by C S Vass
* * *
After Greythor’s announcement something seemed to break in the spirit of the villagers. Though many disagreed with his extreme pacifism, Greythor was considered a wise and benevolent leader by most of the community. After hearing his proclamation though the people of Barrowbog seemed to lose the last of their strength and trudged back to their homes with slumped shoulders as a light rain began to fall.
Fiona was not to be so easily deterred.
“What are you doing?” she demanded of the elder. “How could you possibly be so weak in the face of those men? In front of your own people!”
Greythor smiled sadly when he met her eyes. “You are young and rash, Fiona, and a stranger in these lands. You mustn’t judge me too harshly. How can we judge one man’s life against a village? Do not think I take such matters lightly.”
A sudden wind came whistling through the trees carrying a biting chill. “It’s not right,” Fiona insisted. “Jet loves this village. He loves it enough to be strong and defend it. But you don’t care about that. You’re ready to continue on sitting behind your mansion, hiding behind your talk of peace even when Lord Raejo’s men walk all over you.”
Greythor sighed. “Perhaps my talk of peace is nothing but foolish chattering. But if I pursue peace, it is a peace for the village. We must respect sacred custom, Fiona. Without tradition a land will quickly forget what it is. A people will become a tribe of demons.”
“That doesn’t make it right!” Fiona shouted. “Handing your own villagers over to a tyrant. You think that will stop it? You think Lord Raejo will simply be appeased and leave you alone? Tyrants never stop, and you’re a fool if you think otherwise. All you’re going to do is tell him what a coward you are so he’ll know he can do whatever he likes to this place.”
Fiona didn’t know why she was becoming so invested. She knew that this wasn’t her fight. She knew that she should be worried about getting Geoff well and finding Naerumi. There was something about Jet that wouldn’t allow her to stand idly by while he was sent to the wolves. He was willing to fight for his home, even when his home wasn’t willing to fight for itself.
“You have a warrior’s spirit,” Greythor said calmly. The rain fell against his large shoulders and drenched his long grey hair. “But not a warrior’s mind. You are willing to enter the cycle of bloodshed without a thought to how it might end. A warrior doesn’t pick up their blade for love of battle. They do it to end a battle.”
“You can’t end one you won’t fight! You’re a coward, and I won’t let you go through with this.”
Before she knew what she was doing Fiona had taken off in the direction that Jet had gone in. If his own people weren’t going to help him, then she would have to step in.
* * *
The trees of the swamp groaned under the wind and rain as Fiona rushed through. Jet hadn’t gotten too much of a head start. She knew she had a chance to find him, and even a prayer’s chance was reason enough to try.
As the storm’s intensity increased darkness shrouded the landscape. Mud sucked at her boots and sunlight disappeared from the world though it was barely past morning. All around her the shadows seemed to move through the tops of the trees.
I can’t let them kill him, she thought to herself desperately. Whatever else he may have been, Jet was a rebel not some sacrificial lamb for the old men of Barrowbog to hide behind. She wouldn’t allow it, couldn’t allow it.
Before long she was hopelessly lost.
Cursing her impulsiveness Fiona looked around. The rain was falling harder than ever, and it was impossible to see more than a shadow of all but the nearest trees. Taking a moment to collect herself she curled her knees to her chest and squatted at the base of the trunk of a great sprawling oak. The crevice gave her some semblance of shelter from the rain, pathetic as it was, and allowed her a moment to think.
She would never find Jet in all this rain. That much was clear. But the storms of Morrordraed were supposed to be sudden, fierce, and short-lived. At least she thought she had heard Geoff say that once. Maybe she could wait it out and it would blow over quickly?
Lightning rattled the skies above her and a flash of light momentarily illuminated the swamp. Shuddering against the chill Fiona held herself tightly and tried to make out any sense of direction. Suddenly, briefly, there was a light.
At first Fiona thought that she had imagined it. It disappeared as quickly as it came. With a tremble she remembered the terrible blue light, and the face she had seen. But the light she thought she saw was more like a glow—there was again. A definitive speckle of red against the sea of darkness smoldering like a lantern in the storm. Slowly, the light grew. The way it ebbed indicated that it was a fire though it seemed very far away.
Following strange swamp fires was not necessarily what she wanted to do. But her only other alternative was to wait out this storm under the oak, and her boots had already sunk halfway into the muddy spring that had collected at the bottom. What was she to do?
Spontaneity had gotten her into this mess, but perhaps it would also be her way out. Her decision made, Fiona pulled herself free and faced the storm again.
She walked slowly as her heart throbbed in her chest. She couldn’t let anything bad happen to herself. Nobody would find her body and then when Geoff got better he would be doomed to either stay in Morrordraed forever searching for her or live with the guilt of knowing he went back without her. Both were unacceptable. She loosened the demon-pommel blade. The leather scabbard hugged her back tightly, an assuring squeeze.
Each stick that broke underneath her feet resounded in her head like shattered glass as she crept forward. Whatever else awaited her, there was fire in her path, and fire meant people. As she approached, the conditions of the storm lessened. Whirling torrents lightened to a regular downpour, and then a mere sprinkling mist.
The eyes of the swamp watched her.
Chapter Seven
Fiona hid behind the trees and continued her daring approach. Ahead, the trees bowed outward to form a clearing. In the middle sat massive cauldron atop a blazing fire.
She moved closer still and now she heard the voices of men. The words were torn from her by the wind, but she could see them now. Crouching low, she observed a group of five, no six people in sun-red robes. They were hooded and wore white masks painted with bloody designs. They chanted harmonically, their cantillation rising and falling with the wind.
It appeared to be some type of magical ritual. With a sense of deep foreboding she saw that one of them was on their knees, arms held firmly on either side by two of the red-robed figures. The prisoner wore the same garb as the rest of the companions.
What in this godforsaken swamp have I stumbled into?
Fiona couldn’t understand their language. Something about it was fiercely bestial despite its musical quality. The rain had lightened considerably though the woods were still impossibly dark. She knew she should take her chance to leave, but somehow she couldn’t look away from the bizarre scene unfolding before her.
Their chanting ceased.
“We honor your sacrifice!” A booming voice shouted through the trees. One of the figures stood with raised arms before the boiling cauldron. The weather had dissipated to the point where Fiona could now clearly hear them, and she heard more than just words. The great heaving sobs of the prisoner made her jaw tighten and her hand instinctively move towards the hilt of her sword.
“To die is to be reborn! To sacrifice at the alter of night is to become a god!” Their bizarre leader was still screaming from his unholy pulpit. “Leave the body of man. Embrace the body of night. You will serve the cause of Djaeri as we will serve you.”
“Please!” The prisoner cried.
Fiona watched as if in a trance as the two figures holding their companion ripped the robes from their prisoner to reveal a skinny man in naught but a loincloth and his mask.
“Today you go to god, and we bow before you!”
Horror seized
Fiona as the prisoner was lifted against his will. His captors made to toss him in the boiling cauldron.
“Drop him!”
Before she knew what she was doing Fiona had revealed herself. The naked steel of the demon-pommel blade shone deadly bright in the light of their fire.
There were six in total. The prisoner and his two captors, the one leading the insane ritual, and two others who watched. Other than the prisoner who was disrobed, they all looked exactly alike.
Fiona thought they would shout in surprise. She thought that they would demand to know who she was and what she was doing there. She thought they might even laugh at her with contempt and tell her that she was out of her league.
She did not expect a bolt of lightning to shoot from the hands of one of the mages and strike her full in the chest, sending her spinning back and cracking her head against the hardened bark of a mossy oak tree.
For a moment she thought her lungs had been set on fire as she convulsed sickeningly on the ground. There was no time to be injured. Rolling onto her stomach she saw a blast of what looked like fire flare wildly towards her. Acting on instinct as her body protested, she flung herself out of harm’s way and took in the situation.
Her opponents stepped towards her slowly, hands raised. Necromancers, she thought with disgust. Of course I had to come across a group of godforsaken dark mages.
Fire and lightning crackled in the hands of the mages as they approached her. Her chest burned fiercely. The blast wasn’t strong enough to put her out, but she wasn’t sure if she would make it through another one. The two who held the captive stayed with him, but that still left her with three to deal with. Wanting to act before they did she thrush herself like a spear at the nearest mage, who as she expected, sent a blast of lightning at her.
Dropping to the ground Fiona changed directions and rolled towards another necromancer, slashing at their ankles with her sword. The necromancer clumsily stumbled backwards and sent a ball of fire her way, which singed her cheek as it sailed past and landed just a few feet to her side with a loud smokey bang. Smoke filled her eyes.
It gave Fiona exactly what she wanted. Using the smoke from the blast as cover she went back to her original target. Unable to see her, the dark mage was unable to defend against the piercing thrust of the demon-pommel blade that landed directly between their ribs. Blood stained Fiona’s sword as the necromancer fell lifeless.
Now there were two that were of immediate concern, plus the other two once she was done with them. They approached her slowly. The dark mages seemed to not have much ability in the way of physical speed and strength, but they hardly seemed to need it armed as they were with their deadly magic.
“Die,” a necromancer said as his hands spun in a dizzying series of motions that produced a series of fireballs whirring towards Fiona’s head. The balls were slower moving than the lightning. Fiona didn’t have a problem evading them. They did, however, take her full attention long enough for the other dark mage to creep forward and silently work some new manner of magic into the ground.
While Fiona dodged left and right, avoiding the clumsy blasts of fire, the ground suddenly slipped beneath her. Falling with a crash she immediately realized that her other opponent had done some mischief to the earth that transformed its surface into a sleek sheet of ice.
But to her surprise Fiona wasn’t immediately hit with a new barrage of spell work. Instead they turned their attention to the prisoner and his two captors. Fiona’s eyes widened, and she resisted the urge to vomit as she watched them tumble their captive into the boiling waters of the cauldron.
She nearly emptied her stomach.
“You bastards!” she screamed. “Why? What could he have done to deserve that?” The sudden gruesomeness of what she witnessed brought unexpected tears to her eyes as here body violently shivered.
“Silence,” the lead necromancer said. “Save her for Djaeri.”
All eyes fell upon the cauldron. Fiona had no idea what was about to happen, but she strongly suspected it was not going to be in her favor.
For several dread-filled moments there was silence. Even the rain had ceased completely.
Then it happened.
A massive hairy paw with claws the size of fingers appeared on the edge of the cauldron, followed by another. There was a roar of terrible pain, and a head like none Fiona had ever seen appeared above the boiling waters.
It was half covered in thick hair, half naked pink like some kind of hybrid mutant of an infant child and a bear. Fiona noted that it was more wolf than bear as she observed its pointed snout lined with rows of mutant teeth. Most haunting of all were its eyes, sick yellow and altogether blank except for the blood vessels that roped it like a thousand screaming worms.
The beast roared again, a sound that brought Fiona’s heart into her throat. This was not an opponent she could win against. This was an opponent that one could only run or hide from.
“Djaeri!” the leader of the necromancers proclaimed triumphantly as he strode towards the beast he has just spawned. “Your spirit lives. We are at your command, now and forever, my dead lord!”
The beast pulled itself completely out of the cauldron. It was awkwardly crafted, standing on two significantly smaller legs that supported a massive torso with thick muscular arms and a veiny neck. It observed them all with hatred.
“Speak, lord! Speak your will!” The lead necromancer’s voice was brimming with vainglory.
The veins in the beasts neck trembled as hair continued to grow over its body torso. Its mouth opened and shut sloppily assimilating to its new body. Fiona trembled as it turned its attention directly towards her.
The beast opened its mouth to roar, but instead a garbled mutant sound emerged. Not knowing what to make of this Fiona tried to get up, but her moving was impaired by her injuries and the slippery ice that had formed underneath her. She noticed a heavy fog creeping into the area, tinged with blue.
“Our lord desired her!” the necromancer shouted. “She is yours, Djaeri! Take her!”
The necromancer arrogantly strode towards his creation. The creature seemed to be struggling to control its new form. The fog swarmed around its head. He bowed before the beast. As he did, so the monster sunk its teeth into the necromancer’s exposed throat and sprayed the swamp red.
“Agh! Agh!” he screamed as he tried pitifully to wrestle with his monstrous creation. A twisting of the jaw ended it. The beast again turned itself towards Fiona and made a garbled sound.
Fiona’s temples pounded as she carefully stepped off of the ice. What was happening? The guttural noise made by the monster was incomprehensible.
“Lord Djaeri, what is it you desire?” a necromancer pleaded. “Have we offended you?”
Lord Djaeri, as they called it grunted with frustration. Looking at Fiona one last time it tried again to speak while its whole body shuddered and revolted. But Fiona heard this time, the single unmistakable word hidden within its jumbled roar.
Run
She heard several other things as well. Fiona heard the last, liberating roar of terror. A true roar that sent her heart racing and her hands shaking as she sheathed her blade. She heard growls and snarls and the noises of a nightmare massacre.
And screams. The darkness was filled with screams.
* * *
Fiona didn’t know how she made it back. She could hardly even remember it. Everything transformed into a dream-like blur the moment that roar echoed through her head. All she knew was that she ran like she had never ran before, and for whatever reason the gods smiled on her. She did not see the monster again.
It wasn’t until she stopped that she thought there was something oddly familiar in the voice of the beast. Underneath its roar, when it told her to run. She had heard that voice before. But where?
When she finally recovered her senses, she was on a plain dirt road with no sense of her bearings. As luck would have it, she simply walked down the road and when she had collected herself ade
quately she saw that she was staring directly at the manor of healing that Greythor lived behind. The sun had finally emerged from behind grey clouds, and she knew where she was.
Eager to waste no more time she walked back to Harken’s house, too shocked to process what had just happened to her. Her clothes, still damp from the rain earlier, clung to her body uncomfortably in the heat.
“Fiona!” Harken shouted as she walked through the door. “You have to tell me what happened. Did you find Jet? I was worried.”
Another voice, one that warmed her spirits and lifted her heart, also spoke. “Fiona. What trouble have you found?”
“Geoff!”
The old knight was sitting upright with a cup of something hot that smelled like seasoned fish in his hands. Fiona rushed past Harken to sit by him. “You’re up!” The old knight put down his food while Fiona embraced him.
“Not—easy, these old bones are sore!—not quite up. But I feel much better. I understand I that I have much to thank you for, and that goes double for our gracious host. Now tell us. Where have you been?”
“There was, I—” she didn’t know how to describe the ordeal that she had just been through. “I don’t know how to say it. There were, necromancers. A werewolf I think. I don’t really know.”
“Are you hurt?” the old knight’s eyes were full of worry.
“I… no, I don’t think so. I’m tired. I’ll be okay.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.” The nonchalant manner in which Harken spoke surprised her.
“Yes, I am. Should we do something? Should I tell someone?”
“Tell them what?” the villager asked, apparently in earnest.
“There are necromancers in the swamp! Not too far from here. Well, not anymore I suppose. I think they’re all dead. But there is a werewolf now. Well, not a werewolf maybe, but some kind of monster. But, we should—”
“Fiona, these things happen here,” Harken interrupted. “This is Morrordraed, not Tellos. I understand your concerns are different from ours. Nobody is going to think twice if you tell them of your encounter other than perhaps to admire the fact that you survived it.”