by J. Thorn
On the fourth night, Thom awoke from a dream where he was surrounded by dark forest. He was crying his wife’s name as he ran past branches that ripped his cloak and whipped across his face. A woman’s laughter rose out of the forest like a throng of grackles taking flight.
“Kira.”
He cried her name, his desperation growing.
Where are my children?
The laughter echoed through the trees like beetles crawling through dead leaves. He looked back. Had the laughter come from there? No—in front of him—or… He spun around, the gnarled boughs of blackened trees reaching for him.
Then there were shouting—men screaming—which seemed out of place. Thom awoke with a start and bolted upright, his breath coming in short gasps. He turned over and fumbled through the bedding until he saw Kira curled asleep next to him. As he laid his head back on the pillow, he heard again the strange shouting from his dream.
Careful not to wake her, Thom crawled out of bed and slipped into his clothes. The angry voices of men carried away from him down the main road, fading into the night.
Closing the bedroom door, he crept down the darkened hallway. The wooden floorboards squealed with each step. At the threshold to the front door, he sheathed his sword and threw his cloak over the sheath, making sure it concealed the sword. He looked around, ensuring neither Kira nor any of his daughters awoke. Edging open the front door, he slipped into the crisp night air.
The sky pulsed with stars and the sickle of an old moon. To the west, the Wyvern Mountains bit into the night like fangs, their white-capped tops aglow in the starlight. Crouching low, Thom moved on cat’s paws down the path between the twin oaks, careful to avoid fallen branches which would snap underfoot and give him away. More shouting came from his right, his view blocked by the tree line. Ahead, the main road glowed silver in the moonlight, pallid like the flesh of the dead.
As he crept toward the main road, Thom began to see pinpricks of red and orange moving eastward into the village center. The yelling became frantic and more angered, as though a mob was massing for a riot. Touching the sword hilt beneath his cloak for reassurance, Thom ran along the dirt road toward the village center.
The night air was frigid, attacking his lungs. Soon his chest burned with exertion as his legs carried him through the windless night. He stumbled once, regaining his balance before continuing down the frozen road.
The village center of Droman Meadows took shape as he ran toward it. The single-family dwellings sprung out of the shadows to either side of the road, candles burning in their windows like demon eyes. The Fair Haven Inn towered above Droman Meadows, its common room aglow with candlelight and the flicker of the fireplace.
From a hundred paces away, Thom saw the massive form of Rowan standing in front of the inn with a slim, robed figure at his side. At least two dozen men shouted, their torches raised like dragon breath.
“The left hand of the Shadow.”
“Demon speaker.”
“Black sorcery.”
Thom pushed through the mob, his heart pounding as he tried to reach Rowan. Hands grasped him. Arms shoved him. And still the mob screamed accusations at the two men in front of the inn.
Thom forced his way through the crowd to stand by Rowan’s side. It wasn’t until he did that he recognized the robed man as Marik Aldargon, the recluse sorcerer. The conjurer was seldom seen except when his magic was required to mend a wound or cure the sick. For all the apparent danger he was in, Marik’s face projected a serene glow resembling pond water at sunrise. The thick hood of his robes covered his head and obscured his eyes.
The torchlight reflected off of Rowan’s eyes as he looked out over his accusers. Thom was not surprised to see Dain and Traiton Felcik at the front of the mob.
“What is the meaning of this?” Thom asked.
He glanced between the twisted, red faces of villagers he recognized. William Menlo, whose farm had nearly been lost to the endless winter; Kieran Phar, the bald-headed village holy man; Bran Allador, the burly apprentice to the village blacksmith whose fair features and long, brown curls turned the heads of many a village girl. Dozens more, their shouts echoing Dain Felcik’s accusations.
“The evidence is clear. The innkeeper admits to buying food grown with the aid of dark sorcery,” Dain’s eyes moved between Thom, Rowan and Marik, as though anxious to plunge his sword into one of them.
Traiton waved a torch at Thom’s face. “Marik’s plants are the only ones that continue to grow through winter. He sells the Shadow’s food to the inn and we consume it.”
“Marik is the reason spring will not come,” Bran Allador said, clutching a long sword in one hand and a torch in the other. “He is in league with the Shadow.”
“Friend of devils.”
“Corrupter.”
The crowd stepped forward, the torches just a few paces from the three men in front of the inn. Dain’s eyes urged the mob forward. A cold fear ascended out of Thom’s stomach as he realized the mob was about to attack. In the blink of an eye, Thom’s hand moved to the sword and unsheathed it, brandishing it as he stepped in front of Marik and Rowan. Dain halted, raised his eyebrows and took a step back as Thom readied the weapon. He appraised Thom anew, wondering if the shepherd was more dangerous than he thought. Then the mob moved to his side and a thin smile creased Dain’s lips.
“You raising a sword to the entire village?” Dain asked. He licked his lips.
At his question, a booming voice split the night like thunder. “Backwoods fools.”
At once, the mob ceased its attack and parted down the middle. Heavy footfalls approached as the villagers fell away. The man’s strong shoulders knocked back anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. Right hand gripping the golden eagle hilt, Gavin Lambert emerged in the torchlight.
He came to a stop in front of the inn, his eyes meeting the three men facing the mob. He rounded to face the accusers.
“The Felcik brothers. Why am I not surprised?”
Gavin’s eyes studied the faces in the crowd, causing many onlookers to lower their heads and shift their feet. Men ducked behind the person in front of them as though they could escape through the ground.
“But you, Bran Allador? And you, William Menlo? I would not think you were wool-headed enough to fall for the lunatic ravings of a Felcik.”
As Bran lowered his sword, he shared a sheepish look with William Menlo. The night was silent now, save for the torchlight crackling like brittle parchment. All eyes focused on the former soldier of the Mylan Guard.
“We mean you no disrespect, Gavin Lambert,” Dain said, slithering toward the three accused men in front of the inn. “But Marik Aldargon practices the dark arts and these two are in league with him. Is winter during springtime not evidence enough that Marik has brought the Shadow upon us all?”
Traiton nodded, but when he turned in search of support, he found many of the others had taken a small step away from him and his brother.
“Dain Felcik. Even if you had mutton for brains you would surely starve. Has not Marik Aldargon been a servant for the light in Droman Meadows for all the years you have known him? Kieran Phar,” Gavin said, causing the holy man to flinch as though his torch burnt down to his fingers. “When half the village’s young ones were stricken with the childbed fever two years ago, did you not call upon Marik Aldargon?”
“I did,” Kieran Phar said. The words came out with a raspy whisper.
“Did he not bring the children to good health? And are not many of those children’s parents hurling accusations at Marik tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Bran Allador. When the village was attacked by pillagers three years prior, whose potions mended the wounds of the defenders, including yourself?”
Bran lowered his head and said, “Marik Aldargon.”
“Marik Aldargon served the good of the kingdom for twenty years as one of Mylan’s finest alchemists. Today he serves us. He has found a way to fend off this infernal
winter on his own land so the inn may feed us, at least until the wagon arrives and our own crops can be planted. How can this be construed as the work of the Shadow?”
“It isn’t natural,” Dain said. But now he and Traiton stood alone at the front of the crowd, the rest inching back toward the roadway. “We only bring these concerns to your attention for the good of the village.”
“The good of the village?” Gavin stepped toward Dain, his right hand poised on the hilt of his sword. “The only good you two fools could do for the village is if you both left. Now, go.”
Dain’s eyes lingered on Gavin, the red torchlight glowing in his orbs. Dain took two steps backward and then turned east down the main road, his brother fast at his heels.
“The rest of you,” Gavin said. “Go home to your families. Enough damage has been done on this night.”
The crowd dispersed while several men whispered forced apologies to Rowan and Marik as they hurried away under slumped shoulders. When the majority of the villagers departed, Rowan nodded at Thom.
“That was either very brave or very foolish,” the innkeeper said, referring to Thom wielding his sword. He clasped Thom’s shoulder. “But I thank you either way. Your family will not go hungry as long as I am alive.”
Marik watched the shadowed forms of the broken mob move along the main road. The man’s long, gray locks dangling out of a hooded robe. His smooth face appeared ageless to Thom—neither old nor young—as though he was an unfinished painting.
“Those two will bring you more trouble,” Marik said to Gavin, nodding toward the crouched forms of the Felcik brothers who looked back at them from a clump of barren trees off the road.
“What do you suppose they are up to?” Gavin asked.
“I don’t know. But they are planning something. I am certain of it.”
“There is nothing to fear from the Felcik brothers,” Gavin said, sheathing his sword.
“With two small snakes in the grass, one must be careful where he steps,” Marik said.
Thom saw Marik’s head turn and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The hood of red robes obscured Marik’s eyes in shadow and Thom felt a growing uneasiness as the sorcerer faced him. Marik glided toward Thom and his steps made no sound.
“Master Meeks. I would not have expected to see you at my side tonight,” Marik said.
“I didn’t want to see my friends get hurt.”
“I have no fear of the Felcik brothers.”
“Is it true what Dain said? Have you found a way to grow crops without need for spring?”
“It is minor magic,” he said, dismissing the remark with a wave of his hand. “It is simply a way of amplifying the sun’s warmth over a small area. Any sorcerer can do it. But the magic does not last for long. Already it begins to wane.”
“Where is spring, Marik? And please don’t tell me the Shadow rises. I’ve listened to enough fairytales these last few weeks.”
“As you are not a believer in the power of magic, light or dark, I will say nothing of it,” Marik said as he turned to leave.
“But—”
“How are your daughters?” Marik asked, looking off toward the main road as though his mind were elsewhere.
“My daughters?”
“Yes. I recall two of them were quite ill last winter. I trust they are fully recovered?”
“Yes, they are well now. Thank you. Why do you—”
“And how is your wife? Is she well, too?”
“Yes, of course. Kira is in good health. But—”
“And what of you, Thom Meeks?” Marik rounded on him, and for a brief moment, Thom swore the sorcerer had grown several inches. Thom felt his mouth turn as dry as desert sand. He peered into the depthless hood where Marik’s eyes remained hidden, like unseen black daggers that could slice flesh. “Do your dreams ever trouble you?”
“My dreams? I don’t understand.”
“Your dreams.” The final syllable trailed off like a hissing snake. Thom took a step back from the sorcerer. “When you flee in your dreams, who are you running from?”
“I d-d-don’t—”
The night seemed to thicken as though a suffocating black ink crawled from the heavens, until all Thom saw was the cloaked silhouette of the sorcerer. The other men and the crowd disappeared, as did the Fair Haven Inn. He felt himself drawn toward the sorcerer, the earth moving beneath his feet. The back of his throat clenched a scream.
“The one you flee from in the forest—does she ask for your name?”
“My name?”
“Have you spoken your name to her? Or your daughters’ names?”
“My daughters?” Thom rocked on his feet, his head floating like a thin-stemmed flower in a stiffening gale.
“You must never speak your name to her, Thom Meeks. If you remember nothing else of this night, remember what I said. You must never speak your name.”
Thom blinked. They both stood beneath towering trees, the forest from his dream. Thom looked about, unable to recognize anything or understand what he was seeing. He shivered as if stepping into frigid water. Thom felt eyes following his movements, something stalking him through these wicked woods.
His ears popped and he blinked again.
When his eyes opened, the sorcerer and the forest were gone. He saw the main road, the inn and the other men. Marik was thirty paces away, the robed figure back to his normal height, whispering something to Gavin.
Impossible. He could not have covered so much ground in seconds.
But when Marik turned his head in Thom’s direction, Thom thought he heard the sorcerer whispering in his head.
“You must never speak your names.”
The first light of dawn oozed bloody red out of the land beyond the village. The heavens clung to the black of night, flowing earthward in an ocean of darkness that cloaked the village homes. The shadows between the homes appeared to roil, as though they held back something horrible about to burst forth. Thom turned and ran, away from the one who whispered dark words in his head.
Chapter 6
Sleep ushered Thom away from the day’s worries. Thoughts of Marik and the conjurer’s warning faded as the dark forest of Thom’s nightmare returned.
Again he found himself among the trees in the darkest forest of his imagination. He felt the pull of a full moon. Yet its’ glow failed to penetrate the forest canopy, as though a barrier consumed the light above the treetops.
He called out to his wife and daughters. His voice echoed as though the forest mocked him until his call died in the stillness of the night. He wandered through the trees, head swerving at the sounds of limbs snapping. Something huge parted the branches behind him. It growled as it pursued. He dodged enormous trunks of thick-barked trees.
Thom’s feet ached and his knees throbbed with each step. Trees seemed to spring out of the dark soil and several times he collided with their unwavering masses.
He broke into a clearing where the glow of the moon shone in dappled streaks of blue. Ahead was the strangest of houses, walls constructed of round stones balanced impossibly upon one another. The house stood at the back of the clearing like a stealthy predator. No candlelight from within, no smoke billowed out of the stack that jutted out from the stone like an arthritic finger. As Thom approached the house, a cramp blossomed in his stomach.
“Hello.”
His voice reverberated across the clearing, trailing off somewhere inside the inescapable woods. No answer.
As he grew closer to the house, he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Thom looked again, noticing the absence of doors and rows of smooth stone stacked upon smooth stone.
“Who calls upon my home in the night?”
Thom froze. The woman’s voice rattled like dead leaves caught in a gust at autumn’s end.
He spun in a circle, the voice coming from everywhere.
“Who dares trespass on my grounds? Speak your name.”
“My name…”
“Sp
eak your name to me.”
“My n-n-name is—”
His voice died on his lips.
He now saw the structure for what it really was, a house made of human bones, pearl white in the moonlight.
His mouth moved in silence, unable to form words.
“Speak your name, trespasser.”
“My…name…is T—”
The air shimmered and a pressure filled his ears along with a high-pitched tone.
A cloaked figure appeared in front of him, blocking his view of the house of human bones.
Marik.
“You must not speak your name to her, shepherd.”
A scream tore the night asunder, loud and unrelenting. Thom covered his ears and dropped to his knees on the leaf-covered ground. The scream grew louder, ripping past the protection of his hands and burrowing into his ears like a parasitic worm.
Thom awoke in his bed with sweat soaking his shirt. He gasped and swallowed air like a drowning man. Kira stirred in her sleep and flipped onto her side, facing away from him. The blackness drenched the windowless bedroom, the bedposts and clothes box stood at the end of the bed as vague shapes in the night. The faintest of moonlight seeped through the windows along the front of the house.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed, raced out into the hall and ran for his daughters’ bedroom. He reached their room and stopped short of the door, his hand paralyzed inches from the handle. The door creaked open on its own, groaning like old bones.
His eyes met the unyielding blackness of the windowless bedroom. His heart pounding, he strained his eyes against the shadows until he saw the ill-defined shape of a bed and the outline of clothes boxes. But he detected something else, something he could neither see nor smell. A presence filled the room with his daughters, something hunched over their beds with dripping fangs and crooked limbs.
I can’t hear them breathing.
“Dad?”
The orange glow of a struck match interrupted the darkness. Delia stood before him holding a candle.
“What’s wrong?”
The light of the candle threw monstrous, distorted shadows on the wall, which crept across the bedroom and bent over his four sleeping daughters.