by Louis Emery
The other enslaved Gulls were lorded over by Band-Gulls with whips and prodded with the brunt end of sinister-looking spears. These laborers bore hefty loads. They pulled carts stacked with timber of pine, elm, cedar, and maple from one end of the settlement to the other. The axe work of felling the trees was done by Band-Gulls, for the tribesmen evidently did not trust blades in the hands of their slaves.
Malcolm noticed the village was quite large and that Fersh presided over a large population. In the distance, he saw the construction of another great lodge. Apparently, the chieftain required more lavish lodgings than where he currently resided.
The past week had been tense, to say the least. Malcolm worried for Ethlin’s safety when she was escorted to the woods. There were many females coming and going around the busy village bordering their pen, so Malcolm figured the Band-Gull men were not as womanizing as they’d been reputed. Still, he didn’t trust the guards, for their faces betrayed the ogles and leers of unchecked testosterone.
Also straining was the uncertainty of their situation and the downtime. Fersh and his entourage of full-bearded and tattooed advisors had assembled a few times in view of their pen, speaking softly in their tongue so as not to let them hear. They knew Captain Halarn had knowledge of their language, which is why, Malcolm supposed, they didn’t discuss the situation of their captives more openly and would stand farther back to avoid being overheard.
The impression was that Fersh and his council were playing head games with their captives, drawing out their sentence. The tactic, more than likely, was to emotionally weaken Malcolm and the others, making them less able to resist or run away from the labor in store for them. Malcolm had witnessed such strategies in war before. He’d even seen the effects in their own party.
Ser Balliol and Ser Royce had squabbled over their situation, the former driving home the point that he’d never optioned for the Thornvine in the first place. Ser Royce had opined that the elder knight had volunteered for the journey and should keep his mouth shut. Other, harsher words were raised along with fists. Malcolm and Artemis had been the first ones to break up the brawl. Other minor quarrels of similar ilk took place in the last few days.
What made it worse was the taunting of the dogged witch. Malcolm knew she wanted blood when it came to Orbist and Ethlin. The superstitions she clung to in her tiny wood-carved statues hanging about her neck, of little forest gods and goddesses, said that these outlanders who wore the robes of a foreign religion should pay for their blasphemy and their audacity to enter the domain of her entities.
Every other day the witch waltzed back and forth in front of their pen, waving Orbist’s spell book that’d wound up in her hands. It was obvious she couldn’t read the pages, but evident she considered its contents vile, as she spat epithets directed at their party. She engaged in long screeds against the new captives, at times drawing crowds of nearby villagers who began to give them looks of bitterness and disgust.
Fersh, along with his entourage of advisors and bodyguards, appeared on the steps of his great lodge, their interest peaked at these scathing, religious speeches. He gave Malcolm harsh looks as if deliberating killing them all and being done with it. At one time, the witch even handed him the foreign spell book while pointing at Ethlin and Orbist. Fersh examined the book but shook his head as if unconvinced. However, Malcolm knew dissent was swelling, for the mumblings of the crowds who stood witness to the witch seemed to indicate that the only justice was for them to die.
One night after the witch’s rants, the Gulls set a large bonfire in the center of the village about fifty feet from the foot of their chieftain’s lodge. Malcolm could see a pig on the spit being roasted and the villagers setting up tables of various dishes. Wooden statues were brought out of huts and placed around the fire. Evidently, this was a significant religious celebration. That would explain the increased furor of the witch the past week.
“I wonder what those carvings are on the statues.” Malcolm mused, peering out.
Artemis squatted down. “Can’t make them out from here.”
“Most likely they’re depictions of dire bears,” Halarn said.
“Those can’t be dire bears they worship,” Ser Balliol said. “They’re not from these parts. They’re in the Eastlands beyond Montiskillin, hundreds of miles away.”
“Yes,” Halarn replied, “that’s where they are now. But hundreds of years ago, dire bears used to roam the Thornvine. We’ve records of them in Samson Hall. And I’ve heard stories of the Gulls worshipping them. They’re not the only gods they worship. They give other things anthropomorphic power—the ravens, the trees. They hold many species of fauna and flora sacred. At times, it seems their mysticism rivals their superstition.”
“Methinks the poor treatment of prisoners is what they hold above all else,” Ser Balliol replied. “Dire bears be damned.”
“In the old times,” Halarn went on, “it is said the Gulls befriended the dire bears, and the beasts helped protect the once-prosperous tribes from war-bent dragons, being able to attack the firebreathers by launching off treetops.”
“Why’d the dire bears leave?” Malcolm asked.
“In the wars between the kingdoms, some hundred years ago, this territory was fought over between disagreeing factions of wizards and their dragonriders. The bears and the tribes were caught in between. Both fought on the same side together, but the dragons and invading armies proved too much. The dire bears couldn’t take the assault on their habitat and left the tribes behind. The only thing the Gulls could do was scatter into the depths of the Thornvine, breaking apart into smaller communities. These dragonfire-singed forests had no appeal to the victorious wizards, so they returned with their dragons and armies back to their kingdoms or went elsewhere to fight new enemies. But the damage irrevocably left its mark on the tribes.”
“Well, I guess that explains their grit,” Malcolm said.
Chants emanated near the bonfire, which glowed brightly and cast weird shadows. Villagers beat on drums made from hollowed out tree trunks covered with deer hides. Some danced to the rhythms and melodies of the druid-like chatter. The largest shadow, that of the great flame, writhed and pulsed on the ground—bringing to Malcolm’s mind images of giant bears and dragons chasing prey.
Suddenly, Ethlin caught Malcolm’s attention from across the pen. Orbist was muttering to her while she convulsed, her body twitching in spasmodic bursts. Her eyes closed then opened revealing stark-white orbs, her pupils rolled to her temples. White foam bubbled out the side of her mouth.
“What’s happening?” Malcolm asked, racing over to Orbist’s side. “What’s wrong with her?”
The mage replied, “It must be some kind of—new form of vision.”
“A vision?” Malcolm was stupefied. “She’s never done this before.”
“Not in front of you,” Orbist replied, and then whispered to the jerking body, “Ethlin, dear, everything is fine, we’re here with you.”
“She going to be okay?” Ser Royce asked, as everyone in the pen gathered around.
“She will if you all step back and give her some air,” Orbist replied. “Go on. Get back.”
“What can we do?” Malcolm was worried. He didn’t like the pain showing on Ethlin’s face, nor the stuff spewing from her mouth.
“I already told you!” Orbist bellowed. “She needs space. I’ve been through this with her before. The best thing is to let it naturally play out. Now, please!”
Malcolm could see the severity in the old man’s face and nodded assent. “All right. Everybody move. She needs air.” He threw his hands up gesturing the others to step backward, and the party obeyed.
He could hear her groaning and made out the lines of pain etched on her face in the glowing firelight of the bonfire. Her eyelids kept opening and closing as if some sort of signal were pulsing through her eyes at random intervals. Ethlin’s head lolled back, her eyes going still.
“You’re all right, Ethlin,” Orbist assure
d her. “This is what happens when the vision’s almost passed.”
Despite that he could hear her heavy breathing, Malcolm thought Ethlin looked like a corpse.
38
The sky was charcoal gray, and she could feel heat emanating all around her. Ethlin found herself atop the ramparts of Barrport Gate. Beyond, she could see the expanse of the great city with its Dragonmother cathedrals, merchant guilds, nobles’ hall, and thousands of shops and homes—and they were all in flames.
Ethlin wanted to escape this vision, but experience told her that her gift never gave what she wanted. Along with the view came the choking smoke drifting up from the burning city. She looked down and saw dark-clad soldiers with torches setting the place alight. Horses reared up on hind legs, whinnying before them, cornered, and looking for a place to run. The same went for women and children, desperately trying to flee the invading troops.
A familiar symbol passed before Ethlin’s sight—orange flames and two great dragon fangs. It was the sigil of the Darien Sect. The soldiers wore it on their tunics. It was emblazoned on their armor and embroidered on their banners, which they raised above the main gate to the newly conquered city.
Ethlin gasped and found herself choking on the smoke and ash hovering in the air. She looked down again and saw the fire had spread to ships on the Barr River. The Sect’s troops had raided the river gate and opened it themselves, while Gatekeeper patrol boats fired arrows at invading ships, their foes taking advantage with an assault of fireball catapults.
In the streets beyond the portcullis of the Great Gate, Gatekeeper knights and men-at-arms fought valiantly against the invading Sects, but the enemy spread like wildfire, overwhelming them. Ethlin could see the Gatekeeper forces outmanned and overrun, having no choice but to flee to the back of the city along with the frenzied families escaping their burning homes and the carnage the Sect inflicted on innocent civilians. No one was safe when it came to the Sect’s use of military force.
Ethlin averted her eyes and turned away, only to take a step back. She almost fell past the edge of the ramparts, a one-hundred foot drop. She grabbed hold of the fortified stone, and couldn’t help but look down. This was better than what she’d just seen. Turning back, she again beheld the reason for her shock.
Before her on the horizon, heading toward the great city, was a fleet of dragons. Even from miles away, Ethlin could feel the heat their scales emitted. How could a city, an army, or a kingdom for that matter stand up to such opposition? There were so many dragons their wings blocked the setting sun. Ethlin could see the dragonriders, veiled in cloaks and cowls, carrying a multitude of weapons, many of them wizard staffs.
She felt herself begin to shake as the mass approached her and the city. Paralyzed with fear, she could not turn away. The massive shadow crept ever slowly, a Stygian blotch over the land. She followed this darkness as it crossed the Barr River, and when she looked up, all she could see were flames. All she heard was the leading dragon’s terrifying roar.
And then she woke up.
Ser Malcolm and everyone looked on, with faces full of concern.
“Easy, now,” Orbist said, rubbing her temple. “It’s all over.”
“We have to …” Ethlin needed to catch her breath. “We have to leave.”
“It’s okay. Just breathe.”
“No. You don’t understand.” She sat up and turned to Orbist. “We have to get to Barrport—or else it’ll be burned to the ground.”
“Is that what you saw in your vision?” Ser Malcolm asked.
“Yes. Soldiers of the Darien Sect—an army of them—stormed the Great Gates of the River Barr and the fortress and lay pillage to the city.”
She could see Ser Malcolm’s face turn solemn along with the rest of her companions.
Ethlin continued, “And Grundburr’s dragonriders were there.”
“This is loathsome news, indeed,” Orbist said. “Somehow Varick and the old warlock must’ve gotten word of our efforts with you, my girl. Or maybe they have designs to council with the Gathered themselves.”
“We have to plan a way to escape,” Malcolm said. “We need to reach Barrport before it’s too late.”
Sleep evaded everyone, including Ethlin. The bearing of the news in her vision took its toll, along with the cacophony of the barbarian revelers parading around the bonfire. All through the night, the tribesmen led by their chieftain danced to the beat of deep drums, illumined by the firelight.
Ethlin hoped beyond hope she could manipulate the course of those dancing flames and burn down the cage she and her companions found themselves in.
She wondered if she’d ever escape her captors. If Malcolm and the others could find a way to escape and get her to the wizards of the Gathered, and eventually back home to Priestess Patrycias and her friends working at the temple.
Just when she began to drift off, the sound of chanting reached her. A throng of Gulls approached their cage, causing everyone to stir. At their lead was the witch spewing foul speech that appeared to be directed at Ethlin.
One of the Gulls opened the cage, and the witch strode in straight for Ethlin. The witch grabbed her by the arms, screeching in her ear. The smell of the witch this close made her want to retch.
Malcolm and the others fought the Gulls, but there were too many of them. Ethlin felt herself being dragged out the cage toward the bonfire. She resisted, but the witch was stronger than she looked and had support from her two foul-faced apprentices.
What was their intent? Did they mean to execute her and cook her upon the fire? Had the witch convinced Fersh to sacrifice her to their foreign gods?
Overcome with terror, Ethlin couldn’t stop herself and screamed.
The witch began to cackle in her face, enjoying the torment she gave.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ethlin could see Sers Royce and Balliol along with Malcolm and Artemis punching and kicking their way around the tribesmen in a vain attempt to save her. Then her eyes caught the great fire at the center of the camp. Anger surged through her—and fear. The combination of the two was overwhelming, and as Ethlin looked into the flames, her mind saw them spread and catch onto the nearby thatched roofs.
To her amazement, what her mind saw and what happened were the same.
She thought of the bonfire quadrupling its size, and as soon as it crossed her mind, reality followed through with the request. The fire grew tremendously, causing the great logs on the pyre to pop, the flames hitting many of the nearby tribesmen. Homes were afire, and tribespeople scrambled to water troughs in an attempt to put them out.
Ethlin had the flames spread to the nearby lodges of the elders and the chieftain himself. The witch and her followers paused, taking in the scene before them. Then chaos ensued. The tribesmen, that had moments ago followed the witch and her two lackeys in escorting Ethlin to the great fire, had fled in an attempt to save their families from the flames or futilely douse them with well water and buckets of mud.
As if sensing Ethlin’s telekinetic power, the witch dropped her on the ground, appearing afraid. Overcoming her shock, the witch lunged and began to choke Ethlin. The witch’s weight was light, but the power behind her scrawny hand was too much, cutting off Ethlin’s windpipe. Ethlin struggled, kicking and trying to free her arms, which were pinned by the witch’s knees.
Ethlin thrust her body weight to the side, and the witch lost her grip, giving Ethlin just enough time to maneuver out from under her and regain her footing. By now, the witch’s apprentices had fled, and she was all alone. Ethlin faced her and badly wanted to tackle the woman—to beat her unconscious. Something stopped her, hitting her from behind. She yelped and gasped for breath. She turned just in time to see another large rock being hurtled directly at her head. She ducked, narrowly avoiding it.
Rocks from nearby quarry carts hauled in by the slaves were lifted into the air by an invisible force and thrown in her direction. Ethlin shot a look at the witch. The grotesque woman moved her hands in sorcery,
summoning the power to manipulate the rocks and boulders and send them Ethlin’s way.
Another rock surged at her, colliding with her shoulder. A stinging pain spread throughout Ethlin’s body as another boulder knocked her legs out from under her, causing her to fall flat on her back. The witch peered over her, her brownish-yellow gums and blackened teeth molding into a devilish grin. Her face was replaced by an immense granite slab slowly settling on top of Ethlin’s chest.
Ethlin could not breathe and felt herself being crushed. A slow, sinister laughter began to pierce her ears. The witch was enjoying herself. Ethlin was paralyzed—she couldn’t even scream.
She felt the heat of nearby flames burning the thatch off a roof. In her mind’s eye, she floated a piece of thatch through the air as it burned. She imagined that small flame igniting the grime-covered rags worn by the repulsive woman.
She then heard a wail and felt the weight on her chest lighten and then release completely. Sers Royce and Malcolm had lifted the great boulder off her. She sucked in huge gulps of breath and saw the witch scurry off, screaming and flailing, her clothes enveloped in fire.
Turning, she could see the cage was on fire as well, the front kicked down by its occupants. Malcolm and the others stood by, bloodied and bruised. Orbist walked to her and extended his hand. She noticed he had a gash on the side of his face.
“Come, child,” he said. “Time to make ourselves scarce.”
They fled through the Thornvine, avoiding parts of the forest where the fire had spread. Ethlin could see before they entered the shadows of the trees that the village was in utter chaos. Escaped slaves ran past them, also fleeing their captors. Screams and shouts reverberated all around, surely the efforts of tribespeople trying to keep the flames contained.
Ethlin felt exhausted and stumbled. She couldn’t believe she had the power to control fire with her mind. She’d always sensed there was a connection with her visions and a hidden power within her, but she never knew exactly what it was.