Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

“I’m sure it’s nothing. You forget. There is practically an army outside just itching for their chance to fight. Anyway, we certainly can’t find out standing here.” Arista took Thrace’s hand and led them out to the courtyard.

Being the second night, the event had moved into full extravagance. Outside, the high grassy yard of the manor’s hill was set up like a pavilion at a tournament joust. The raised mound of the manor’s motte offered a perfect view of the field below. Colorful awnings hung stretched above rows of chairs with small tables holding steins of mead, ale, and bowls of berries and cheese. The archbishop and Bishop Saldur sat together near the center, while several other clergy and servants stood watching the distant action unfolding on the hillside beyond the castle walls

“Oh, Arista my dear,” Saldur called to her, “come to see history being made, have you? Good. Have a seat. That’s Lord Rufus out there on the field. It seems he tires of waiting for his crown, but the vile beast is late in showing this evening and I think it is making his lordship a tad irritated. Do you see how he paces his stallion? So like an emperor to be impatient.”

“Who is to come after Rufus?” Arista asked, remaining on her feet looking down at the field below.

“After?” Saldur looked puzzled. “Oh, I’m not sure actually. Well, I hardly think it matters. Rufus will likely win tonight.”

“Why is that?” Arista asked. “It isn’t a matter of skill really, is it? It is a matter of bloodline. Is Lord Rufus suspected of bearing some known ties to the imperial family?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact he has claimed such for years now.”

“Really?” Arista questioned. “I have never heard of him ever making such a boast.”

“Well, the church doesn’t like to promote unproven theories or random claims, but Rufus is indeed a favorite here. Tonight will prove his words, of course.”

“Excuse me, your grace?” Tomas said with a bow. He and Thrace stood directly behind Arista, both still appearing as nervous as mice. “Do you happen to know why the village bell was rung?”

“Hmm? What’s that? The bell? Oh that, I have no idea. Perhaps some quaint method the villagers use to call people to dinner.”

“But, your grace-” Tomas was cut off.

“There.” Saldur shouted pointing into the sky as the Gilarabrywn appeared and swooped into the torch light.

“Oh, here we go!” The archbishop shouted excitedly, clapping his hands. “Everyone pay attention to what you see here tonight, for surely many people will ask how it came to be.”

The beast descended down to the field and Lord Rufus trotted forward on his horse, which he had the foresight to blind with a cloth bag to prevent it from witnessing the pending horror. With his sword held aloft, he shouted and spurred his mount forward.

“In the name of Novron, I-the true heir-smite thee.” Rufus rose in the stirrups and thrust at the beast, which seemed startled by the bold confidence of the knight.

Lord Rufus struck the chest of the creature, but the blow glanced away uselessly. He struck again and again, but it was like striking stone with a stick. Lord Rufus looked shocked and confused. Then the Gilarabrywn slew Rufus and his horse with one casual swipe of a claw.

“Oh dear lord!” the archbishop cried, rising to his feet in shock. A moment later the shock turned to horror as the beast cast out its wings and, rising up, bathed the hillside in a torrent of fire. Those in the yard staggered backward spilling drinks and knocking over chairs. One of the pavilion legs toppled and the awning fell askew as people began to rush about.

With the hillside alight, the beast turned toward the castle and, rising up higher, let forth another blast that exploded the wooden stockade walls into sheets of flame. The fire spread from dry log to dry log until the flames swept fully around ringing the castle. It did not take long for those buildings close to the walls, those roofed with thatch, to catch, and soon the bulk of the lower castle and even the walls surrounding the manor house were burning. With the light of fire surrounding them, it was impossible to see where the Gilarabrywn had gone. Blind as to the whereabouts of the flying nightmare and the intensity of the heat growing all around them, the servants, guards, and clerics alike scattered in terror.

“We need to get to the cellar!” Tomas shouted, but amidst the screams and the roar of the flames devouring the wood, few heard him. Tomas took hold of Thrace and began to pull her back toward the manor. With her free hand Thrace grabbed Arista’s arm, and Tomas pulled both back up the slope.

In shock, Arista put up no resistance as they dragged her from the yard. She had never experienced anything like this. She saw a man on fire running down the slope screaming, thrashing about as flames spiraled up his body. A moment later, he collapsed, still burning. There were others, living pyres racing blindly about the yard in ghastly brilliance, one by one collapsing on the grass. Out of instinct, Arista looked for the protection of Hilfred, but somewhere in her soup-like mind, she remembered she ordered him to remain on guard in her room. He would be looking for her now.

Thrace held her arm in a vice grip as the three moved in a human chain. To her left she saw a soldier attempt to breech the wall. He caught on fire and joined the throng of living torches, screaming as his clothes and skin burned away. Somewhere not far off where the fire had spread to the forest, a tree trunk exploded with a tremendous crack! It rattled the building.

“We have to get down in the cellar.” Tomas insisted. “Quickly! Our only hope is to get underground. We need-”

Arista felt her hair blowing in a sudden wind.

Thrump. Thrump.

Deacon Tomas began praying aloud, as out of the smoke-clouded night sky, the Gilarabrywn descended upon them.

Crawling out of the well into the gray morning light, Hadrian entered into an alien world. Dahlgren was gone. Only patches of ash and some smoldering timber marked the missing homes, but even more startling was the absence of trees. The forest that had hugged the village was gone. In its place was a desolate plain, scorched black. Limbless, leafless poles stood at random, tall dark spikes pointing at the sky. Fed by smoldering piles, smoke hung in the air like a dull gray fog, hiding the sky behind a hazy cloud from which ash fell silently like dirty snow blanketing the land.

Pearl came out of the well. Not surprisingly, she said nothing as she wandered about the scorched world stooping to turn over a charred bit of wood then staring up at the sky as if surprised to find it still there now that the world had been cast upside down.

“How did this happen?” Russell Bothwick asked to no one in particular, and no one answered.

“Thrace!” Theron yelled as he emerged from the well, his eyes focusing on the smoking ruins atop the hill. Soon everyone was running up the slope.

Like the village, the castle was a burned out hull, the walls gone as were the smaller buildings. The great manor house was a charred pile. Bodies lay scattered, blackened by fire, torn and twisted. The corpses still smoked.

“Thrace!” Theron cried in desperation as he dug furiously into the pile of rubble that had been the manor house. All of the village men, including Royce, Hadrian, and even Magnus dug in the debris more out of sympathy than hope.

Magnus directed them to the southeast corner muttering something about the ‘earth speaking with a hollow voice.’ They cleared away walls and a fallen staircase and heard a faint sound below. They dug down revealing the remains of the old kitchen and the cellar beneath.