by Evren, S. K.
Drothspar closed his eyes for a moment and clung to the dagger. Pain coursed like ice-water through his blood. The rider cursed loudly and released the weapon to steady himself with his reins. He turned his horse in circles, clawing at his waist for another weapon to finish his work. He stopped, startled to hear a brazen horn echoing through the trees. More hoofbeats, louder and deeper than before, rose out of the growing night. The plate-clad rider turned to his four comrades, spoke something Drothspar did not quite understand, and fled east.
Drothspar fell to his knees. The blade thrilled weakly against the beating of his heart. A flood of sound rushed to his ears, and the trees seemed lighter. Toppling over onto his side, he felt his back rest against a fallen log, his hands gripping the hilt and handle of the dagger the entire time. He could smell the soil of the forest floor. Color slowly faded from his vision and sound slipped from his ears. Still and silent, he never noticed the new horses leaping, one after another, over his body and the log. Flashing like arrows in the night, the riders shot over him, pursuing the invading marauders with bloody justice.
Chapter 3 – Ritual
Time moved on from that fateful day. Seasons turned, moving inexorably from year to year. The forest survived the conflagration of men and nations, sending whispers once again from leaf to leaf along the invisible air. The same leaves lived out their cycles, budding from brilliant greens to fall in showers of rich reds, golds, and browns. They blanketed the mossy forest floor, covering over the year of nature and the deeds of men. Providing homes for some of the smallest creatures, the fallen leaves continued to serve life. In their decay, their very being became nutrients for generations of flora and fauna. The cycle of living and falling continued for seven years.
In the seventh year, a strange caravan came into the West. It stopped in the small Maryndian border city of Æostemark in late afternoon.
Æostemark had been all but destroyed in the invasion seven years prior. Virtually all of its inhabitants had fallen before any aid could reach them. Standing on chipped and pitted walls, the defenders had crumpled under sheets of arrows. Fighting in the streets, soldiers and able-bodied men were swarmed under by invaders. Hiding in houses, in cellars, in corners dark and small, women, children, the old and infirm were slaughtered without mercy or compassion. Where they could not be dragged from for sport, they were sought with long weapons. When weapons could not reach, they were put to the torch, to burn with hastily added fuels of broken wood or scavenged coal. If all else failed, they were simply left to starve.
Seven years later, in the aftermath of war and cruelty, Æostemark was still a nearly deserted town. Some few lived there who had managed to survive the initial invasion. Mostly these had lost their entire lives—homes, families, and finally their minds. With harrowed, haunted eyes, they drifted from wreckage to rubble, lifting a single brick here, a charred plank there, hoping for some sign of life. They lived out the fiction of farmer by day, tending chores they had tended in their former lives, and returned to the city at night, searching and sleeping in ruins that had once been their homes.
New life stubbornly clung to the fallen city. A border station had been built to watch the path of the past invasion. It had been built from the stones and rubble gathered around Æostemark and brought, by wagon, to the site of the border post.
Some of the post’s garrison had taken to trying to rebuild portions of Æostemark, hoping to one day make it habitable enough to keep their families close. Thus, the eastern-most sections of Æostemark, those closest to the border station, were in better order than the rest of the city, rebuilt under the toiling hands of soldiers whiling away their off hours.
In truth, it was not only their families that drove them. They knew, should an invasion strike again, their small station itself would not hold long. With practical eye, they set to rebuilding fallen gates, and resetting crumbling stones, creating for themselves a fallback position. It was not much, but they knew it was their only hope to survive once some of their number had started the ride for help. The more experienced soldiers knew that even this measure of fortification would not defend them from a determined invader, but, just as importantly, they knew it was work for idle hands and hope for idle hearts.
As the small garrison built up its presence in the fallen city of Æostemark, so other hearty souls, entrepreneurs from the West, came to find their fortunes on the border, as well. Merchants, hoping to serve the garrison or to trade with the East, rebuilt small shops and warehouses. The doors of these new shops were stout and their windows small and barred. The security measures were aimed more at itinerant looters than the maddened former inhabitants. The looters, like some sort of macabre prospectors, came and went with the seasons. Their methods, however, were brutally direct. They took what they wanted, if they could, and so the fledgling merchant quarter of ruined Æostemark looked to their own defenses. This was the city as the caravan entered. Æostemark was a mixture of scabrous old and hastily constructed new.
The core of the caravan was a strange wooden wagon, more of a small home on wheels than any sort of carriage. It was ornate, painted a brilliant red and framed in gilded trim. Its roof was reminiscent of a long boat, with upturned points at front and back, and a saddle-like depression in the center. A stone chimney pierced the aft section of the upraised roof, and smoke poured continuously from its pinnacle. The wheels were large and wide, their red paint and gold-leaf covered with spattered, drying mud. The wagon was drawn by eight black horses under the watchful eyes of two teamsters. The horses were larger than the common mounts of Sel Avrand, and they bore their burden as if they were made for it.
Flanking the red and gold wagon were two smaller wagons, covered with canvas supported by a wooden structure not unlike distended ribs. With these wagons, and surrounding the first, was a contingent of cavalry. Though the horses they rode were Eastern mounts, they did not have the garb or bearing of Avrandian riders. These were armed men, glittering retainers in segmented metal armor. From their waist to their shoulders, the armor surrounded them in overlapping bands; rings of steel that afforded them freedom of movement to bend in their saddles and still guard their bodies. Some of the men had this same segmentation running down either leg, while others’ legs were covered in combinations of leather and chain. At their sides they wore curiously-curved swords, swords that bent forward instead of back.
Dutifully, the caravan stopped at the border station. One rider, the leader of the cavalry contingent, rode up to speak for the party. He was a man in his early thirties, handsome and fit. Black hair, framing his chiseled features, hung just over his sky-blue eyes. The border sentry took special note that the leader’s armor, unlike that of the other riders, was Maryndian plate. His eyes had just focused on two rivet-holes in the breastplate when the leader cleared his throat.
“What is your business in the West,” the sentry asked gruffly.
“Our lord is on a religious pilgrimage,” came the reply.
“Where are you bound?”
“Æostemark, for the night.”
“And then?” the sentry inquired.
“Where my lord commands me,” answered the soldier. The sentry made a note of all visible soldiers and wrote it into his log. He took his time before turning back to the soldier.
“Continue,” he said, “and welcome to the Kingdom of Marynd.”
“Thank you,” the soldier said simply, and turned to ride back to the caravan.
The wagons rolled to the ruined center of town. Forming their own outer ring, they surrounded the circle of the city’s crumbled fountain. Robed men stumbled out of the two smaller carriages, along with a great black cat.
The men, dressed in black silk, scurried about in preparation. A large stone monolith, once the centerpiece of the fountain, now lay on its side. It was quickly covered with a gold-trimmed, black silk cloth, giving it the appearance of a stone altar. Braziers were set on either side, and thick, tallow candles were lit to gutter on the stone, itself
. Stakes were driven into the ground behind the makeshift altar, thick logs that took the combined efforts of the cavalry soldiers to erect. The stakes stood eight feet tall after they were driven into the ground, and one stood behind each of the braziers.
The great cat, black as the velvet coat of night, prowled the perimeter of the fountain, looking with glowing eyes on all that was and all that was not. It was larger than a panther, appearing more like a jet-black tiger. None who looked on it had seen anything like it. Few that had seen it had lived to tell their tale, or so it was whispered. Walking slowly, sometimes stalking, and sometimes stopping to gaze off into nothingness, the great cat orbited the human efforts on strong, silent feet.
Fires were set in the braziers, adding their glow to those of the candles. Evening was falling on the city of Æostemark, darkness was growing, and doors were being shut and bolted. Strangely, the maddened inhabitants of the city worked more feverishly this night than any other since the invasion. Guards changing posts at the border commented on the behavior as they walked out to duty or in for the night. No longer content with just one brick or two, the wailing insane tore entire piles of rubble to the ground. Their hands bled and some of their fingers wore down to exposed bones. The guards shuddered and made signs to ward off evil. Those walking out to the garrison quickened their pace, and those in for the night sought shelter in bright lamps, stone walls, and numbers.
As darkness descended on the city, two detachments of the caravan’s dismounted cavalry left the center square with torches. One group set out to the north, and the other moved out to the south. Preparations at the makeshift altar continued, as black-robed men intoned prayers in an ancient, long-forgotten tongue. They held their hands out over the braziers as they muttered, and the flames flickered to the cadence of their words. Some held knives over the flames, rolling them slowly, purifying—or infecting—them with sooty flames and harsh, urgent phrases. Smoke rose to the sky in two dark shafts, lit from below by the golden braziers. Shadow and light danced around the scene, shifting constantly over the faces and bodies of the black-robed men. Some of the remaining cavalry gathered up wood in a pile at the rear of the fountain. They built for themselves a large bonfire, radiating light in all directions, and affording them a view of the entire square. The bodies of the three wagons sent shafts of darkness into the city. The shadows played across the ruined buildings, darting from left to right, joining in the frenzied search of the mad.
For a time, all was silent in the center of the city. Night progressed in a dark meditation, broken only by the clatter of stones overturned by the citizens of Æostemark. Some two hours before midnight, the full moon began its climb from the behind the ruins. At its first pale light, the remaining cavalry formed a circle around the fountain and drew their curved swords as one man. They stood then like statues, alternately bathed in the sooty golds and yellows of fire, or shadowed by the shifting play of light.
At one hour before midnight, the detachments of cavalry returned, one from the east and one from the west. From the east, the soldiers dragged a gagged woman, struggling and kicking, her bare feet bleeding along the ground where they touched. Overpowered by the many hands around her, she was bound to the stake on the right behind the brazier. From the west, the other detachment dragged the limp form of one of the border guards. He was beaten and bloody, and his unconscious eyes were rolled deeply back in his head. He was lifted into the fountain’s ring and bound to the other stake. The returning soldiers filled out the circle created by their compatriots and also drew their curved blades.
One half-hour before midnight, the ornate wagon opened its door and a tall, gaunt man stepped forth. The gaunt man wore a black cassock, though he was quickly covered with a thick, red cape. Some of the black-robed servants came over to attend him, and they pinned the cape to the man’s arms, revealing its golden interior. One of the black-robed men, bowed, entered the ornate wagon and emerged with a black mitre. The servant bowed again, then placed it on the head of his master.
The gaunt man, who moments before had appeared old and frail, came alive with energy. He looked around at those serving him as if seeing them for the first time. He jerked his hands loose from their aid with a strength that pulled two of them from their feet. He glared at those around him, and his eyes took on a terrible hunger.
He looked at the creature pacing between the light and the shadow and lifted his head briefly. The great prowling cat fell out of its course and walked directly up to the man. An emaciated hand reached down and touched the cat’s head. It was not a touch of affection or care, but more of recognition. The cat bowed its head away from that touch and returned to its pacing.
The mitred and robed man stepped up to the altar prepared for him, placing both hands on its surface and facing it from the front. He, like the others before him, began to speak in an ancient and forgotten language, his eyes flowing at times from the altar, along his left arm to the woman, then back along his right arm to the man. Centering his eyes on the altar, he knelt once, then stood again. He walked around the altar to stand between it and the bound captives behind. He reached for one of the prepared knives on his left, turned and faced the man on the stake.
The old man spoke slowly, monotonously, and his words grew louder. He did not change expressions as he felt the passing of midnight and plunged his knife under the breast of the border guard. Cutting with surprising strength, ignoring the stifled cries of his victim, the old man looked briefly into dying eyes and drew out the steaming, twitching heart. He turned, his voice growing again, and placed the heart in the brazier, watching it gutter and smolder.
Stepping back to the altar, he drew a second knife from the left and opened his hand over the brazier, mixing his own blood with the now charred heart. Calling up to the sky, his voice grew to immensity. It shook the very foundation stones of the dead city, and a great echoing wave washed out and over the countryside. In its wake, a massive dome of sickly, blue-green light covered the land for miles around. Æostemark lay at the center, a dead specimen under an impossible bell jar.
The soldiers held steady around him, though their eyes betrayed a sudden fear and doubt. The monolith of the altar began to tremble and heave as if some vast force below were working itself upward. The altar gave a violent lurch, sliding several feet to the east and crushing one of the cavalry guards in the process. The gaunt old man was knocked backward to the feet of the woman on her stake.
The black cat rushed to the old man’s side and was run through by the soldier in plate armor. His blade pierced the body of the cat, and twisted cruelly within it. On being struck, the cat wrenched itself to attack, but the surrounding soldiers, waiting for just such a move, tackled it as a group. Its claws rent at their armor, but found no purchase. Its teeth clamped on their helmets, but were deflected. Struggling mightily, the soldiers held the cat down while their leader’s blade opened an ever-wider wound in the stricken beast. Maimed and bled beyond its ability to live, the cat fell limp, and the officer drew his blade from its body.
The tremors that had rocked the city subsided. Several of the black-robed men moved quickly to adjust the altar. Failing to move its massive stone weight, they rushed to reset the braziers on either side and to right the candles. After a few moments, the old man came to his senses and felt the weight of the dead animal upon him. The commander of the soldiers moved his hands brusquely, signaling some of his men to remove the carcass from their master. The old man’s eyes held a burning question, but he pushed it aside as he focused on his own task and stood again at the altar.
He reached for one of the knives prepared on his right. He spoke again, his voice still grand in scale, but lesser than before the tremors had occurred. New sounds began to intrude upon the ceremony. Bricks rattled against stone, and a dry scraping sounded in the shadows. The cavalry soldiers eyed each other nervously, and even the black-robed men grew pale and fearful.
The old man took up his knife and turned to the woman on the stake.
His eyes darted in agitation as he noticed she was not directly behind him on his right, but a man’s length off to his left. He continued muttering through his disturbance and almost gently caressed her terrified cheek. With his other hand, he plunged the knife into her breast and caught her face harshly with his hand as she writhed in pain. He worked the knife to free her heart from her chest, but in so doing noticed something in her eyes, something that only she could see. She became placid and calm, as if she had witnessed a scene of utter contentment and beauty—then the old man saw it, something different. In the space of a lost heartbeat, her look changed to one of shock and terror.
The old man placed her heart in the brazier. Like the first, it smoked and blackened, and the old man turned again to the center of the altar. He took up the second knife on the right and opened his other hand. Standing before the brazier, he let his blood flow into the fiery coals to mingle with the dripping, popping heart. His voice again grew to immensity, and again shook the foundations of Æostemark.
There was a subtle difference in the sound. When his voice first rose in the ritual, there had been a shocking, jolting power to it. At this second sounding of his voice, a wave of command and insistent instruction flowed upward and outward, shattering nearby glass, and pushing out fallen leaves in forests near and far. An opening formed in the blue-green dome covering the land. It spread with the wave of energy and dissolved the bell entirely. The clatter of falling bricks continued, urged on by the intensity of the sound. The dead, glazed eyes of the bodies on the stakes looked emptily at the old man. He, in turn, gazed at them, as if waiting for some reply. The black-robed men watched their master intently, while the soldiers watched the shadows of the buildings and each other.