Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

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  Late in the afternoon of the third day, the troop slowed as it approached a break in the forest. The lieutenant motioned for his men to drop back while he crept forward and, peering from behind a tree, surveyed the clearing ahead. Denrel cautiously moved in closer and crouched low behind a fallen tree. He removed his cap, squinting against the fading light, and peeked over the log.

  The troop lay in its customary sprawl across the ground. One rummaged in his pack for something, scowled, and lay back, closing his eyes. Another scratched at the stubble sprouting on his cheeks, mumbling curses. The one called Grundle glared at the man. He glared back, then settled against a tree trunk, waiting. The evening gloom deepened as the sun dropped low. The distant howl of a wolf echoed through the quiet forest.

  The crackle of dried leaves and snap of breaking branches heralded the lieutenant’s return, his approach sounding like a storm tearing through the trees to Denrel’s sensitive ears. You can’t pass easily through the forest unless you harmonize with the oneness of it, Denrel thought. This, apparently, was a knowing these creatures didn’t possess. They took from the forest that which they wanted rather than asking OneGod to give them what they needed. Such blatant disharmony grated at Denrel but he quelled his discomfort and listened.

  Lieutenant Skarbrand squatted in the center of his troop, his voice low. “We’re near. We must go another kilometer that way,” he said, pointing east. “Then we wait, then we strike,” he said, clenching his fist. “You’ll be quiet as a corpse rotting in the grave or I’ll make you one,” he threatened, putting his hand to his sword. “Understood?”

  Nodding, the men rose and beat their way past the obstructing trees. Denrel took a moment to remove his day-shield, stuff it into his pack, and then followed, his chest tight, his thoughts jangled and raw. A twig cracked under his foot but went unnoticed as he crept behind the advancing troop.

  A short time later, the crash of the troop’s movement ended and Denrel heard the distant babble of voices and the high-pitched laughter of a child. He angled over to the edge of the forest and paused to examine the settlement.

  The warm glow of lamps spread from open windows in a small log home sheltered beneath the boughs of several large oaks just beginning to drop their leaves. The rusty-yellow shapes swayed through a gentle breeze to settle on the ground for the winter, the life they had given the trees ready to return to the soil.

  Several people were working together to herd alpacas into a corral. A child stood beside the open gate, ready to close it. A nearby woman called out, waving her arms to shoo the alpacas into the corral, the man beside her mimicked her actions. A tawny dog, no taller than the length of the woman’s forearm, pranced about, yapping. The alpacas made a comforting humming sound as they entered the corral. The child closed the gate. Laughing, she skipped over to her mother and took her hand.

  Another woman’s voice called from the open door, beckoning, saying that supper was ready. The three followed the running dog into the house. The door closed. Denrel heard the faint clink of dinnerware and animated conversation through the windows.

  Denrel crabbed back, his hand reaching for his bow, his agitation growing. There were only six of them; easy prey, tainted. His mind burned, his fingers quivered. Was Yatlow right? Must he only bring an observation, must he not warn?

  He sat, nestling deeper into leaf and soil. He bowed his head and reached for the beauty-of-oneness, reached for an answer. None came, only fear, only revulsion for what must come.

  Denrel wept, his sobs soft and uncontrolled. He must not intervene. OneGod moved him with a purpose he could not know. He could do naught but follow.

  He waited, his sobs dying, forcing himself to do that which he must. Night stretched on. Activity within the home ended, the lights switched off. Gradually, the shuffling of the alpacas stilled as the cooling night air settled over the farm.

  Suddenly, there was renewed crashing from the woods, the scrape of steel drawn from scabbards, and the hoarse bark of a command. The troop lumbered from the woods.

  A light flared in the house.

  The door opened, silhouetting the man. He gazed at the rushing troop in confusion. His wife joined him, clutching at his arm, not understanding what was happening.

  The first long-knife reached them and thrust his sword deep into the man’s unprotected chest. His eyes bulged as he toppled. A second long-knife grabbed the woman, still dazed, uncomprehending while she watched the life bleed from her husband as he fell to the ground.

  He pulled her outside, slung her to the ground, and began fumbling at the ties to his pants. The lieutenant rushed up, clobbered him across the face, and barked a command. He reluctantly turned and joined the others as they rushed into the house, grabbed the child and other woman, and dragged them outside.

  The tawny dog growled, nipping at their feet. He avoided a sword swing from one attacker, but went down with an agonized howl from a slash from another.

  Denrel, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes staring, transfixed, watched it all. Tremors racked his body, tears cascaded down his face. I must follow the will of OneGod, he kept saying over and over as the horror of his vision played out in reality before him.

  An eternity of non-time passed.

  The last echo of the young girl’s high-scream receded over the hills. The long-knives departed, dragging the bodies behind them, wiping blood from their blades and hands, laughing, joking about whose sword was biggest.

  Flames crackled up the walls of the log house and spread quickly across the roof, reaching bright, yellow-orange fingers to the dry leaves of the overhanging oaks. The oaks swayed, as if trying to draw back, their leaves dropping, catching fire and spinning off into the darkness leaving smoky trails.

  Denrel clutched at his chest, his breath heaving. Darkened stains scattered across the gardens were all that remained of the family, the anguish of their wrenched souls thick in the air.

  Denrel couldn’t move, no matter how much OneGod prodded him to follow the long-knives to discover where they came from.

  He closed his eyes, shut the horror from his vision. His mind went blank, his body unresponsive and the voice of OneGod silent.

  Chapter 15