. Although both village guards were armed and wore mail, they were not accustomed to any threat such as what the village faced now. Most of the village’s sworn soldiers were more involved in guarding the manor of the lord rather than policing the village itself. The two men were doing their part to get villagers out of harm’s way, but by themselves they were no match for the band of riders that were invading. The two guards looked about as scared as the peo
ple they were trying to herd to safety.

  At their words, Hebden Karok left behind the water bucket as he sprinted across the street. As he dashed for the smithy, he saw Mikhael similarly distracted by the murderous actions nearby. Hebden didn’t bother to look to the south. He kept focused on getting to his home, though his ears heard the screams coming from his neighbors. When he got to his shop, he reached out a hand and shook Mikhael’s shoulder.

  “Don’t look. We have to get inside the house.”

  The home of Hebden and Trestan Karok was a building located just behind the smithy. A small home with only three rooms, the other side of the house faced opposite to a parallel street. Beyond the street was little cover, for few buildings stood on the other side of it. Mostly farmland stretched from there to a nearby ridge and beyond that lay woods. This was not a large city with many alleys and tall buildings. Troutbrook was a small settlement, with few places of refuge except one’s home. The house offered little more than a hiding spot, yet at the moment it was safer than the streets filling with bloodthirsty horsemen.

  Mikhael started to move with him, but other sounds nearby reminded the youth of others who needed help. “The children! What about them?”

  Hebden gazed into the street. Several children were still standing about the area in which they had been playing fun games just moments earlier. Tears blurred their vision, as the slaughter on the southern edge of town froze them with terror. As riders worked their way up the street, the children stood immobile in the path of danger.

  Hebden didn’t bother to look back as he spoke to Mikhael, “We have to help them. Be swift and wary.”

  The two men ran into the street and started to get the children’s attention. They had to move between the murderous men and those whose eyes despaired of broken innocence. Hebden and Mikhael shouted and grabbed a few in order to push them towards the smithy. Their repeated attempts broke the mesmerizing effect binding the children. A few of the kids dropped rocks, sticks, or other game tools in their hands as they ran for safety. Mikhael guided them past the various tools of the smithy as Hebden drove them from behind. Once off the street, Mikhael brought them across the small, alley-like yard behind the smithy, ultimately leading them to the back door of Hebden’s house.

  Hebden lingered around the smithy for a moment, looking back to the street. The older man looked northward long enough to discern a familiar figure exiting the inn’s common room. One of Troutbrook’s local heroes made an appearance just when he was needed. Petrow stood out in front of the inn as he took in the scene to the south. The young handyman was carrying his wood axe as he often did. Although a simple tool used for simple chores, Petrow had once carried it on his adventure with Trestan Karok. The two youths had saved the holy relic and brought it back to the village, and ever since had been Troutbrook’s heroes. In the interim Petrow had settled down again and started a family. Yet on many days Petrow had often been seen twirling his axe like a weapon, impressing the country folk with his skill as a warrior, as he retold the same stories from his adventure.

  A spark of hope ignited in Hebden’s heart as he saw Petrow with his simple axe. The spark was not destined to last. Petrow looked down the street with the same fear as anyone else. He backed up a few cautious steps. Finally he turned away from the carnage and ran. His steps were fast as they carried him towards the north parts of the village. Hebden despaired to see the young handyman-turned-warrior-turned-farmer run away from the other villagers in their time of need. Even as he considered the young man’s apparent cowardice, Hebden asked himself what he truly expected Petrow to accomplish against the band of armed men. Petrow was the village hero, along with Trestan, yet what would either young man be able to do alone against this threat?

  Hebden once again looked upon the chaos to the south. People fled into buildings or ran straight up the street. Many had tears on their cheeks from both fear and the pain of watching old friends die in such a sudden manner. The riders came up the street in pursuit, firing bows into the backs of the fleeing peasants. Some riders threw fiery brands onto roofs or through open windows. Shops and homes began to blaze. Hebden knew it was dangerous to linger in the open, yet he could not take his eyes away from the horrible vision.

  Beyond the first wave of riders he saw others on horseback crossing over the stone bridge. Those newcomers were not dressed in leather nor did they look as battle-hungry as the other invaders. Hebden could make out three odd riders that appeared different from the rest. When he did, he gasped in recognition of two of them. Although Hebden had only seen the elf wizard briefly, years before, the figure was immediately recognizable. It wasn’t just the presence of the yellow-eyed elf alone that led to the recognition. Beside the elf sat a dark feminine figure wearing black plate, with a skull helm blocking the view of her facial features. The dark armor bore the markings of the Goddess of Death. Even though Hebden had never seen the abbess who served DeLaris, the pair had been described enough in Petrow and Trestan’s stories that there was no mistaking who they could be. The wizard Revwar and the cleric Savannah had returned for the relic, but this time they had brought a small army of thugs. There was a well-dressed human of middle years who rode beside them, though Hebden had no idea who that person could be.

  Hebden was shaken from his observations as the action approached closer to his home. He was aware of the two Troutbrook guards running for the entrance of the Church of the Sacred Harvest. Both men found themselves faced by a group of attackers. Several invaders had dismounted their horses, yet still carried loaded missile weapons. An acolyte from within the church, confused by all the excitement outside, wandered out of the doorway at the wrong moment. A wave of arrows launched towards the three villagers. The guards and the acolyte went down from the barrage of death even as the raiders drew swords and charged the church door.

  The blacksmith could stay in the open no longer. Hebden ran through the yard behind the smithy and into his house. As he went, he grabbed one of his smith hammers from a table. Once inside the small house, he found Mikhael trying his best to calm the gathering of children. Hebden turned to regard the back entrance to his home. Hebden considered the door to the alley yard as being the back door, though it was the one most commonly used. He had nothing to bar the door, but he was able to find a piece of rope and make a use out of it. Trying one portion to the inside iron handle, he looped the other end around a coat hook that had been nailed into the hallway wall. Once he was done, the rope was taught enough to hinder anyone trying to throw open that door.

  It was hard to see the emotions on Mikhael’s eyes, for the common room was dark except where light crept around the edges of shutters. Hebden could tell that Mikhael looked to him for guidance or reassurances. Hebden could not tell him of what was happening outside for fear of panicking the children even further. The smith was unsure of what actions to take, but he considered a few as he clenched and unclenched the hammer in his hand.

  Before long, the smith considered a dangerous course which might see the children to safety. “We can try for the woods over the ridge.”

  He could almost hear Mikhael trying hard to swallow in the light of that suggestion. Hebden shrugged, “It’s dangerous to remain in town, but if we can get across the fields we should be relatively safe.”

  Mikhael replied with a very dry voice, “Alright, I’m up for trying.”

  Hebden went to the door of his house that faced westward. It opened into an outer street of the village, but with little in the way of buildings on the far side of it. It faced a ridge beyond which lay an ample wood to hide in, but to get there one had to cross an open field. The smith had his hammer in hand as he opened the doorway. Hebden even ventured one foot outside, but stopped as he viewed the scene before him.

  More than one villager had already considered that escape route. The field to the west was already being used by less than a score of villagers as their path to safety. Even as those folk ran for a spot to hide, the riders were literally cutting a
cross the field as well. A few horsemen were riding down some of the villagers. They were using scimitars and other weapons as they butchered those seeking only refuge from the nightmare. The cropland proved to be a deadly field to those trying to cross. It was scant comfort that the smith noticed one thing unusual about the horsemen’s actions. If a rider missed his target, he tended to continue riding north. For some reason, this group had business on the north end of town that prevented the urge to turn and finish their targets. Most did not miss their victims, using weapons or the hooves of their horses to drive the common folk to the ground.

  A rider came up the street as Hebden gaped at the field of slaughter. His crossbow leveled at the smith, but Hebden did not notice until the man was almost upon him. Hebden flinched inward as the bolt sailed at him. Pain shot through the smith as he felt the bolt pierce the side of his hip. He fell against the door as Mikhael and the children screamed. The first rider went by, reloading his crossbow as he continued to ride north.

  A second rider bore down at the same target. Hebden fought past his agony to see this new rider armed with a scimitar aiming for him. Gritting against the pain caused by the effort, the smith grabbed the door handle and heaved his body back inside. The door swung closed, though not without taking a parting shot. The sword nicked its edge as the second rider galloped past. Hebden dropped to the floor, showered by a few splinters of wood caused by the hit of the blade.

  Mikhael and the children froze in a state of fright at seeing the bolt which bloodied Hebden’s side. Hebden winced with every heavy breath he took. The older smith wanted to calm the children and offer them some hope. There was little hope to be found for them as they stared at the bolt sticking out of his right hip.