Dustfall, Book One - Shadows of a Lost Age

by J. Thorn

  “He’s running.”

  The branches grabbed at Gaston’s face, ripping thin strips of flesh from his cheek. His eyes watered from the throbbing pain in his foot and the smoke of burning houses. The Horde would leave nothing but ash and death in its wake.

  He ran harder, and a stitch poked at his side. Gaston squeezed it with his left hand but the pain did not abate. He looked over his shoulder and now saw three torches instead of one.

  “There. He’s heading east.”

  Gaston wanted to collapse into the dirt and stare at the moon as the Horde cut him to pieces. The pain would only last so long before death came for him, and then it would be over. But something inside pushed him onward and so Gaston ran faster. He angled toward the cluster of houses where he lived with his parents and his cousins.

  “I can’t,” he said out loud. “I’ll lead them right there.”

  But Gaston didn’t stop or change course, because he knew they were already dead. The Horde extended their raid to the forest after they pillaged the village. He knew it, despite not seeing it with his own eyes. The only thing that would be left of his house would be memories.

  “This way.”

  Gaston’s heart pounded in his ears, and at first he thought the voice came from inside of his head.

  “C’mon. This way.”

  He turned toward the sound and saw a pair of eyes staring back at him. Gaston recognized the boy immediately. Although he had not been close friends with Lar, everyone knew each other in the village. One summer, Gaston had spent a week on the Eternal Lake with Lar, learning how to pull trout from the stagnant, dead water. He looked back and saw the torches had multiplied again.

  “Your parents are dead. Your house is burning. Come with me or die.”

  Lar’s words cut through Gaston’s indecision. He nodded and leapt over a log, following the boy through a copse of pine trees. Gaston stepped inside the cavern created by the ancient conifers. The thick branches, and floor covered with soft needles, sucked the noise from the air. He turned all the way around but Lar was gone. Disappeared.

  “Down here.”

  Gaston looked to his right and saw a hand emerging from the ground. He bent down and looked into Lar’s face. The boy was in a pit and held the trap door up with one hand, beckoning to Gaston with the other.

  “Get in.”

  Gaston jumped into the hole and Lar pulled at the frayed rope secured to the bottom of the door with a rusty screw. The hole smelled of earthworms and sweat. Gaston shut his mouth, trying to stifle the heavy breathing that could alert the Horde of their presence. Lar’s knee jabbed into Gaston’s thigh so he slapped at it with a hand.

  “Don’t move,” Lar said. He leaned forward, breathing the words into Gaston’s ear. “They’ll find us.”

  Gaston closed his eyes, listening for the shouts of the men pursuing him through the forest. He placed a palm against the earthen wall and tried to feel their footsteps.

  There.

  He felt a slight tremor, nothing more than a vibration that sent a handful of dirt on to his leg and the top of his foot. The trap door shook. Gaston heard Lar wince.

  “They musta made it to the houses.”

  “How? We woulda seen ‘em come through here.”

  Gaston held his breath.

  “C’mon.”

  The door shook again and Gaston heard Lar sigh.

  “They’ve gone,” Gaston said.

  “Stay,” said Lar. “Just stay until I say so.”

  Gaston felt a cramp igniting in his calf and burning its way up his leg. He tried to straighten his leg but he didn’t have enough room in the hole to do so. Instead, Gaston reached down and rubbed his muscle with both hands.

  “I want to see my mom,” he said.

  “She’s dead. I told you, Gas. They killed everyone.”

  Gaston ignored Lar’s words and reached up to push on the bottom of the door. Lar kept hold of the rope, keeping the door shut.

  “They might come back through. We should stay here until sunrise.”

  Gaston started to cry, thinking about a night spent in the ground where the worms and bugs would gnaw at his flesh.

  “Why? Why do they do this?”

  Gaston felt Lar’s hand on his shoulder. Even though he only had one summer on Gaston, he was older and tried to console his younger friend.

  “They are the T’yun Horde. All of the stories your parents have told you about them are true. We’ll never be safe as long as they’re here. Never.”

  “I need to go. I must do something.”

  Lar reached over and grabbed Gaston’s shoulders. “You’ve always been impulsive, and someday that will get you killed. You think you know things you do not. Follow me and you’ll survive. Go out there, on your own, and they’ll find you. The T’yun Horde will cut off your head and roast your body on the spit. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

  Gaston flinched, knocking more dirt from the earthen walls and breaking Lar’s grip on his shoulder.

  “I don’t want to follow you. I want to do my own thing.”

  “Go,” Lar said. He pushed the door up and the moonlight filled the hole with a silver sheen. “Go do what you want, Gaston. You’re a mule, and I hope you don’t die.”

  He stood up and the cramp in his leg exploded. Gaston bit his tongue and blinked the tears away before raising his head out of the hole. He spun all the way around and saw nothing but the trunks of the massive pines reaching upward into the night sky. Gaston crawled from the pit and sat on the ground.

  “Come with me, Lar.”

  “No. I’m hiding here until morning.”

  “They’re gone. Let’s see if we can find our families. Hurry.”

  Lar stood and shook his head at Gaston. He climbed out of the hole, stood up and stretched his arms wide. Gaston smiled up at his older friend.

  “See,” he said to Lar. “They’re gone. I told you to follow me and—”

  The arrow sliced through the heavy darkness and Lar lurched forward. Gaston looked up into Lar’s face. The boy shuddered and opened his mouth. Blood as black as night began to drip from his chin. Lar tried to speak but the only thing he produced was more blood. Gaston looked between Lar’s legs and in the distance saw the silhouette of the man who fired the shot through Lar’s back, the arrowhead now protruding from his chest. Lar fell forward and Gaston rolled to the side to avoid being crushed.

  The archer took two loping strides before breaking into a run toward his prey. He yelled and the torches returned. Gaston clawed his way through the dirt and swallowed his tears. He stood and ran in the opposite direction of his house, away from his dying friend.

  He felt the cold hand around his neck and heard the low, gritty laughter of the man behind him.

  “Where ya goin, me little tart?”

  Gaston was thankful the question woke him this time. On other nights, he was forced to relive the rest of the dream.

  Chapter 45

  Jonah stood at the entrance to the road block at the summit and watched, patiently, as the clan passed through the gates. He should hold Rav by his word, he knew that, and hoped that standing watch as each and every one of his people passed through the walls of carts and junk wouldn’t be taken as a slight against him. But Rav seemed okay, sitting up on his perch at the side of the road and watching as they passed through.

  At least the sun is shining again today, Jonah thought, as he looked to the east and then southward, in the direction of Wytheville. Good weather is what we need to ease this journey.

  The Walk had been plagued with bad weather times before, he remembered. Storms, hail, early snow, and of course Dustfalls.

  But we left early, he reminded himself. And the weather is holding, but the birds and other migrators sense it.

  Only that morning, as most people were still crawling out of slumber, he had seen a flight of birds, high in the sky in the hundreds—maybe thousands—drifting casually on the breeze as they headed east toward the coast. />
  At last, after about twenty minutes, the carts at the rear of the caravan passed through the gates, and he followed, looking up at Rav and nodding as he heard the creaking metal of carts being pushed back into the road to block the way.

  “I’ll see you at Wytheville then, will I?” Rav asked as Jonah passed by his perch.

  Jonah nodded, not really sure if he wanted to see the man again but accepting that, as the chief, he probably couldn’t avoid it. This was what he did now, and Rav, it would seem, led his own smaller clan, which Jonah may want as an ally in the coming days and months. He also considered that he didn’t know what he was doing and was making it up as he went, acting purely on instinct. The guidance of others may be his only way through what lay ahead.

  Then he spotted Logan, near the rear of the caravan, trundling along slowly, pulling his own smaller, more lightweight cart. The old man was the eldest among his people, and he clearly remembered that his father had visited and spoken with the old guy many times, yet Jonah had no idea what those conversations had been about.

  He also spotted Gaston next to Logan and was surprised that he hadn’t seen him.

  Your mind is elsewhere and not where it should be, he thought.

  Gaston spoke to the old man, just a few words, but when Logan looked back to the stranger, Jonah could see a look of distaste in the man’s expression. Logan replied, but Jonah was too far away to hear it. He sped up, catching up with Logan, but by the time he got there, Gaston was walking away, heading toward the front of the caravan.

  “Mornin’ bossman,” Logan said, as Jonah caught up with him.

  “Morning,” Jonah replied, curious. The old man hadn’t looked back but he’d still known Jonah was approaching.

  “You need to deal with that there fella,” Logan said.

  “Gaston?”

  “Yeah, whatever his name is,” Logan said. “Just cut his throat and throw him into the road, I’d say. No one will question it.”

  Jonah was a little shocked to hear the old guy speak so casually of murdering a man after he had cleared Gaston’s name of Nera’s death. He was about to reply but didn’t have the words.

  “Lest he do it to you,” Logan said, nodding.

  * * *

  The leading edge of the caravan arrived at the first turn, and the road descended from the summit in what the clan called switchbacks. Because the decline was too steep to go straight down, the old ones built the roads into the side of the mountain, crisscrossing the slope until the blacktop emerged in the valley, thousands of feet below. Jonah looked up and saw black carrion circling, and he halted the caravan by raising one arm high into the air. He turned around and saw Seren holding a cart, her older brother grasping it from behind. Beads of sweat covered them both, despite the cool autumn air racing down from the summit.

  “Stick a wedge beneath the wheels,” he said to Seren.

  “It’s harder holding on to these things coming down than it is pulling them up.”

  “I know,” Jonah said. “Take a break.”

  Seren nodded and removed two chunks of wood sitting on the tarp covering the cart. She shoved one in front of the wheel near her feet and then tossed the other to Roke. He stuck the wedge in front of the wheel closest to him. They both backed away from the cart, as if expecting it to break free and go barreling down the side of the mountain. But it didn’t. The cart stayed, and they both approached Jonah.

  Jonah thought of the conversation he had with Logan. Send Seren to watch Gaston, he thought.

  “You see the birds?” Jonah asked Roke.

  “I do,” said Seren.

  “I didn’t ask you. I asked your brother.”

  Seren lowered her head, her greasy hair hanging in front of her face.

  “Yes, chief. I see them.”

  “Do you know what they do?”

  “They fly the circle of death. Those birds are dead flesh eaters.”

  “Yes,” said Jonah. “Black Vultures. They don’t come as far north as they used to. You see,” he said, pointing to the sky, “they fly with strong wingbeats, followed by short glides. Makes them look like bats. Sometimes they fly in flocks with Turkey Vultures and hawks. And you’re right. They always feast on dead flesh.”

  Seren lifted her head and stepped forward. “I will go.”

  Jonah smiled, but Roke’s face twisted and he turned his head sideways, as if she spoke with a foreign tongue.

  “No. I need you to secure the rear of the caravan, to make sure Rav is not planning a rear ambush.”

  “He would not—”

  “You know not what he would do,” Jonah said, interrupting her. “Please, Seren. Do as I say. I’ll have someone else pull your cart for a while.”

  She grabbed the bow from her back and spun, glaring at Jonah and her older brother as she walked toward the carts perched high upon the road with people awaiting further commands.

  “She is deadly with the bow,” Roke said.

  “Yes, she is, but she is also still a child. And anyway, you saw the birds. We don’t need the bow. Whatever threat may have been waiting for us ahead is now rotting.”

  Roke nodded, waiting for Jonah to continue.

  “You are her older brother, Roke. And you are not as feeble as you believe you are. It is time for you to find your place amongst us. Yes, Seren is a master of the bow, but a single hunter does not make a clan. Your eyes are sharp and your memory is superior. You have a place here, and I need you to start honing your ability. The journey to Eliz is a long one, and we won’t be able to fight our way out of every situation.”

  The boy pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. The grime on his skin mixed with the first signs of facial hair, and during The Walk his muscles had become strong and toned. Jonah realized the boy could be a warrior but he had other talents that would serve the clan better than simple brute force.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Scout. Go down there and find whatever it is that has attracted the attention of the Black Vultures. Then come back and report to me.”

  “What if it’s a dead deer?”

  “That happened to die on the road? A few hundred yards south of the summit and hasn’t already been eaten? I doubt that. I believe there is something more down there, and I need you to tell me what it is before I bring the rest of the caravan through these switchbacks and into the valley. Now, go. And be swift. Do not search what you find. Identify it, and come back.”

  Roke nodded and walked past Jonah without another word.

  * * *

  Roke fingered the blade hidden beneath his shirt, the knife once belonging to his father. Roke felt relieved that Jonah believed him to be harmless. Should the time come, when he would need to exert his physical strength, nobody, including Seren, would expect it. Roke didn’t want that day to come but he was prepared for it nonetheless.

  Roke looked up at the vultures. He followed the road to the switchback, noticing the weeds on each side. They had been trampled, pushed to the side. He knew deer did not move this way and that meant only one thing. Raiders. Roke winced as he imagined what lay waiting for him.

  He continued down the road and turned into the first switchback. The road stretched out and he saw where the next switchback would turn. It was at that spot, fifty yards ahead, where he spotted something unusual. Roke stopped walking and looked up again. Whatever lay on the road was directly beneath the circling flock of vultures.

  The wind pushed through the trees and the weeds along the side of the road wavered back and forth. Rusted hunks of metal lay scattered along the edges, most likely items picked through and left by the various clans coming south. Nothing of value remained on the road, the asphalt picked clean by the human vultures on The Walk.

  As Roke approached the next switchback, he saw torn pieces of cloth stuck in briars. The fabrics flapped like broken wings. Other items lay about. Roke saw rucksacks, boots, tarps and other items that would not last long on the open road, things people would covet and u
se. He knew what lay ahead, and he hoped not to find the remains of children. Roke knew what the raiders did and why, but finding what they left behind was never easy, especially finding the bodies of children. He closed his eyes and prepared his mind for what he was about to find. He sniffed but could not detect decay. Either the attack occurred a long time ago or there were no fresh entrails left.

  “And yet the birds circle,” he said aloud. “So there must have been blood here not so long ago.”

  Roke walked along and saw a skull next to a rock on the side of the road. Its mouth was open in an eternal scream, all the flesh picked clean. The bone glared white in the sun, not yet weathered by the elements. Roke spotted five more, two to his left, two to his right and one more in the middle of the road, just beyond the switchback. He stopped and looked into the forest, his eyes scanning for movement but detecting none. Roke noticed a path of trampled weeds up to the edge of the road, the tops pushed toward the blacktop, not away from it.

  “They rushed to the road, not into the forest.”

  He spun around, feeling eyes on his back, but saw nothing but trees. Roke walked to another skull, sitting in a pile of bones, the flesh and muscle licked clean, leaving the bones stained with only some remnants of drying blood.

  Licked. Raiders cook the flesh of their victims. They don’t eat it raw. The bones would be charred.

  He saw several rucksacks on the ground, all tied and secure.

  Roke decided he had enough to report back to Jonah. The chief had asked him to scout, not explain all that had happened here. The conclusion shook the boy, and he shivered, despite the warm sun on his back. The attack on their camp remained in his head, like the bitter taste of wild onion, and the remains made it clear. There were many dangers lurking on the road to Eliz, and not all of them involved bandits. This threat would worry Jonah, and the chief would be as powerless against it as the clan would be facing an early winter snowstorm. The danger could come at them from any direction, at any time. And it could leave even the most hardened warriors as nothing but a pile of bones in the road.