The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) (18 page)
A footman noticed Valthian sneaking about, ducking from building to building and ran towards him, clutching a shield and one-handed axe.
The soldier bared his teeth. “Time to die with the rest of the filth!”
He drew his sword just in time to meet the swinging axe with a mighty clash that almost snatched the ground from beneath his feet. He grunted and shoved with all of the will he could muster and his attacker fell back a pace.
“What filth?” Valthian asked, panting, as he defended himself against yet another blow from the axe.
“You know good and well,
boy
! Your little town is plagued with the devils, just like the others!”
“There were only a few!” Valthian shouted, swinging his sword to deflect more blows.
This particular warrior was far stronger than the others; there was no time to have a battle of strength and wits with him. He had to get away from the bastard, and fast.
“Don’t matter to me either way,” the soldier spat. “You’ll all be cursed eventually. We’re cleanin’ up the mess before it spreads—”
Valthian did not wait for his attacker to finish speaking. He rolled with all the lithe of a gifted dancer and grabbed a large stone from its resting place on the ground. He jumped back a pace and threw the stone as hard as he could manage, hitting the warrior square in the nose. The axe dropped from his hand as he stumbled backwards and fell, and Valthian kicked it out of reach.
“I am truly sorry for this,” he said, kneeling over his opponent, “but I do not have time to finish our chat. Perhaps in the next life.”
With a single stroke, he ended the soldier’s life and started running again. The young lord’s intuition had been correct, but by the time he reached the main road, Philip De’Fathi was already standing in front of a well-armored horseman, surrounded in a half circle by archers and swordsmen.
They were putting chains around his wrists and legs.
“Damn!”
The curse fell from Valthian’s lips more loudly than he intended; multiple pairs of hands seize him tightly, and his unseen captors shoved him hard towards the one who was obviously the commanding officer, given the manner in which he was dressed, the great horse upon which he rode, and the protective way in which his soldiers stood around him.
“What have you brought to me this time?”
The men holding onto Valthian released their grip and gave him another shove. He landed on his knees just in front of the massive stallion.
“Do you like him? His name is Lightforger. Do you know what I enjoy the most about this particular stallion?”
Valthian shook his head, choosing to remain silent.
“I prefer a horse that only responds to my commands—a horse that would kill any other man who dared climb atop his back. Lightforger is one such horse. One of your villagers made the unfortunate mistake of coming too close to him. The man now lies dead, his back broken from being trampled upon.”
The commander dismounted and approached.
“Please don’t hurt my boy!”
Philip struggled against his binds; Valthian wanted to run to his father, free him, and take him away from the fighting. But he had been moments too late. Now they were both at the mercy of the army.
“Ah.
Your son
. I was going to ask his name. Well, this is an interesting turn of events. I get the Lord of the Damned as well as his offspring!”
“Valthian!” Philip cried. “I told you to run! What were you thinking following me?”
“I wanted to rescue you,” Valthian replied, his voice strained. “I didn’t want you to sacrifice yourself needlessly!”
The commander smiled. “A noble decision, young Valthian. Noble, but incredibly stupid.”
A soldier approached and handed over an ancient, bloodstained sword.
“He had this on him, Master Balin.”
“Thank you.”
Valthian watched as the man he now knew as
Balin
inspected the weapon.
“This is one of the finest blades I have seen. Was it passed down from your ancestors, by chance?”
“It was,” he answered. “It belonged to my grandfather, his grandfather before him, and so on.”
“I can see that it has been well cared for,” Balin said, still admiring the sword. “Family heirlooms are important. Unfortunately, it appears as though this heirloom has just been used to take lives—I have no doubt that the blood belonged to my men, yes?”
“I did what I had to do to protect my family,” Valthian said. “And to save my people from your barbarism!”
“As a man of honor, I can understand your position. But I am also currently a man of war, and it is because of that I must see things from a unique perspective.”
Valthian felt his throat tightening. He could not make out many of Balin’s features through his headpiece, but he could see the man’s eyes. There was coldness in them. This was a calm, calculating, determined leader who would not lose sleep over doing whatever job he was entrusted with.
“Are you going to kill us?” Valthian asked.
Balin shook his head slowly. “Your father has committed no crime. In fact, he was a good enough man to surrender to us without fighting back. Being of noble blood also helps to some degree. He will be taken to the king for questioning. What happens to him after that is of no concern to me.”
“What about me?”
Balin sighed and motioned to one of his men. “Have this boy’s father taken to the camp. Make sure to guard him well.”
The soldier nodded and grabbed Philip’s chains. Several members of the guard followed close behind as the lord was led from the circle. Philip tried to fight them, but his efforts were in vain.
Balin redirected his icy gaze back to where Valthian knelt. “You have committed the crime of murder. Your king’s soldiers have perished by a sword emblazoned with your family’s crest. While your father will survive, for the time being, you are to be sentenced to die. I will carry out your punishment here in the place you call home, in the name of King Randil, High Lord and Holy King of Vintermore. Do you have any final words,
child
?”
Valthian felt a shock coarse through his insides. He had never committed an act of violence in his entire life. The young man had only lifted his sword as a threat to another in defense of Solstice. Why had the king condemned him, and every other person living in the small farming village, to death without so much as a fair trial? The Vel’Haen had walked here—that much was true—but not everyone was damned to be like them—where they? Surely something could have been done to prevent further bloodshed.
“What you have done here is worse than anything that has been recorded in the legends,” Valthian shouted, surprised at the clarity and power of his voice under such circumstances. “You have caused more bloodshed in a single week than what was caused by that which you seek to eradicate! I am sure that I speak for many when I say that I hope your god judges you for this! I hope that on your day of judgment, you realize the wrongs that could have been avoided here, and you repent. When you repent, I pray that your god denies you forgiveness!”
Balin appeared thoughtful while the young lord spoke. He gripped the sword bearing the De’Fathi crest and stepped closer.
“Stand,
child
.”
Valthian stood and stared defiantly into Balin’s eyes.
“You have said your final words, damning as they were, but you said what was in your heart and I respect that. Many cower and shit themselves when they discover that they are about to die. You stand before your executioner, resolute. I might have liked to call one such as you a comrade in another life. Although you damned me before Gehash just moments ago, I will pray that your soul finds peace in the realm of spirits.”
Valthian tensed the muscles in his chest and stomach in anticipation. Balin removed his headpiece, revealing flowing, crimson hair and a well-groomed, thick growth of beard on his face to match.
“A man should be allowed to see the face of he who passes judgment upon him.”
The commander passed the sword through the heart of its owner, never blinking or looking away. He pulled the sword free and Valthian gasped. The pain was searing, his breath caught in his throat. He fought against the spasms wracking his body and stared back at Balin, even as he fell to the cold ground. His vision dimmed, but he struggled against the darkness that threatened to tear him away from the world. Valthian was now lying on his back, staring up at his killer as the man wiped blood from the sword and tossed it into the snow.
“You’re a brave one,” Balin said. “I’ll have them burn you with your family’s sword.”
He turned and walked away as though he had just greeted a merchant or given a few pieces of silver to a family without a home. Valthian coughed, and then a feeling of warmth came over him. He was sitting by the fire, warming his bones, eating stew that had just been prepared for supper. Alain, Elyna, and everyone he had ever loved huddled close, singing old songs and laughing together.
The warmth was replaced by numbness, and the visions of his family, a good stew, and laughter were replaced by nothingness. He floated in a never-ending void until
he
was the void.
And then there was nothing.
* * *
B
alin of Dor snapped the reigns lightly, causing Lightforger to gallop faster. He uttered the prayer that had been promised to young Valthian, and left it at that. Killing the boy had not been pleasurable, but then again, killing had never been an act that he relished.
Sometimes we all have to do things that we do not enjoy.
He rode through the ruins of the village twice, making sure each building had been burned; and to his satisfaction, only the church remained. It was a promise he had made to the reverend, and Balin always kept his word. The captain made his way to the camp and found Johak—his assistant.
“Do you have anything additional to report?”
The old man nodded. “Not much worth noting. Some of the children were spared; we have them tied up and ready to be inspected once we return to Vinter’s Edge. We did find one strange thing in particular.”
“Oh?” Balin asked. “And what is that?”
“A few of the soldiers made rounds just outside of the village after the—erm—struggle was over. Turns out there’s a ravine not too far from here.”
Balin chuckled. “What is so strange about a ravine?”
Johak cleared his throat. “Well sir, it’s not the ravine that’s strange. They found a man at the foot of the damned thing. Maybe
man
isn’t the best way to describe what they found. He was sick; they said he was puking blood when they approached him.”
Balin scratched his bearded chin. “It sounds to me as though he was about to become one of
them
.”
“That’s the thing, my lord. He still had his wits about him; he was mumbling something about his daughter between pukes. Hans, one of our younger men, approached him, and the bastard flew into a rage!”
“Did Hans, or anyone else for that matter, get bitten?”
“Only Hans did,” Johak said. “The others killed and burned the sick one, and then they did the same to Hans.”
“That is quite troubling,” Balin said. “But it was necessary. Find out if Hans has any living family. If so, see that they are paid his due wages and inform them that he fought and died bravely in the name of his king.”
“Right away,” Johak replied.
Balin watched his assistant leave to carry out his orders, wondering what other dangers were waiting for them in the dark.
Whatever happened, Gehash would light the tunnel for him.
––––––––
S
HE WALKED with the grace of one with intimate familiarity of the lands surrounding her, although she had only seen them dimly in the mind of the person she sought. Many deaths had occurred at this place, each one of them a beacon of light to guide her way. The ones who had done the killing were still walking about, arranging bodies onto makeshift wooden structures to be burned, lest their souls become trapped in the ebb and flow of the cycle. Only they knew nothing of the cycle, aside from the time they had spent with the shells that must occasionally rise from the grave and feast.
But it was all part of a greater plan—a plan that these people would never comprehend.
The deep hood she wore kept many of her features hidden, but the woman was unconcerned with being seen. The words of what had once been powerful incantations had been spoken before she entered the realm of man. Using such power was quite taxing, as it technically no longer existed, but precautions such as these were often necessary when one chose to go grave robbing.
The hooded woman approached the pyre that held the young man. His heart had been pierced; the wound had been responsible for his death. She was pleased that his face still had a tinge of color, which meant that there was still enough time to take him where he must go. Furthermore, she was thankful that the fools who had destroyed this place had not yet bothered to set his pyre alight.
Lifting the limp body was a simple enough task, for the rare magic coursing through the air offered more than one benefit. She brought the young one close to her, wrapping her cloak around the both of them to maintain the effects of the magic.
She wasted no time once he was secure. Only hours remained until the transformation would take place. He had to be lying in a very special place when that occurred, or a lifetime of careful planning would be lost.
She was too meticulous for that.
“There now,” she whispered, stroking his long, black hair. “You still have more to offer this world,
young one
.”
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T
he Winterstone Plague: Book 1 of The Carrion Cycle