The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) (16 page)

Merriam nodded and smoothed her long, brown dress. “Please keep your father and brother safe, Valthian. Swear it to me again.”

“I swear it to you,” he replied. “I will not rest until we are all safe somewhere far away from here. Do not fret, Mother, for this is only temporary. Once Solstice is safe again, we can all come back and live out the rest of our days.”

She looked down at Alain. The man was clearly fighting to keep his eyes from rolling into his head. He took ragged, uneven breaths. “I will raise your daughter as one of my own.”

“I know you will.” Alain covered his mouth and coughed; tiny spots of dark blood appeared on the back of his hand.

Merriam looked as though she wanted to hug the both of them, but instead she quietly left the room. Valthian hoped that she was doing as she had been asked, but he knew his mother to be a stubborn woman. She was sharp as a whip though, and he was counting on just that to help her do what was right.

He turned his gaze towards the blacksmith. “We have to get you away from here before it happens.”

Alain nodded. “Can I see Elyna once more before we go? I won’t wake her.”

Valthian shook his head. “It is better that we go now. I do not think that either of us wishes for her to see you when the change takes place.”

“Yes,” Alain said. “I suppose you’re right about that. Will you see to it that she receives my letter?”

“She has it already. I slipped it into her satchel. With a little luck, she will be well on her way to Molhadius before it is discovered.”

The blacksmith nodded and tried to stand, but sank back into the chair. He wheezed and tried to stand once more. Valthian grabbed his good arm and hoisted him into a standing position.

“Valthian?” Alain gasped. “Something is very wrong.”

“What is it?”

“The drums,” Alain replied, stifling a cough. “I hear drums.”

Valthian’s breath caught in his throat. “Did you say
drums
?”

“Great war drums, pounding in the distance. They’re so loud! Can you hear them?”

“We have to go,” Valthian said sternly. “I don’t care how you manage it, but damn it, you must get to the ravine now!”

“I can still make it alone, my boy. You must gather your family and make sure that my daughter finds her way to safety.”

Valthian gazed into the dying man’s eyes. “I would prefer to see this through. I don’t want you to turn before you reach your destination. It wouldn’t be safe for any of us.”

“I’ll get there,” Alain said. “Just find me a decent horse before we go our separate ways.”

“I must take your word for it, then. Just be sure that you see it through.”

“I don’t want to become one of those creatures, Valthian. I will see it through, just as sure as you’re standing before me at this very moment.”

––––––––

T
HE HOUND’S Rest was dark—no candles had been lit to welcome in the usual local patrons who spent far too much time in the old place, apart from their families, drinking and gambling their money away. But there was nothing normal about tonight, and Tomas knew that better than anyone. Once he was close enough to the place, he noticed that the mostly rotten wooden door—the innkeeper refused to replace it for reasons unknown—had been left open and was swinging in the wind.

At first he thought that it could have been his own mistake, but Tomas remembered closing it behind him. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a single wooden stick with a bit of something
red
on one end. They were a new invention, something created by one of the great minds in Vinter’s Edge. They had intrigued him when a travelling merchant brought them to the village to sell, and while they might have been too expensive for the average person in Solstice, Tomas had purchased one hundred of the little sticks.
Fire Twigs
, the merchant had called them. Though a simple name, Tomas like it, because it suited their use. He entered the building, his steps even and as quiet as his thick boots would allow. He closed the old door behind him, locking it to keep unwanted guests from coming in. The young lord could just make out the silhouette of a thick candle sitting upon the heavy countertop where patrons would sometimes stand, drink, and share tales from lands both near and far. The coated tip of the thin, finger-length strip of wood he held was consumed by flame when he struck it against the wooden counter. The flame continued to burn, slowly consuming the twig, creating an unpleasant aroma that reminded him of burials and burnt bread. Tomas lit the candle before his little flame was spent and dropped the
fire twig
into a half-finished mug of ale.

He barely had a moment to look around the common room before he saw the bloodstained floor where Elsa had lain—he was standing in the middle of the spot. Right next to the spot, the creature that took her life sprawled, his head resting a few paces to the left. Tomas grimaced and moved away from the counter, finding more candles and lighting them with the flame of the one he held in his hand. Once the room was lit well enough for his eyes, he decided it was time to accomplish the task, as it should have been done hours ago. Only he hadn’t known then. He didn’t want to waste another moment, so he walked with purpose towards the door leading into the kitchen.

Tomas did not find it strange that the innkeeper was still absent, for Master Elwin often left Elsa and Jaimen, the cook, to take care of the place. That was if he wasn’t too drunk. If he had consumed one too many spirits, he stumbled upstairs to one of the rooms and slept the night away. It would have made more sense for the owner of an inn to simply live in the place, but the man who ran The Hound’s Rest was an odd fellow.

The young lord stopped short of pushing the door open. He took a deep breath and let it out. His heart pounded, and he felt pangs of fear bubbling up inside of his belly.

“Now is not the time to lose your courage,” he spoke aloud.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and pushed the door open. Within the short span of time it took him to step into the kitchen, Tomas had unsheathed his sword with his free hand.

“Where is she?”

He was looking right at the benches he had placed Elsa’s body upon, but she wasn’t there. The only sign that a corpse had ever been placed on them was the small pool of blood that still hadn’t managed to soak into the wood.

Tomas placed the candle on a small table and gripped the sword with both hands. On the far side of the kitchen, his target knelt, its back to him. The thing made a strange gurgling sound and crouched lower, burying its head into the neck of a rather dead, rotund man. By the dim candlelight, the young lord thought he could see an apron tied around the victim.

“Jaimen!” Tomas yelled. “You’re eating Jaimen!”

The creature that had once been Elsa Deros—the woman he loved—did not look up from its meal.

* * *

V
althian made sure that Alain was able to ride away on one of the calmer horses in his family’s stable, and then headed out into town on foot. There were only five good horses left that he trusted for riding, and he wanted to make sure that his mother could have her pick of them, so he left them all behind. Besides, it might be easier to find his father and brother if he walked. The night had grown much colder, so he wrapped himself in a thick pelt. It was more than enough to keep him warm, although it was not as elegant as the clothes he was accustomed to wearing.

Valthian made his way through the market, glancing once in the direction of his brother’s favorite inn.

“It’s shuttered for the night,” he whispered. “There are no lights on. Perhaps it’s too cold for visitors and the old man didn’t bother opening up.”

The Hound’s Rest had an eerie look about it, lights out and dark clouds looming above it. Valthian shook the chill from his bones and kept walking. Finding Tomas where he was expected to be would have been far too easy, especially when he was needed for a matter of such urgency. If the damned inn had been opened like it should have been, and the boy was inside drinking watered down ale and gambling, half of Valthian’s mission would be accomplished and they would be that much closer to leaving the village behind forever.

We’re truly leaving Solstice.

The thought saddened him, but the wheels had already been put into motion. True, he had only seen a few of those
things
, but that was more than enough to confirm the stories that had been coming in from the neighboring villages.

Some of those villages were gone.

That bit of news had played a major role in his choice. If those places had been burned to the ground because of the dead rising from their graves, Solstice
could
be next. He had heard that few people were spared; even many of the ones who were not sick had been killed for good measure. He did not want to stand idly by and watch as the same fate befell the people he loved. No home was worth that much, not even if you had lived there your entire life. The memories would be enough to remind him of his birthplace. Someday, maybe they could return.

Valthian rounded a corner and stopped running. There was smoke rising just down the path. Even through the darkness and thick clouds overhead, he could see the tendrils coming from the direction of the only schoolhouse in the village.

“No,” he gasped. “Not the school!”

He breathed deeply of the cold winter’s air and ran.

* * *

“G
et ready to charge this forsaken pit of damnation,” Balin called to his men. “We shall burn every last part of Solstice until the very ground upon which it stood is scorched straight into the abyss! These are the orders of your king!”

His vast throng of soldiers encircled the entirety of the village, just out of sight of anyone who might take notice. According to the king, and the supposed holy man, the place was condemned to host the vile creatures of which he had vowed to cleanse Alvanshia, lest he do what was necessary to ensure that the world could thrive. Although he mourned for the souls of each man, woman, and child lost, some part of Balin also wondered what the people in these villages had done to provoke such an evil to place curses upon them. Whatever they had done, he realized that not all of the villagers were responsible, and that is why he chose to honor their traditions once the cleansing was complete.

“Ready the trumpeters,” Balin said, motioning around the perimeter he had set. “I want every last soldier to charge once the call has been made.”

Johak nodded and spurred his gelding forward. Balin wasn’t sure why the old man preferred such a docile horse, but he was more than happy to let him ride whatever animal he wished.
Lightforger
—The captain’s own warhorse—a stallion that only he had been able to tame, pranced in place for a moment, clearly not accustomed to being still. He had trained the horse to obey his commands, but it was only right that Lightforger protest somewhat. Perhaps the horse sensed the same evil as he did, dark and foul, emanating from the village like some unholy shroud of death.

Several minutes lapsed before Johak returned.

“The word is spreading among them. I suggest we take the lead before the call is sounded.”

He nodded at his assistant and seized the reigns, urging Lightforger forward. As far as Balin knew, this was the last village along the path leading to Vinter’s Edge. Once the task was completed here, he could return to the king and await new orders. It would be good to go back home, even if only to be sent back into the world soon after.

Both men had barely reached the line of soldiers they were to lead into Solstice when the trumpet call pierced the silence.

The cleansing had begun.

* * *

T
omas raised his sword and approached Elsa—or whatever the
thing
was now. This would be much harder on him than what he had done in the schoolhouse. Yes, those beasts had once been children, and putting an end to them had scarred his soul deeply, but this was the girl he had hoped to marry someday. The entire village had chided him for loving a simple commoner who spent her days slaving away at a rundown old inn, but he never cared. She might not have looked like much to those around her, but he had known what she was like on the inside.

He had found her to be beautiful.

“Damn you for making me do this,” he shouted, his voice quivering.

Tomas now hovered over the living corpse and slashed, passing his blade through its neck. He shivered as the head crashed into the open wound in the cook’s belly before rolling onto the floor.

He gathered his wits and forced himself to maintain a semblance of calm. Elsa’s body was now still, but it was in the way of his next target. The young lord reached down and seized the corpse by the arm, giving it a slight push. Jaimen—the cook—was in far worse shape than he had thought. His belly was torn open, revealing his insides. The man’s throat had also been torn away. His apron, now tattered and stained a deep crimson, had been ripped free and lay in a pool of blood next to him. This could have been prevented, had Tomas known what was to come. He had heard of these creatures, but the one that attacked Elsa was the first the young man had ever laid eyes upon.

Well it won’t happen again, damn it.

He raised the sword once more and brought it down hard, freeing Jaimen of his head. The sword’s edge stuck in the wooden floor below, and Tomas had to pull up hard to jerk it free.

“Murderer! What have you done?”

He whipped around, raising his sword once more, coming face-to-face with Master Elwin.

“Tomas?” The innkeeper stammered. “You’ve killed them, child!”

The young lord felt the color drain from his face. “It isn’t what you think. She wasn’t herself anymore!”

Master Elwin backed away. “I don’t want any part of this, boy! You keep away from me!”

“Damn you,” Tomas cried. “She was already dead when I got here! You don’t understand what is happening!”

“Rightly true,” the innkeeper replied, still backing away. “And I don’t reckon I care to understand. I was never here. Do you hear me? I was never here!”