The Righteous Whisper of Allsaints (The White Blood Chronicles Book 2)

by Mark G Heath

  “ The glade is this way,” explained Alyssia.

  “ Which way?” asked Darkthane confused.

  He watched as the tangle of wood and vines began to separate, the foliage shrinking back to create a path. Alyssia stepped forward on to the newly created path.

  “ Keep up or you will be trapped within the forest,” she warned. Needing no second warning, the Manfurians quickly caught up with her as she strode through the avenue between the walls of bark. The two acolytes glanced nervously at the twisting, writhing foliage as it gave way to them and then closed behind them, cutting them off from the garden that they had left. After less than a minute of walking, they emerged into a glade. The cold air had vanished and instead, they felt warmth although they saw no sun. A vast array of fragrances washed over them as they walked onto the verdant lawn, the grass neatly trimmed and spreading in all directions as it circled perfectly maintained beds of brightly coloured flowers and vibrant bushes.

  “ What is this place?” asked Tuelsin.

  “ This is my glade of bounty,” answered Alyssia her skirt now having turned a fiery orange.

  Darkthane unclipped his mace from his belt as he looked about the magnificent glade. Gone were the dark grey branches and silver coloured vines that had surrounded them. Now, lush conifers bordered the glade, their branches seemingly sculptured, such was their symmetry. The leaden sky had been replaced by a bright blue firmament, which was cloudless. Unnerved by this shift in season and scenery the two clerics edged forward hesitantly.

  “ This way gentlemen please,” ushered Alyssia. She walked past two beds of purple and blue flowers, the stalks straight and green, ending in a cup of either dark blue or magenta petals. A sweet scent drifted from the flowers as the Manfurians walked behind Alyssia towards a hedge. The hedge was about ten feet in height, cut so that it looked more like a green wall. The centre of the hedge created an archway, the hedge curving across the top. Alyssia passed through the archway and into the centre of a circular lawn, which was bordered on all sides by the hedge. In the centre of the lawn was a tree. A circular area of deep brown soil, maybe three feet in diameter surrounded it. Rising from the fertile-looking ground was a trunk, which was a pale white colour, the wood looking as if it had been stripped of its bark, revealing the layer underneath. The trunk was roughly two hands in width and rose to the height of Alyssia ending in a sphere of tightly packed leaves.

  “ This is the Tree of Lucerne,” explained Alyssia pointing ahead at it.

  The Manfurians stared at the tree.

  “ Who maintains this glade?” asked Tuelsin looking about him expecting to see a legion of gardeners.

  “ That is not something you need to concern yourself with.”

  “ What do you need to do?” asked Darkthane.

  “ It is straight forward really, all of the hard work has been performed already. You see the properties of this tree, which I have cultivated for several score years, are really quite special. Add to it the white blood, for which it thirsts and the transformation begins.”

  “ So, all you need do is add the white blood ?” asked Darkthane.

  “ Yes.”

  “ Well, I can do that, “ he continued tucking the secateurs into his belt and producing the bottle.

  “ No, I need to do it.”

  “ But you said all you needed to do was add the white blood.”

  “ Yes. I have to add it. Not you.”

  Darkthane hesitated and looked to Tuelsin who was still looking warily about the lawned area.

  “ Of course, if you would prefer to pour it and get it wrong, I am sure your Arch Priest will be most understanding.”

  “ Here, you do it,” said Darkthane and he thrust the bottle at Alyssia. She took the bottle and held it up, peering into its contents. Lowering it, she removed the cap and stood before the tree. Slowly, she began to tip the bottle allowing the thick liquid to trickle out, a white waterfall descending to the earth. Darkthane could hear Alyssia whispering something as the white blood splashed to the ground. Instantly, the liquid was absorbed by the soil whilst Alyssia walked wither shins about the tree, carefully continuing to pour the white blood until she had completed a full circle and the bottle was empty.

  “ Is that it?” asked Tuelsin.

  “ Wait,” said Alyssia.

  The two acolytes stared at the tree expectantly.

  “ What is meant to happen now?” asked Darkthane nervously.

  “ I said wait,” reminded Alyssia.

  The tree seemed to shiver, the globe of leaves moving and then light green buds began to appear all over the sphere of leaves, slipping through the rounded leaves. The buds surfaced and immediately burst open, white flowers with dark red centres blooming, the petals unfurling and spreading, six to each bud, spreading their triangular shape outwards to reveal their deep red innards. The petals began to fall, a rain of white, cascading down to the soil and where they touched the earth they seemed to melt like flakes of snow first arriving on a winter’s day. The two acolytes watched transfixed as the red centres began to bulge and breaking through came pearlescent white berries. The berries shone, a silvery-white as they grew larger until they were about the width of a mark. Each appeared perfectly spherical, unblemished and burgeoning with vitality. Scores of the berries covered the tree’s leaves, the white contrasting with the lush green.

  “ Basket and secateurs,” asked Alyssia holding out both hands beside her, her back still to the acolytes.

  Darkthane made to step forward to hand Thorne the requested items but he found he could not move. He looked down and panic began to rise as he saw that the beautifully manicured grass of the lawn had grown over his boots and upwards, coating his calves and reaching just beneath his knees. Darkthane grunted and tried to thrust a leg forward but he could not move.

  “ Salamas!” he cried to Tuelsin. His fellow acolyte remained transfixed by the transformation that had taken place.

  “ Salamas!” shouted Darkthane again. Tuelsin shook his head and looked across at Darkthane and saw his predicament. He tried to move only to find he was similarly trapped.

  “ What are you doing?” demanded Tuelsin, “ release us, this instant.”

  Alyssia turned around to face the two ensnared clerics. She walked over to Darkthane and plucked the basket from his hand and took the secateurs from his belt.

  “ Stuck are we?” she smiled.

  Darkthane swung his mace at the apothecary, the cleated black metal bearing down at her, but Alyssia stepped aside from the swing.

  “ Where did the white blood come from?”

  Darkthane looked down again. The grass, thick and shiny was now climbing higher, his knees already covered and beginning to climb his thighs.

  “ The Arch Priest gave it to us,” shouted Tuelsin.

  “ Your friend shows some sense.”

  “ Where did he obtain it from?”

  “ We don’t know. He gave it us at the church. Please, stop this, we mean you no harm,” begged Tuelsin.

  “ Really ? And if I had refused to help you, what then?”

  “ But you didn’t did you?” said Darkthane.

  “ And what of Master Grimoult, the alchemist, you harmed him didn’t you?”

  “ That was Tsangarides, not us,” said Darkthane.

  “ But you were there as he lopped off the old man’s finger weren’t you? You stood by and watched,” said Alyssia waving the secateurs beneath Darkthane’s nose.

  “ No, we did not see it happen. We must obey the orders of the Arch Priest or be damned in Manfur’s eyes,” said Tuelsin. He was trying to pull the grass blades away as they reached his groin. Blades fluttered through the air, but it was a hopeless task as they were soon replaced by many more.

  “ Free us or you will answer to Arch Priest Novac!” shouted Darkthane.

  “ I do not fear your master.”

  “ Please, I am begging you,” pleaded Darkthane.

  “ Where is Michael Sanctus?”
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  “ Who?”

  “ The white blood.”

  “ The Arch Priest has the white blood named Thaindire. He is held prisoner at the church,” said Darkthane frantically.

  “ And Sanctus?”

  “ Who is he?” asked Darkthane confusion combining with panic across his face.

  “ That must be the other one,” yelled Tuelsin, “ I saw him fleeing on a horse, but I don’t know what became of him.”

  “ Where is he?” demanded Alyssia of Darkthane.

  “ He doesn’t know, he was at the church, I was at the bridge, with the Arch Priest, Kassine and Mordthos. The white blood cut down Mordthos. Kassine and I were ordered to bring Thaindire to the church. That is the truth.”

  “ Please, free us,” said Darkthane.

  Alyssia watched impassively as the two men appeared to grow smaller. The grass continued rising, the blades climbing higher but now the two acolytes were being dragged down into the lawn.

  “ No, no, no!” screamed Tuelsin.

  “ Manfur, preserve us!” called Darkthane as the green torrent of grass raced across his chest and back. It reached his shoulders and began to cover his arms which he waved frantically, clawing at the green carpet. Down went the two men.

  “ Save me Manfur!” cried Tuelsin.

  “ No, please, no, my….” Darkthane’s screams became muffled yells as the grass poured into his mouth and across his face until only the slightest sound could be heard as the two acolytes were completely covered in the grass. Their flailing figures grew smaller, drawn downwards into the lawn, their legs vanished now and moment-by-moment the lawn dragged them deeper. Shortly only their heads and arms appeared above the ground and then they were gone. The lawn lay flat and even just as it had when the three had entered the glade, but now only Alyssia remained. Calmly, she turned back to the Tree of Lucerne and raised the secateurs, the basket slung across her arm. She snipped the nearest berry and took the ripe fruit in her fingers, briefly examined it and then placed it in the basket before turning to the next berry.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Vindicta had galloped away from Aftlain, the stolen steed ploughing through the snow-filled road. Repeatedly, he had looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see that the villagers had given chase on horseback themselves or that Reznik was pursuing him, his vicious imps surging before him. He wondered what had become of the mercenary after he had kicked him off the bridge? The thought of sending the slippery soldier down into the cold, racing torrents of the river had sustained him as he had ridden away from the village. With each horse length he had galloped away from Aftlain and its twisted denizens, his hope that he had truly escaped began to grow until after perhaps ten minutes of galloping, he pulled on the horse’s reins and brought it to a halt, allowing it to recover. Wounds aching, he had sat astride the horse, allowing it respite from the dash from the village, steam rising from its shining flanks as he watched the road back to the village. Nothing had moved. After waiting five minutes, Vindicta was reasonably satisfied that he was not being pursued and encouraged the horse to continue along the road but now at a trot, in order to conserve its strength.

  The surrounding Forest of Centopani looked completely different, the bare trees adorned with snow, which muffled most of the sounds. Occasionally, a bird would take flight, its launch from a branch causing snow to fall to the ground and Vindicta to cast an anxious glance in that direction lest it signify the appearance of an Aftlainer or some forest creature. When Vindicta had travelled in the opposite direction, it had been late summer. The sun had been warm on his shoulders as he rode the Widow’s Way towards Aftlain. The forest had been a mass of greenery, the leaves full on the trees, bushes growing beneath, dappled sunlight breaking through the canopy of the forest to light the forest floor. He had been dispatched by the Order of Allsaints to discover what was happening in Aftlain. Reports had reached Lancester that the village harboured those engaging in witchery and that it was flourishing unchecked. Tales from travellers spoke of a landlord who brewed the most delicious tasting beers in half the time it would normally take. Others recounted how all the women of the village were kept young, beautiful and willing to perform all manner of depraved acts, by the sorcery, which abounded. One man, a minstrel recalled that the village had a witch who drained the life from the unwary before selling on the corpse for experimentation to a reclusive alchemist. Another, Vindicta recalled he was a spice merchant, had explained, in hushed tones, that the baker baked bread that would last for weeks and only a small amount would be needed before the eater would feel full.

  Interestingly, Vindicta had undertaken some preliminary investigations in Lancester before embarking on his journey to Aftlain. He had spent time speaking with those travellers, merchants and other journeymen who returned with bold and fantastic stories. Vindicta found that none of them had actually been to Aftlain itself. Instead, he learned that the source of their tales came from another merchant that they had met, or a pedlar at an inn along the Widow’s Way or even passed from a man who had lived in the village for twenty years, who told his brother, who then mentioned it to the tax collector who passed the information on to the sergeant-at-arms of the city watch. Vindicta was thus sceptical of the truth of these rumours but experience had taught him that a rumour has a truth beginning somewhere. Accordingly, with full pack bags on his white stallion and polished long sword sheathed by his side, he had left the Order, following the Lanceholder-General’s instructions and journeyed the lengthy route to the isolated village.

  Now, he returned. Something, which he had many times doubted he would have been able to do. What he had thought of as hearsay, tales and embellished gossip turned out to be not only true but also worse than he realised. The evil, which slithered through the lanes of Aftlain, was total and omnipresent. Not only that but it had led to the enchantment of Samael Thaindire and the near death of Michael Sanctus. He had also learned from Sanctus that the Tainted existed within the village and this clear sign of the foul lord’s influence was of great concern. Indeed, he had seen the evidence of the Tainted for himself as he fled the village. The demonic features of the villagers coming to the fore, no longer held in place by their will. The entire village needed to be purged and put to trial. He doubted if many would be found to be innocent of the witchcraft, which held Aftlain in its grip. It was too great a task for him alone. He would need to return in significant numbers with his fellow witch hunters. Not only Stead Holders, but Lieutenants and beyond. The village would be besieged by the purity of the Order, which would drive through its homes, stores and lanes like a tidal wave of good, extinguishing the foul and obliterating the evil. He took great solace from that thought as he meandered along the road, wounded, cold and hungry. Vindicta gave thanks to the One True God for the placing of this horse, enabling him to flee Aftlain and moreover to ensure that he reached assistance. He would not have survived on foot. Indeed, he suspected that wounded and burdened by his armour, the villagers would have given chase to him and dragged him back to the village, no doubt to suffer at the hands of the Manfurians.

  Thus, Vindicta rode all day. He tried to put from his mind the rumbling of his stomach and the sting from his wounds, grateful to be alive. The forest remained still, only the occasional hoot and chirrup emerging from its depths. His occasional glances behind revealed that he was not being followed and he met nobody heading for Aftlain. He had, initially, entertained the thought that he might meet somebody Aftlain bound whose help he could obtain, if only to eat and drink. The road remained empty. Evidently the recent falls of snow dissuading anyone from heading to the village.

  The day grew colder. Vindicta had no concept of the hour for the sun was absent, hidden behind the solid firmament of grey cloud, which pressed down from above. It was only the noticeable increase in the cold, which told him that the day had advanced into the afternoon and would soon be evening. He needed to find shelter, food and warmth. He might survive a night resting in the open, but there
was no guarantee, especially if it became even colder. His numb fingers held lightly onto the reins, but he had little need to guide the horse as it trotted along the Widow’s Way. The aching from his side worsened, no doubt aggravated by the cold and his weakened state and he had bruised his back from being thrown through the air by Novac, despite the cushioning effect of the snow.

  The road sloped upwards in a straight line before bending to the right. The forest continued to surround the road although he had noticed that the trees were now not as densely packed. His breath clouded before him and he muttered a prayer to the One True God, asking for strength and perseverance to conclude the journey back to the Order. He knew that there was an inn along the Widow’s Way, a tavern called the Queens. He had stayed there on his way to Aftlain and learned that it was so-named after three of the kingdom’s queens who had stayed there long in the past. He did not recognise the names when the landlord, a talkative man, named Turnmoor explained to him some of the history of his establishment.

  The light began to fade and night was on its way. He toyed with urging the horse on, in the hope that the Queens’ Tavern was a few minutes' gallop away, but he did not wish to the lame the horse. He needed it. Up the slope Vindicta rode and as he looked to his left, he could see greater gaps in the trees and a valley below, although there was no sign of farmhouses, he could make in the distance, the grey of stone walls. His heart gave a surge, as this was a sign that he was nearing some kind of settlement, even if it was just a solitary farmhouse. The trees began again, blocking his view of the valley and he wondered when he might next be afforded a view across it. He did not recall seeing any roads leading from the Widow’s Way, in that direction, perhaps leading to another village or just a farm, but he might have missed it if it was small and covered by the dense summer growth of the forest. The only time he recalled seeing a road leading from the Widow’s Way was at the Queens’ Tavern. That road led to High Quern.