Blood and Ashes (The Legend of Graymyrh Book 1) Page 3
Naomi shook her head. “How many is a few? And how do we decide who is to be saved?”
He stroked her hair. “I can bring Briersburge and every creature within the walls but that is all. The folk of this keep are good people - uncorrupted by the evil that is slowly poisoning Kaseden. Your influence here has kept them safe until now but you do not have the power to shield them any further. A terrible era has arrived - an age of daemons and unspeakable things! The anthir have already fallen, the varynthi digger clans too and the tribes to the far north. Niece - there is nothing left on this world outside of Briersburge to save. We have to go, Naomi. We have to go now.”
∞∞∞
Hugo Khuff had been cutting wood at the edge of the forest when the message arrived. A neighbour’s child ran to bear the news to him. The witchfinders: they had followed him, even to here, this tiny village in the middle of nowhere! They had watched, and bided their moment: seizing his darling Shanna and dragging her in chains to the village green. They had built a pyre, the boy told him, all up around her legs. Hugo had not waited to hear any more.
Instead he had run, praying to any entity that might care to listen, all the way back. Oh let me be on time! Let that not be smoke which I see...dear Gods, let it be a cloud!
It was no cloud. The acrid stench of still burning flesh filled the wind. Hugo fought his way through the smoke to the centre of the pyre, reaching for Shanna’s blistered hands. Her skin peeled away at his touch and he knelt amongst the ashes and fumbled instead for her wedding band. That too was lost: melted by the heat of the pyre.
“Why didn't you help her? Why did none of you stop them?” Hugo stumbled from the remains of the pyre. “You were our friends - our neighbours! How could you abandon her?”
No one would meet his gaze. When faced with the threat of torture and death, the village had chosen survival. He could see the soldiers now as they stepped into view from a nearby barn. The child sent to fetch him had been no messenger but a lure! It was a trap and he had sprung it. He did not care. Shanna was gone - nothing remained that was worth living for. Let them kill me, he thought as he drew his knife. I promise you Shanna, I’ll join you soon - just as soon as I send this murdering filth to the hell that they deserve!
∞∞∞
Partola dug her ragged fingernails into the cracked wood of the window frame. Beyond the grimy window of her cottage, a good man fought the murderers of his wife. Shanna had said that her husband was a warrior - some sort of mercenary. He had spent his youth travelling with various small armies, even studied with an order of monks, in some strange eastern land. Then he had come home to reclaim his roots - to be a blacksmith like his father. The village had been in need of a new smith for several months.
Hugo, then accepted with no question, was now betrayed just as swiftly it seemed. Partola could hazard a guess as to who had been responsible. There had been no sign of her husband but Partola knew that it would only be a matter of time now. His horse stood tethered along with those of the witchfinders; its splotchy gray and white hide crisscrossed with countless scars. Those same scars covered her body too. Kaspar had a heavy hand and was more than happy to take his whip to her - as he had told Hugo; women needed beating to keep them contented. Hugo had run him out of town minus both his clothes and his teeth for that. The scarred horse had vanished from the field soon after.
Now it was back and poor Shanna was dead! Hugo would soon be joining her for they had managed to get the better of him. Arms pinioned, the soldiers dragged him into the barn. The door creaked shut behind them. “Oh Shanna, my poor sister, forgive me please! They locked me up - trapped me inside my own home!”
The lock clicked open and Kaspar swaggered in, toying with a length of coarse rope. The three black clad witchfinders accompanied him. “Here she is, my goodly lords, just as I say!”
The tallest of the three witchfinders stepped forward, his long cloak flapping about his ankles. A soft smile played on his lips. He had yellow teeth, Partola noticed, and his breath smelt of wine. “So - you are the twin sister of the witch, eh? It is strange how angelic your appearance is. With such fair skin and golden tresses, blue eyes – why, you seem the very picture of innocence! Just like your late sister.”
“Shanna was no witch!”
“If I had a gold piece for every witch that claimed to be innocent, I would be a wealthy man indeed. Ha, never mind. We shall soon determine whether you too have been corrupted.”
He snapped his fingers and Kaspar sprang forward, eager to obey. Twisting Partola’s arms behind her back, he bound her wrists tightly behind the nape of her neck. The midwife squirmed helplessly beneath his bulk, and then yelped as a meaty fist caught her in the small of her back.
The window shattered: showering everyone with glass and blood, as the now headless remains of one of the soldiers splattered onto the floor of the cottage. Partola caught a glimpse of a familiar figure standing in the still open doorway. His one good eye blazed, he was drenched in blood and he was carrying a huge, gem-encrusted sword that almost seemed to glow. “Hugo!”
If her brother-in-law heard her, he gave no sign of it. Plunging forwards, he gave the other four men no chance at readying their weapons. Partola squeezed her eyes closed and tried to believe that she hadn’t seen the terrible sword’s blade writhe to life at the first taste of blood.
At last, and perhaps in not as long a time as it seemed to Partola, the battle ended. Hugo slumped to the floor of the tiny cottage. His breath rasped in his throat. “I thought that I had buried it forever: that I could find my peace here! I was wrong.”
With that, he clambered slowly to his feet; moving as if he were one of the restless ones in the tales which grandmamma had told to Partola and her sister as children. Wordlessly he sliced through the ropes binding her wrists and wandered out into the empty village square. The midwife looked about her at the gore stained walls of her home and the corpses of Kaspar and the witchfinders. Then, mindful of the blood, she carefully gathered up a few vital possessions and followed Hugo.
He foraged for them both in the end, as she knew nothing of wandering the roads but refused to leave him. Then as winter set in, he sought shelter, because she still followed and he could not bear to watch as she died slowly of cold. Luckily the road led to somewhere in the end after all, although Hugo had almost been sure that it didn’t. He thought the keep looked out of place on the barren mountaintop. Something is far too clean about it; too perfect, and right where we need it to be, as well! Gorun spare us, it must be enchanted!
The wind clutched again at his cloak, swirling it about his bare ankles. Partola had draped it about him at some point. He was dimly aware of the air that played against his muscular arms but if it was cold, he could no longer tell, save that his companion was shivering. With a sigh, he moved towards the great wrought iron gate and knocked. Best hope that they’re prepared to take folk in!
They had heard rumours in every place that they had travelled through along the way of a terrible war. A part of him could sense the violence in the air. It was coming from the north. Part of him - the part that no longer cared - wanted to go to it: to the violence, the ice plains, and the darkness. He closed his eyes and thought of killing. For a brief moment, he was warm again. Then the sensation faded. He felt strangely drained. Is this what it’s like to freeze to death, Nami?
The gate swung open and a small woman dressed in a blue woollen gown stepped into view. Her hands closed around his clenched fist; stroking him as if he were a child. “You look half frozen - come inside!” She pulled him across the threshold of the keep, Partola stumbling to keep up. “You got here just in time; there's a storm coming. Come with me.”
Hugo dug in his heels: attempting to shake her off. She was surprisingly strong. She hauled him into what appeared to be a refectory and made him sit down. Several other women began tending to them both. Bowls of thick onion soup were set before them. Hugo blinked dumbly at the food, and then found himself being spoon-fe
d. Someone whisked off his cloak and replaced it with a soft woollen blanket. Someone else pulled off his boots and set his feet in a basin of steaming water.
The small woman who had opened the gate was wiping his face with a swatch of cotton dipped in rosewater. “You poor man! What have they done to you?”
“They burnt Shanna!” Hugo dissolved utterly then and he wept: huge, racking sobs that tore at his chest. He felt soft arms enfold him and smelt perfume. It reminded him vaguely of the brothel he’d been raised in after his father was killed.
Partola shivered and gulped down her soup. “Thank you - oh thank you!”
The blue clad woman - clearly the mistress of this keep to judge by the keys at her girdle - looked up from where she was comforting Hugo. “No thanks needed, dear. This is a haven for any who are in need. I am Naomi Du’Valle. Welcome to Briersburge.”
"This is sacred Briersburge? Oh, thank the Gods - I thought it to be no more than a fable!” Briersburge was a legend; guarded by a long forgotten saint, the walls were rumoured unbreakable. How did Hugo find his way here? “Please milady - I am Partola Traffeinge and this is Hugo Khuff. We fled our village and have nothing left to us.”
Lady Naomi’s eyes flashed briefly then: an eerie witchlight similar to the bright blue flames that dance in the heart of a log fire. “Your past is over now, although the scars it has given you both will take a long time to heal completely.”
“Only death can heal the scars that I carry,” Hugo folded his arms around his chest and sank back into himself once more.
Naomi knelt before him and cupped his face in her hands. “Will it be your death or someone else’s?”
He looked at her through his one surviving eye; his scarred face blank of all emotion. “Either will do.”
She could almost see the suffering that he had endured. It swirled about him like some cruel fog of dark winged carrion birds, plucking and tearing at his spirit. So much pain, so much grief - how can any one man have endured so much? Now he stood on a precipice - poised, trembling between the three roads left to him - life, death, and vengeance. The only question: which would he take?
Naomi leant forward and breathed one word against Hugo’s left ear. “Choose.”
Hugo jerked backwards away from her touch, as though stung. Staggering to his feet, he pushed her from him - kicking the basin of water aside as he did so. Naomi landed heavily on her back. The other women shrieked and fled; all save Partola, who cowered back near the doorway. “Do not push me! Do you hear me?” He overturned the heavy oak bench with one hand; ignoring the half-eaten bowls of soup that splattered across the floor in a messy pool of vegetables and shattered earthenware. His other hand hurled the chair on which he had sat at the wall. There was the sound of splintering wood. “Do not push me!”
Naomi clambered carefully to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. “Calm yourself.”
Her voice slipped past the layers of black rage and stroked his brow with cool fingers. Anger subsiding, Hugo stared about him in bewilderment. “What have I done?” His voice felt like a glass blade in his throat.
He looked at Naomi, who smiled gently and stepped towards him. “It’s alright,” she assured him. Then her foot alighted on the edge of the spilt soup and her right leg slid forward from under her. Her skull struck the heavy slabs with a sickening crack and she twitched briefly.
Hugo dropped to his knees beside her. He laid his calloused fingertips against her neck and sighed in relief. There was life in her yet: the throb of her vein was strong and steady.
“Peace breakers! You have sullied my wife’s hospitality - and now you shall pay!”
Turning, Partola saw a dark skinned man, robed all in black, struggling to control a huge shaggy red hound. “Please sir, 'tis not what it looks like!”
Bandhir dropped the dog’s chain and drew his falchion, as he strode into the refectory. The ragged woman made as if to block his path, but he was ready for her. “Be gone from my path, you misbegotten witch!”
Her broken body slumped lifelessly to the floor, blood pooling into a red, sticky lake before merging with the remains of the soup. The hound snarled and crouched at Naomi’s side, its eyes locked on Bandhir. Hugo screamed and sprang to his feet. “Damn you - she was an innocent!” His hand sought his blade and drew it, in a smooth, organic movement.
Man and weapon struck as one, and Bandhir’s grip almost failed him. He grinned as he realized that here at last was a challenge worthy of his time. Then he whirled through the air - aiming his attack at Hugo’s blind side. The unkempt wanderer bent backwards with impossible speed, and then curled his torso upwards - smashing the flat of his greatsword against his opponent's face.
There was the crunch of shattered bone and blood spurted from Bandhir’s ruined nose. The desert warrior cursed and staggered backwards. Hugo raised his sword two-handed above his head and swung it in smooth rings, the muscles of his arms rippling. “Now it is your turn to die!”
∞∞∞
Ranulf opened his eyes at the sounds of screaming. His long dark hair was lank with sweat; the gray strands more visible than ever. His normally ruddy complexion had a sallow look to it and his hands shook as he limped from his protective circle. “What is going on?” No one answered him so he caught hold of a passing maidservant and yelled at her. “I say, girl - what the deuce is going on? What is the meaning of all this screaming and panic?”
“Lord Von Rosenhof - something terrible has happened!” She pointed towards the refectory.
He dropped her in a whimpering heap and ran to aid his niece. Naomi lay scarcely conscious yet but alive on the rush strewn stone floor surrounded by overturned furniture and shattered crockery. But she was not alone: there was a second woman lying there. This poor waif had been painfully thin and dressed in little more than rags. A lifetime of fighting told him that she had been killed with but a single blow. To see such violence sickened him, especially against a woman. For such a brutal attack to have occurred here, at peace filled Briersburge, was unthinkable. He stared about for the culprit.
A black robed figure hurtled backwards across his line of vision before smashing heavily into one of the surviving benches. There was the sound of metal sliding over stone and a familiar looking falchion landed at Ranulf's boot. He glanced briefly from the weapon to Bandhir, who merely groaned, and then drew his sabre as a hairy, muscular brute of a man stomped barefoot into view, mindless of the broken crockery that covered the floor.
The enemy is within our walls, Ranulf thought grimly as he stepped between the berserker and his prey. “Come; let us parley!” He dropped to one knee as he blocked a solid blow from the greatsword. His aging joints protested at such misuse. The fingers of his sword hand ached from the blow - hornet stings of icy fire shot through his knuckles. Ranulf struggled to his feet as if drawing himself up through tar. Every part of his body ached, screaming in protest. He grinned jauntily and took up the stance of a master duellist. “Not exactly the chatty sort then, eh? Very well - let us dance instead! Have at thee, you cad!”
The stranger snarled - his one eye blazing. “Stop playing with me and fight!”
Ranulf edged a little closer; carefully gauging the other man’s capability and trying to anticipate his next move. “Hmm - vicious fellow, aren’t you? A bit on the thin side, mind you. I rather suppose that is how you got in. I expect that my dear niece thought that you would have appreciated a decent meal and a warm place by the fire. Not murdered one helpless woman and assaulted another!”
His words seemed to ignite something within the scarred man. A mask of fury descended over his face and he charged at Ranulf, his weapon poised high for the killing blow. Ranulf steeled himself and darted forward beneath his opponent’s guard, dodging the worst of the damage and praying that he could withstand the rest. His sabre found the old familiar spot between the ribs of his enemy and bit deep - piercing the madman to his heart.
The brute’s eye widened in pain and then squeezed
shut, a solitary tear tracing downwards across his cheek. The greatsword came down against the edge of Ranulf's shoulder, lightly grazing his flesh. The berserker slumped to the floor with one hand still locked about the hilt of his weapon. His other hand clutched at Ranulf's hair in a last defiant gesture.
Much to his dismay, Ranulf found himself pulled down along with the dying ruffian. The air seemed to shake then and the entire keep shimmered as though it were made of diamond. His spell was taking effect - he had to concentrate on where they were going! He could not risk taking them to the wrong place or time. If only he were not so very tired! Reality twisted inwards on itself as the spell reached its pinnacle. His stomach lurched and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Four
It was mid-spring and the Vale of Ryln surged with life. Sylth pooled and rippled in every landmark, and the Chosen of Ryln was bored. Today was her birthday; she would be of age. Old enough to wed, young enough to enjoy it, as Ruiryk liked to tease her whenever Lonrari was out of earshot. Kaiwan sighed at that thought. She often wondered what it might be like to fall in love with someone. Life here in the Vale was fast becoming tedious. For how long do they intend to keep me hidden away from the rest of the world? Will they try to sequester me here forever?
Slo’annathorys and Lonrari had always told her that she had a destiny - an obligation to fulfil. She was not like other people; she was the Ca’Ryln: a living weapon forged from sylth itself. It was her duty to protect Graymyrh against the Vor’Barysk and his minions. That was why they kept her hidden away from prying eyes. She was, Kaiwan realized dully, nothing more than a living legend and legends did not simply fall in love and marry a brave hero. Legends had to be the hero. Having a true love, or indeed any sort of love, did not appear to enter into the life of a legend at all. It was all extremely unfair.