by K Schultz
Laakea and Aelfric sprinted to the garden where Shelhera had collapsed. She shivered and quaked with her eyes rolled back in her head. Aelfric scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the house. Once inside, Laakea watched with clenched fists as Aelfric laid her on their bed, and her eyes opened.
“You’ve always been a brave woman. What frightened you enough to cause this reaction?”
“The dreams.” Shelhera began convulsing. She writhed and twisted while Aelfric pinned her shoulders to the mattress. Her eyes rolled and glanced around the room like a wild thing caught in a trap.
“What about your dreams? Calm down and make sense. You’re safe now, Laakea and I are here to protect you. Laakea, fetch her a drink.”
“Water?”
“No. Fetch the jug from above the hearth. She needs something stronger.”
By the time Laakea returned with the jug and a cup, Shelhera sat upright, her back supported by pillows.
“Tell us about your dreams,” Aelfric begged while he held her hand in both of his. Laakea filled the cup from the jug while he watched and listened.
“They’re more nightmares than dreams. I’ve had them since I got sick. I dream I’m awake with you lying beside me. Sometimes the moon shines through the window, so your face is visible. Other times it’s dark, but even in utter gloom, I see a shadow far blacker than the darkness. It enters the room, glides over to us, and stoops over me. My eyes are open, and I want to scream, but I can’t. The shadow’s eyes gleam with hell-fire, and when it touches me with its clawed hand, I feel it drain my life away.”
Aelfric patted her hand. “You’re awake now, and shadows can’t harm you.”
Tears cascaded down Shelhera’s cheeks. “You don’t understand. In the garden earlier, I saw the shadow, but I was awake this time. You can’t protect me from that thing.”
Aelfric took the cup from Laakea. “Here, drink this, it’ll help calm your nerves.”
Shelhera’s hands shook as she took the cup from Aelfric and brought it to her lips. She choked and coughed on the first swallow, but she drained the cup and handed it back to Aelfric.
“Get some rest, beloved. Laakea and I will be nearby in the great room if you need us.”
Shelhera did not respond, and the men left the room.
“Is it just a nightmare?” Laakea asked his father.
“We’ll stand watch tonight, in case there is more to it than a simple nightmare.”
Strange Allies
Rehaak stood in the doorway of his house and shouted another challenge into the forest. “I’m in no mood for games this morning, so be on your way, or make your intentions known.” There was still no reply.
Rehaak grasped his staff in his free hand, set the bucket on the ground, and prepared for the worst. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mist coalesce and darken to his left. Nausea accompanied the fear when three men holding knives like those carried by the thugs who had attacked Isil and him stepped out of the darkened fog patch. Their arrival distracted him from the strange appearance of the mist. Whoever they were, they were not from New Hope.
Rehaak considered his options. He couldn’t outrun his opponents. If he barricaded himself in the house, he only delayed the inevitable. They could smash through the door or set fire to the cabin and burn him out. If he made a stand just inside the open doorway, he’d forced them to attack him singly. With luck, he might even the odds before they wore down his strength.
“What do you want?” he asked. Hope for a peaceful outcome faded when they continued toward him in silence. They had a fierce, feral look, and the hatred in their eyes made his heart thunder inside his chest. Rehaak’s knees wobbled as he prayed, “Creator, save me.”
Movement in the mist behind the men attracted his attention. Three shaggy wolves as tall as Rehaak’s hip, their fearsome fangs bared, emerged from the underbrush and slunk along in silence. Their green eyes glowed unnaturally in the morning light as they fanned out behind the men.
“Great, they brought their pets,” Rehaak muttered. Then louder, “Wonderful, after you kill me, you’ll feed me to your furry friends. Is that your plan?” He pointed to the animals with his staff.
The man in the center reacted to Rehaak’s comment. He turned his head in the direction Rehaak pointed to see what had attracted Rehaak’s attention and cursed at the wolves. “Darkness find and devour you! Beware, behind us.”
The wolves began their charge before the man’s companions reacted. Rehaak stood in stunned silence for a moment as the wolves circled to get between Rehaak and his attackers. They maneuvered and looked for an opening. The men stood back-to-back and faced the beasts with their weapons ready. Both sides appeared to have forgotten Rehaak while he watched from his doorway.
Just when Rehaak expected a stalemate, one wolf lunged for the nearest stranger, locked his teeth on the man’s knife arm, and the battle began. The other two men dared not take their eyes off the remaining wolves, even to help their beleaguered companion. Clenching his teeth at what must have been horrible pain from the fangs buried in his flesh, he transferred the knife to his free hand. He swung at the animal’s throat but missed his mark as the beast twisted and tugged him off balance.
“I hope the adage about my enemy’s enemy being my friend holds true,” Rehaak said. He threw caution aside and entered the fray to help the animals, swinging his staff above his head and howling like a maniac. Rehaak’s shout distracted the combatants, but the wolves recovered first and pressed their attack, leaving Rehaak free to pick his targets. He aimed at the heads of the men with wild two-handed swings.
Rehaak flailed around until he landed a blow that felled one of the strangers. It was inelegant but effective. When the man hit the ground, a wolf pinned him. After Rehaak landed a second blow to the fallen man’s temple, the fellow twitched then became still. Rehaak pressed in again and smashed his staff into the second assailant’s head. The man fell, blood oozing from his ears and nose. As if on cue, the wolves broke off their attack. Rehaak’s final attacker stared at him, obsidian eyes devoid of emotion, bleeding from deep slashes on his forearms from the wolves’ attack.
“What do you want?” Rehaak realized why the man’s eyes appeared so strange. His eyeballs were black as a moonless night, just like the Abrhaani troops from his prophetic vision.
The man’s face twisted in hatred, mingled with a sickly smile of amusement. He glared at the wolves, then hissed and spat at them like an alley cat, looked at Rehaak, raised the knife to his neck, and cut his own throat. Surprise replaced the grim smile when dark blood spurted from his neck and drenched his tunic front. He spasmed and fell backward as a black mist arose from the gash in his throat.
The biggest wolf cocked his head and snarled at the insubstantial shape as the black fog grew opaque, thickened, and surged upward. The wolves advanced and threatened the shadowy form until it vanished.
Knife in hand, the dead man stabbed and hacked at his own torso in jerky, uncoordinated movements, but the wounds didn’t bleed. He was already dead, a man-sized marionette moved by an invisible puppet master who forced his body to mutilate itself. Stunned by the nightmarish sight, Rehaak’s instincts took over enough for him to knock the knife from its hand with his staff. The moment the blade left the man’s grasp, the body went limp.
Rehaak stood in stunned silence and stared at the body, unsure what to do next or what to think of the atrocious violence. Slowly he overcame his astonishment, and he bent to inspect one of the corpses, hoping to find an explanation for the phenomenon. The man bore strange glyphs tattooed on his back and shoulders. Rehaak found nothing else to explain the thug’s impossible behavior, nor could he posit a reason for the man’s eyes, which had now regained their typical Abrhaani emerald green
Rehaak stood beside the mangled remains of his attackers and stared at his own bloodied hands while bile rose in his throat. The wolves had vanished, leaving him three graves to dig, no explanation for the attack or the wolves’ interven
tion, and no idea how a dead man mutilated himself.
Though the tattoos on their backs were peculiar, Rehaak did not scrutinize them since he wanted their bodies in the ground before nightfall. He carved three shallow graves in the earth at the forest’s edge, far from the cabin. It took most of the day to cut through the matted tree roots and make holes deep enough to bury them.
As he covered their bodies with forest loam, a strange compulsion to sing overcame Rehaak. For several moments an unfamiliar dirge in an unknown language flowed from deep inside. Though he couldn’t understand the words, he knew it was a song of grief, loss, and anger. As soon as the song died on his lips, he forgot the melody and the act of singing entirely.
Though he was reluctant to touch the knives the men carried, he collected the weapons and forced himself to clean them. Rehaak wrapped them in oilskin and stashed them inside his fireplace niche. Despite his revulsion, he sensed the weapons’ importance. All Rehaak’s unanswered questions whirled through his mind again, like ghostly voices, and another question joined the chorus in his thoughts. Do these attacks have anything to do with the Creator’s warning? He drew limited consolation from the adage, “All knowledge begins with questions.” That truth was the only plank to grasp in the flood of uncertainty drowning him.
When Isil arrived, she could offer her opinion, but regardless of the comfort and wisdom she could offer, those obsidian eyes haunted him. Was there safety anywhere?
Night Watch
Laakea and Aelfric stood guard over Shelhera each night for several tendays. The tonic no longer helped, and despite their watchfulness, Shelhera lost weight, and her strength faded again.
Laakea, optimistic while the potion renewed Shelhera’s strength, spent days with reddened eyes and tear-stained tunic as her skin shrank against the bones of her face and revealed the spidery network of bluish veins on her cheeks and temples. He held fast to her hand throughout his watch, as if his grip could keep her from slipping away again.
The days and nights of watchfulness dragged on, and both men’s tempers frayed. Sullen from fatigue, they snapped and snarled at each other as they watched over her.
Once his watch ended, Laakea slumped fully clothed, onto his bed after standing vigil. He suspected his father blamed him for Shelhera’s failing strength. He muttered prayers to the multitudinous Eniila gods as sleep overtook him.
.
Although partially obscured by clouds, the moon had reached its zenith when Aelfric shook Laakea awake. “Get up, boy. It’s your turn to stand watch.”
Bleary-eyed, Laakea muttered, “I’m up.” He staggered to the dinner table and propped his head on his hands while Aelfric shambled off to join Shelhera in bed. Tonight was Laakea’s turn for the midnight watch.
Laakea’s vision blurred, his eyes, red and gritty from fatigue, he thought. I’ll just sit here a moment before I go in to watch over Ma. He fought his drooping eyelids open by sheer willpower, but when willpower was no longer enough, he lost the battle, slumped forward, rested his head on his arms, and sleep conquered him.
Birdsong and sunlight woke him. Laakea leaped to his feet and upset the bench he had been sitting on with a clatter. He sprang to the door of his parents’ room. Aelfric’s chest rose and fell as he snored softly. Laakea tiptoed to the bed and looked down at his mother.
Laakea gaped in shock, and his heart sank like a stone in a pond when he saw the emaciated figure in the bed. Shelhera’s blond hair had turned white overnight, making her look ancient, far older than her forty summers. Her open eyes were hazed over with a whitish film, her skin cold, and her jaw gaped open in the soundless scream of death. A fetid stench of decay brought tears to Laakea’s eyes and burned in his nostrils. His stomach churned and threatened to erupt as he sobbed and gagged.
The noise awakened Aelfric. He bolted upright and tried to revive Shelhera, with no success. When he gave up, Aelfric growled at Laakea, “You fell asleep, didn’t you? Why couldn’t you stand guard for a few hours?”
Tears streamed from Laakea’s eyes, and he fled the room, unable to confront his failure to protect his mother or face his father’s anger. He blames me for this too, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. Pa lay beside Ma all night, but he didn’t wake up either, did he? It’s as much his fault as mine, but he’ll never admit it.
Laakea, sullen and silent, watched for a while as Aelfric gathered wood and built the funeral pyre alone. He dressed Shelhera in her best clothes, wrapped her in a blanket, and laid her atop the wood. When his emotions threatened to overcome him, Laakea sought refuge in the forge. Hammering steel served to vent some of his frustration and anger at the injustice of his situation.
When Laakea’s strength waned and his hammer blows slowed, Aelfric slipped unnoticed into the forge house. He watched Laakea’s tear-streaked face from the doorway as the boy mashed and mangled the iron on the anvil.
Laakea, with gritted teeth, strained to lift the hammer one more time. When the boy, unable to continue, screamed in frustration, Aelfric stepped forward, startling Laakea, and pried the boy’s fingers off the hammer handle.
“Come on. It’s time.” He jammed two torches into the boy’s hands. “Here, light these in the coals, and follow me.”
With blazing torches in hand, father and son walked to the pyre. By then, the sun had set hours ago. Both men delayed lighting the blaze that would lend finality to Shelhera’s life. “Let’s do it together,” Aelfric said.
When Laakea hesitated, Aelfric grasped his son’s wrist with his free hand, dragged him forward, and shoved the torch into the dry wood. The tiny flame blossomed into a searing blaze and forced them to back away as the fire snapped, sizzled, and consumed the woman they loved.
Laakea and Aelfric stood side by side while Shelhera’s pyre brightened the night with flame. The breeze quickened the conflagration and blew embers into the night sky like fireflies rushing toward the stars. Darkness swallowed the tiny sparks as they soared upward. As father and son faced the flames together, Aelfric put his meaty hand on Laakea’s shoulder to comfort him.
.
The comfort disappeared the next morning, similar to the way the sparks vanished into the night sky. Once the flames of the funeral pyre died away, leaving only ashes behind, Aelfric changed, and only shadows of his former self remained. His grief was an open wound that never healed. Only one parent had been sick, but both had weakened and withered throughout Shelhera’s illness. The light in Aelfric’s eyes disappeared, and laughter followed it into the dark void of silence that replaced it. Aelfric’s long silences became sullen, punctuated by outbursts of rage. The best Laakea could expect of his father in the many tendays following his mother’s funeral was a single word answer to a question.
Shelhera’s stories about their Eniila ancestors and their lives provided Laakea with a window into the world he had never known, but her death shuttered and barred that window. She never explained why their family lived on the island belonging to the Abrhaani; she had insisted it was not her story to tell, but if it were up to Aelfric to voice it, the truth would be hard to uncover. Aelfric had always looked displeased whenever Shelhera told Laakea her stories. Despite those looks of disapproval, Aelfric had never reprimanded Shelhera, at least not when Laakea could hear them, but Shelhera died too soon to answer all Laakea’s questions. Laakea had no relief from his curiosity. Shelhera was gone, and Aelfric grew violent when asked, but Laakea was determined to solve the mystery of their exile no matter the cost.
A Puzzle
In the late afternoon, two days after Rehaak’s battle with the black-eyed men and his rescue by the wolves, Isil arrived, plodding down the road beside her mithun. The drab brown and black hides of the mithun and Isil’s dust-covered clothes stood in sharp contrast to the trees’ brilliant yellow and crimson fall colors. Rehaak set aside the tools he was using to cut firewood and dashed across the dell to meet her.
“I’m glad you’re here. Strange things have happened since your last visit. W
e must talk,” Rehaak said. His words came out in a rush until he noticed Isil appeared confused.
“Hold on there,” she said. “I just stopped to say hello. I have essential supplies for people in Dun Dale, so I can’t linger.”
“Remember those knives the men carried when they attacked us on the road? Three men attacked me two days ago, and they carried the same knives. It’s late in the day, and you’ll never make New Hope before nightfall anyway. I made a delicious rabbit stew, so please stay. I need your insight.”
They unhitched and watered the mithun, hobbled them, and left them to graze in the clearing. Isil washed the dust from her face and hands while Rehaak spooned out steaming bowls of stew. She paused after the first mouthful. “You didn’t exaggerate the taste of this here rabbit stew, my friend.” She finished the meal without further comment, her silence a testimony to his cooking skills.
When they were done, he set a bench and chair in front of the fireplace and told her how the wolves protected him from the tattooed men. Isil alternated between scowling and nodding while Rehaak spoke.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think you landed yourself in a mess for sure.”
“Obviously, but what did they want? They made no demands,” Rehaak said.
“More’n likely they wanted you dead, I reckon, but we don’t know who sent ‘em.”
“You think someone hired them?”
“Yup.”
“Was it Raamya? Is he trying to get rid of me?”
“Nope.”
“The man detests me. It wouldn’t be out of character for him to hire someone to kill me.”
“Nope.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Are you sure it wasn’t Raamya?”
“Yup.”
“How could a dead man mutilate his own body, and what was the black mist? And what about their black eyes?”