The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle)

Title Page

Copyright Page

The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle, #1)

Grovenwell

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to readers worldwide. Thank you for making the trip to the land of Alvanshia and sticking around for the story.

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T
HE TOWN was burning; the sickly-sweet smell of charred flesh hung in the air, but he made sure that his breeches and collar had been properly pressed before clothing his body with them. Not a single wrinkle could be present when he clothed himself, or the process would have to be started over again.

There was no time for such games.

He plucked the book from its resting place upon the sole table in the room—a small bedside stand that had seen more years than most men he had known. The dark wood of the table was unidentifiable, and indeed he wondered exactly how ancient its construction truly was.

The cover of the book he now held was plain, although it was fashioned from the finest leather. Its pages looked new and carried with them the scent of freshly used ink, but this was only an illusion. He alone knew something of its true age, but even that knowledge was limited at best. This was a book that had been in the hands of many men over a wide span of years. The passages written upon these pages had led him though perils unimaginable; indeed they had led him to this forsaken place, and now they would lead him on the path to fulfill his destiny.

He was close to finding what must be sought before prophecy could be fulfilled, and the fruit of victory was almost ripe for the picking. But for now, there was the matter of leaving behind the inn in which he stood before it burned to the ground with him still inside, for neither of the artifacts he sought were to be found in this place. Not that he had expected them to be.

Carefully tucking the book into a side coat pocket, he thought to glean a final memory of the people who had sacrificed their lives to serve the greater good, so he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the scent of smoldering flesh that wafted in through the open window adjacent to the bed in which the man had been sleeping until this very morning. 

He tilted his head back and smiled, tight-lipped.

In spite of the flames that licked the planked ceiling, each step taken was part of a leisurely shuffle. The common room was mostly engulfed in flames; both the owner and his sole barmaid were lying dead just out of the fire’s reach, near the entrance—at least he assumed it was them, for only their headless bodies remained. Where there should have been a head, each body ended abruptly in a jagged mass of crimson meat just above the collarbone. He lowered his eyes in what might have been a slight nod of respect and left them, and the dying skeleton of the inn, behind forever.

Outside was no better; in fact, it was far worse. Bodies lay broken and scattered in every direction. One or two of the freshly deceased had awakened, gaining the blank stare and strange eyes that the newly risen were known for. He expected this as well; his treasured book had made mention of a plague such as this. That the legends held true surprised him, for he imagined that the stories detailing these creatures that were
born on the wings of death
were quite exaggerated, as legends often were. The ancient prophets had all been right, and now the cycle was beginning. He was almost sure that there was a name for those who died and arose from the ashes to walk again, their bodies rotting in the sun as they feasted upon the living, but he had not yet read far enough into the texts. The pages of his beloved merely scratched the surface of the events to come, but there would come a time when the name of these beasts would be spoken and all would fear the words as they left his lips, but that time would not come until each artifact had been found, and the lands that housed them destroyed.

He stood clear of the
arisen
as they ripped into the flesh of the remaining survivors, the same as always. The creatures did not seek him out, nor did they even seem aware of his presence. He left the village behind, slipping away before the soldiers who set the fires noticed his presence. They would burn him with the others if they had the chance, and he was not quite ready to reveal himself. A light sting in his leg was the only thing that served to dampen his spirits, and so he whistled a merry tune to ease the pain. The next destination was already marked, and although it was several days’ journey away, he delighted in the chill air and the happiness that enveloped his soul, threatening to fill it to bursting and bring him to his knees in glorious revelation.

The god of his heart was true, and the rewards for unyielding belief would be boundless.

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T
HE PLEASANT months of autumn had wound down much in the same way the hands of an ancient timepiece slow their steady movements and fall into decay after countless years of neglect. The land of Vintermore was already beginning to feel the biting chill that always came with the coldest months of the year. On days like this, most people preferred to stay indoors rather than come face to face with rapidly declining temperatures. Those who called the village of Solstice home were no different; in many ways they hated wintertime as much as anyone else. They were different, however, in that the tiny farming village in which they called home was situated to the far north of Vintermore, just on the edge of Winterstone Wall—a great and jutting natural wonder, the tip of which loomed so high in the sky that what could be seen of the mountaintop was always covered in ice and snow. No adventurous man in recent memory had ever reached even the halfway point of the massive landmark.

Though the people of Solstice took many precautions to fight off the bitter temperatures that were common throughout the land, they still made a point of going about the day as anyone living in any other land would; people ran errands, instructors ensured that the schoolhouse remained open for young children to complete their studies, and merchants traded goods in the market. The only notable differences in the market were in the sort of goods being bought and sold. Blankets, candles and dried, salted meats were in demand at this time of year. Most who lived in Solstice already had an ample supply of root vegetables and grain in their personal storerooms. The only things missing from most villagers’ cellars were a good supply of meat and a few other special items of that would be needed to help them endure the inevitable months of snow and ice. Whisky was of particular interest during the coldest of seasons.

On this particularly chill day in the heart of Solstice, two young brothers named Tomas and Valthian were doing their best to ignore the weather as they walked home from the village’s only schoolhouse. Valthian was the eldest of the pair; his long, dark hair flowed freely down his back, coming to rest just below his shoulder blades. Both wore dark velvet tunics and breeches with deep crimson cloaks lined in fine silk. Fastening cloaks around the necks of the pair were buckles embossed with the symbol of
House De’Fathi
. They were often mistaken as twins when they journeyed beyond the boundaries of Solstice. In fact, the brothers were five years apart, sons of a minor lord who had left behind most of his family’s wealth and made his home in the village, settling down with the daughter of a weaver. Most of the noble houses throughout the kingdom rejected the union, for it was frowned upon to fraternize with the poor. Philip De’Fathi snorted through his thick moustaches each time he was reprimanded by another lord, for there was no law forbidding the union. Alas, at the end of the customary period of courtship, he was wed to Merriam on a warm spring day in the courtyard of Solstice’s sole chapel, surrounded by cheering townsfolk. Soon after, he became respected by all, even taking up the governance of the village after the mayor disappeared and was never heard from again.

“I tire of the chill in the air,” Tomas said. “I have never been one for the cold.”

“Nor am I one for it, dear brother,” Valthian returned. “Though for other reasons than personal discomfort. It makes my heart heavy to think of those who do not have a warm fire in which to warm their bones.”

“But father sees to it that every man in Solstice has a warm fire!”

Valthian’s eyes narrowed. “Dear Tomas. I do not grieve for our own, but for our neighbors to the south. Some towns in Vintermore do not fare as well as ours.”

“Speaking of the south,” Tomas replied. “Have you heard the rumors? Fights are said to have broken out in Faire’s Wake and Grovenwell. No one knows why, but blood has been spilled. Yesterday, I overheard father talking with Old Man Granin about some of the southeastern villages having been abandoned.”

“Strange,” Valthian replied. “No one mentioned it to me. Are you sure you’re not making things up again?”

“No! Honest!” Tomas’s brow furrowed, and his face turned a deeper crimson than the frosted air could have accounted for. “It’s true. Do you know what was found when Grovenwell was investigated by the soldiers of King Randil?”

“What did they find?” Valthian was truly interested now.

“Oh, it was horrible! It has been said that they found a mountain of dead men, all piled unto a pyre and set alight!” Someone must have been in a hurry because the pyre looked to have been abandoned as soon as the fire was lit. By the time the soldiers discovered it, the flames had died out, but the smell of charred flesh was still strong in the air. That’s not the worst part, though.”

“Oh?”

“No. When they began checking the village for survivors, one of the soldiers was attacked from behind.”

Valthian laughed. “I don’t mean to make light of the situation, but who would possibly want to attack armed soldiers in service of the king?”

“A dead villager,” Tomas clasped his hands together and fidgeted nervously. “That’s what I heard.”

“That is preposterous! Brother, I believe you have been reading too many of those horrid fiction scrolls Dani Ennith brings with him from Vinter’s Edge.”

“I haven’t read those things in ages! Besides, you read those more than I do, which is probably why you have those blasted nightmares! Val, I promise that I’m not fibbing. Father did not know that I heard. I hid in the next room, careful to stay out of sight, but I was still well within earshot.”

“Well, perhaps you misheard. I mean really!
The dead
?”

Tomas stood still, staring at his feet. From the look of him, Valthian guessed that he was telling the truth after all. He always went completely silent when he thought someone wasn’t taking him seriously. It was his only defense, a thing that was more likely to be done by a small child than the son of a well-respected leader. Valthian thought that perhaps he was being too hard on Tomas; he was barely thirteen. But he knew the young boy would have a hard life ahead if no one bothered to teach him—or question his antics at the very least.

“I am sorry, Tomas.” Valthian shivered against the wind that was beating down on his face. He brushed the hair from his eyes. “I did not mean to doubt you. And speaking of nightmares, I had another of those damned dreams last night.”

“Was it the same dream? The one about the shrouded woman?”

Valthian nodded.

“Did you see her face this time?”

“No,” Valthian said. “It was still hidden behind the veil she wears, and it’s more of a long, flowing robe she’s clothed in than a shroud. Still, the whole thing is unnerving. I would rather not discuss it.”

He paused, clearing his throat, and added, “Do you think we should talk to father about what you overheard when we get home? Perhaps he will tell us what actually happened.”

“I don’t know,” Tomas said. “He might get pretty upset at me for eavesdropping. They were rather secretive about the whole conversation.”

“Apparently not secretive enough.” Valthian chuckled, feeling the weight of his dream lift for a moment. He was never short on laughter when Tomas was around. “Though you’re an old pro when it comes to getting into things you shouldn’t. Hiding something from you is nearly impossible, so I have learned.”