Blood of the Fallen, Page 2

Passing an alleyway, she threw her shoulder against Xavier’s chest, sending them both stumbling into the dark corridor. Throwing herself against his chest, she pinned his shoulders to the wall, her face only an inch away from his. Just like the storybooks she had read as a youth, she brushed her lips against his. At first he just stood there, his lips stiff and unresponsive. She began wondering if she was doing it right.

  But a second later his hands were roaming her body, his soft lips fitting perfectly with hers. Feeling his tongue brushing softly against hers, she melted into his arms. She wasn’t thinking anymore. Lost in the moment of passion, her whole body felt like it was on fire.

  He could still remember their first kiss, clumsy, awkward...beautiful. The memory was all he had now, and he would cherish it always. Believing he had already cried as many tears as possible, Xavier was surprised to find that he was wrong. Wiping his eyes with the torn ribbons of fabric that were once his sleeves, he marched on. He needed to try and forget about her. It would be easier to forget I’m on fire.

  Hours later, he dragged himself up over the top of a hill only to see a small town off in the distance. “Dawsbury?” he mumbled, recognizing the street patterns, as well as the shapes of some of the taller structures. It had been many years since he and Owen had come this way, but he was reasonably certain of where he was now. But this was just impossible. Dawsbury was around eighty miles from the mountain range. How could he have possibly gotten this far, and without any memory of his travel no less?

  No matter. The only thing driving him now was the thought of a bottle of strong liquor. He had not forgotten his problem, he just didn’t care anymore. Why should he? No one was counting on him for anything, so there was no longer any reason for him to stay sober. With a little more urgency than before, he broke into a light jog. His head still hurt and the thought of a hot meal and a real bed sounded almost as good as a stiff drink. Almost...

  As he drew near the main entrance, the road grew thick with wagons and people. Blending in was easy enough; no one even seemed to notice he was there. The two watchmen near the entrance didn't seem to be taking their jobs too seriously, glancing up from their conversations only now and then to see who was entering. A local traders’ town by reputation, there usually wasn’t much trouble to be concerned about here in Dawsbury.

  It wasn't until he got past the gate when Xavier began to notice all the folk staring. With his clothes torn to ribbons, blood stains up and down his front, he stood out far more than he had hoped too. But that wasn't going to stop him. At worst, he would simply get his drink from the first tavern he saw and be on his way if necessary. After only a short time, Xavier was able to disregard all the gawking. He didn't care what anyone thought. As long as it didn’t lead to his getting thrown out of town or arrested, there wasn't much to be concerned with. Let them stare, it wasn’t like it was going to make his life any worse.

  Everywhere he went, he heard the calls of street merchants pushing their wares. The smells of fresh baked bread and slow-cooked meats was making his mouth water. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything. A sign hanging over a door across the street caught his attention. “The King’s Head,” it read in alternating green and yellow letters. Not giving it a second thought, he worked his way across the street. Despite the road being crowded, he didn’t have to work very hard to pass through. One glance at his blood-stained rags and most folk made an effort to get out of his way.

  Xavier pushed through the swinging doors and looked around the place. It was still early in the day, and there were only a handful of customers here. One looked as though he must have been drinking since early in the morning. The old man swayed in his lone booth, his white beard occasionally dipping into his ale. Grinning, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, he looked happy enough. But the other patrons didn’t seem to share his good nature, staring at the stranger with his tattered, bloodstained clothes.

  Ignoring the hostile glares, Xavier made his way up to the bar. Continuously wiping the same glass for far too long, the barkeep looked him up and down. It wasn’t just his bloody, ripped clothing that caught his eye, it was the arsenal of blades showing through the many rips in his shirt. What kind of man carried so much weaponry? “We don’t need any trouble around here,” he said nervously.

  “Right now, I am the last person in the world who is seeking any trouble, sir,” Xavier said, polite as he could manage. But he sounded exactly like he felt, exhausted.

  “Y...you’re going to have to leave. We don’t serve your kind around here.”

  “Then I won’t stay,” Xavier growled, unable to mask his mounting irritation. “I’ll take a bottle of whisky off your hands and be on my way.” Already he envisioned himself sitting up on a nearby rooftop, drinking himself into a stupor. It sounded just fine to him. But as he reached for his coin purse, his heart sank. Gone. After walking all this way and he hadn’t even thought to check for it. He suddenly felt very foolish.

  “I’m not going to ask you again,” said the barkeep, recognizing that look he had seen so many times before over the years. This man was broke. “If I have to call the guard...”

  “Please...” Xavier mumbled, fearing he might just break down and cry. The worst day of his life was only getting worse by the minute. “There must be a way we can work this out.”

  “One...” the barkeep began to count.

  “I’m a performer,” Xavier blurted out, desperately trying to work his last bargaining chip. “I could provide a bit of entertain for your patrons.”

  “Two...”

  Xavier stepped back. Of course the man didn’t believe a word he was saying, and why should he? Here comes this stranger, covered in wounds and dressed in bloody rags, suddenly claiming to be some kind of entertainer because he can’t find his coin purse. With nothing to lose and desperate for a hot meal, there was only one thing left to do.

  “Hey!” the barkeep protested as Xavier leaped up over the bar. He stumbled away from the show of aggression, certain he was being attacked. But instead, Xavier snatched a number of bottles and glasses from behind the bar and threw them up in the air. The commotion had drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. Just before the items crashed all over the bar top, Xavier’s hands worked in blinding circles to snatch each one and keep their momentum going.

  A collective gasp filled the bar as the items began twirling in two separate circles, glasses in one hand, bottles in the other. The feat was a remarkable show of dexterity and balance given the size and weight difference between the awkward objects. After keeping the two circles moving for a good thirty seconds, he tossed them all up in the air again and clapped his hands three times.

  As they came down haphazardly, he snatched each one again with little more than an inch to spare before they crashed on the bar top. This time, he had the items mixed, juggling them all in a wide, sweeping circle. Patrons began to clap and cheer, having never seen anything quite like it before. Even the old drunk was banging the top of his table, thoroughly enjoying the show. Throughout the act, occasionally Xavier would catch a bottle or glass behind his back, then flip it back up over his shoulder without missing a beat.

  Again, Xavier sent them all up at once. He spun around twice, then proceeded to race down the length of the bar as they fell. Bottle, glass, bottle, glass...he caught each alternating item in sequence, setting them up across the bar top. They even appeared to be spaced out perfectly. Everyone cheered. Even the barkeep couldn’t help but smile as he offered a few token claps of his own. But cheers soon turned into hushed whispers and pointing.

  “Hey,” the barkeep said, snapping his fingers at a girl near the rear entrance. She rushed into action and took Xavier by the shoulders to lead him away. “Fix him up and try and find him some clothes. Our new performer can’t be seen looking like that.” A little confused, Xavier looked down and realized that several of his wounds had opened up. Red spots were appearing all over his already bloody clothes.

  “Don’t you
worry about a thing,” the dark-haired barmaid said. “I’m going to fix you right up. Yes I am.” Despite his ghastly appearance, she flashed him a warm smile. “By the way, my name is Lindsey. What’s yours?”

  Chapter 2

  Misery and gloom hung over the city like a dark shadow. Nothing could have prepared the people of Shadowfen for this latest attack. Even now the townsfolk hid in their homes, afraid to go out into the streets of their own city. But it was just as well, the whole city was on lockdown until they could somehow sort through this nightmare. Although most of the cleanup had been completed, it wasn’t strange to find the occasional severed hand or ear in an alley being nibbled on by rats.

  With its people now living in constant fear, Shadowfen would never be the same. How could the townsfolk ever place faith in their king after this latest catastrophe? It would be years before things returned to normal, possibly even a generation or two. In truth, so much had changed that they barely even recognized the world they lived in.

  Near the front gate, a handful of children crowded around a wooden post. Gazing up at the crucified creature, they mumbled curses under their breath, privately voicing their disdain for this symbol of evil. The tarrin’s body had been strung up in the sun for days now. With her face twisted and bloated, flies buzzing all around her head, Thatra was completely unrecognizable.

  “Twisted demon goat,” grunted one of the boys before throwing a stone at the corpse. It missed wide of the mark and went tumbling over the top of her shoulder. The boy threw another, this time hitting the dead tarrin square in the face. The body was so dry that the stone tore her skin like paper, leaving behind a deep, bloodless gash. But when he tried to pick up another stone, the boy standing next to him stayed his hand. He looked over in dismay, then glared down at the hand, keeping his aggression in check.

  “She’s one of the demons that brought them here,” he reasoned, as if that were reason enough to keep throwing stones. “Tell me you don’t feel sorry for this monster. Now let go of my hand.”

  “And how can we be so certain?” the second boy asked, shaking his head slowly. “No one really knows if that’s true.” He gazed up at her, a look of doubt in his eyes. “She may have been innocent for all we know.” A voice he would never forget echoed in the back of his mind. Although the memory was still fresh, it felt as if he’d first heard the old man’s words one hundred years ago. I do not hold you responsible for what others have put in your head. I forgive you. Remember my words, lad, and know they are sincere. With a sad look in his eye, he glanced back at the other boy. “Besides, it’s not like there is any more we can do to her. Just leave her alone and go home. I have a feeling she will be the least of our troubles.”

  * * *

  King Milo watched impatiently as the clerics moved around the table. Stepping around the large body beneath the white sheet, one cleric tapped the ribcage several times, then bent over and pressed his ear to his chest. Then the red-robed cleric moved around to the other side of the table, repeating the bizarre procedure several more times. Each time he leaned up, shaking his head as if disappointed by the results. The other clerics didn’t appear to be any more confident than he was. They whispered to themselves, the occasional eye flicker directed towards the king.

  “Well?” The king finally said, breaking the silence. “I can only assume you are not looking for a heartbeat,” he grunted, doing nothing to mask his mounting irritation. He didn't have time for this. Diovok had died at the hands of that damn mystic. Liam would pay for that one way or another. But all was not lost, not yet anyway. It was still possible that his clerics could bring him back. But that window of opportunity was closing by the day. If it was going to be done, it needed to be done soon. “If you are done playing games with his corpse, perhaps you now have a better understanding of his condition? Can you help him or not?”

  “It is too early to say, my Lord,” said the cleric who had been tapping Diovok's chest. “One’s life force can be a fickle thing indeed. There are many factors to consider before we can even make an attempt. For instance, the longer the body has been dead, the less chance we have of returning its life force.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” the king growled.

  “It is not so s-simple, my L-Lord,” the cleric stammered, his fidgeting fingers groping around his waist. “For one thing, your shaman was not...er..not.”

  “Human,” Milo casually finished.

  “Um...right. The physical laws involved in resurrection change dramatically between species. If we go about it the wrong way, it is possible that we may lose him permanently.”

  “Yet if you continue to stall, you will ensure that fate!”

  The cleric sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the king’s unbending glare. “Yes, My Lord. We fully understand your concern. But there is yet another piece to this puzzle.” The cleric hesitated. He, along with everyone else in the city, was well aware of the king’s unpredictable temper. Delivering such a long string of bad news to the king was never a good idea, especially if keeping one’s head was a priority. “Despite the cause of death, the body has no wounds. It is fully intact.”

  “And why is that a problem?” the king asked. “If anything, doesn’t that make your job easier?”

  “Well, normally yes,” the cleric squeaked, rocking back on his heels. It was beginning to feel as if every word he said was now a gamble on his own life. “But the circumstances surrounding his death are anything but normal. In fact, it is evidence that he was not killed in our physical realm.” He flinched when the king raised his hand and began rubbing his chin in thought.

  “I see,” the king replied, his eyes wandering upward. Milo had already been well aware of that fact, but hadn’t realized it was relevant until now. The murder had indeed taken place on another plane of existence. That was where Liam was supposed to die, not his shaman.

  “I’m afraid that fact alone changes things rather drastically, my king,” he went on. “We will only have one chance at this, and we must first make sure that all the proper pieces are in place. If we fail the first time—”

  The king snatched him by his collar, hoisting the much smaller man up off the ground. “If you fail at all,” he snarled, pausing to let the threat hang in the air a moment longer, “then that goat woman will not be the only body on display.” He threw the little man down, sending him sprawling across the floor. When the king looked up, red-robed clerics looked away, pretending as if they had not been watching the whole time.

  “And that goes for the rest of you as well,” the king warned, sweeping a finger across them. “Do not test me on this. Mark my words, I will have you nailed up one at a time and let the crows peck out your eyes in front of the townsfolk. And each time I nail up another, I will be sure to single out the next man. A few days later, that man will meet his fate and I shall single out another. I will do this until each of you are nothing but a memory, or until I get my shaman back. Do not fool yourselves into thinking there is any way out of this. The shaman lives, or you die.”

  The king stepped forward and kneeled down beside the thrown cleric. Holding his side, the man was still wheezing for air after the jarring fall. “Just so you know that I am a man of my word,” the king whispered in his ear, “I choose you first. Bring him back, or say goodbye to your loved ones.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the king turned away and went back up the steps. He wasn’t in the mood to hear any begging or excuses. There were other concerns that required his attention. Ignoring servants dropping to one knee each time he came around a corner, he headed back to his private chambers. Leaning on the windowsill, he looked down on the empty streets below. Save for a few homeless beggars who seemed to have no idea that anything was wrong, his city looked deserted.

  Although he felt like punching through a stone wall, Milo nearly laughed at the irony. For weeks he had wished for the people to just go away and leave him alone. Day and night they had chanted against him, threatening to
have him dragged from the keep and strung up like some kind of common criminal. But now that he was surrounded by a deafening silence, he began to realize that being hated was still a form of relevancy. Now that the city was on lockdown, it was like he didn’t even exist. Surrounded by thousands of people, and still I am alone, he thought.

  He watched as a few men set to work on the town’s outer wall, patching the many holes that were made by the hunter’s great beast during the battle. It seemed to be a rather small price to pay, given that Owen and his friends singlehandedly saved the city. It felt odd to the king because he was rarely grateful for anything.

  He shook his head, dismissing what he believed to be nothing more than a moment of weakness, and returned his attention to the men on the wall. They were the only ones doing any sort of work for miles around. This also concerned the king. Until they could rebuild and start again, all the local businesses had been shut down. Trade had stopped completely, and there was no revenue coming into the city. Since no one was working, he was also forced to put a freeze on all tax collection as well.

  “What to do?” the king said out loud, rapping his knuckles on the windowsill. He nodded to himself, as if agreeing with some private thought. “We will rebuild. We will grow even stronger than before. If this is all the gods can throw at me, then I shall prevail as I always have.” He rapped his knuckles one more time as if to reinforce his own conclusion.

  * * *

  Jarlen sat on the cold stone with his back propped up against the wall, knees hugged to his chest. Others around the cave mirrored his less than confidant posture, several whispering among themselves in small groups. Their hushed whispers tugged at his insecurity, but what could he really do about it? He could not deny that he was shaken by the news. Of the lerwicks who went off with Orm’rak to aid in his attack, many had not returned. And those who did brought back a harrowing tale.

  Their stories were so disjointed that Jarlen could hardly make sense of their panicked ramblings. Something about a creature that looked human but clearly wasn’t. His arm had turned into a vine-like weapon and he even managed to pull several of them down into the ground, effectively killing them below the surface. Many died at his hands before he escaped over the side of a cliff.