Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

As if from the grave itself, they pulled forth Deacon Tomas, who looked battered but otherwise unharmed. Just as the villagers had, Tomas wiped his eyes, squinting in the morning light at the devastation around him.

“Deacon!” Theron shook the cleric. “Where is Thrace?”

Tomas looked at the farmer and tears welled in his eyes. “I couldn’t save her, Theron,” he said in a choked voice. “I tried, I tried so hard. You have to believe me, you must.”

“What happened, you old fool?”

“I tried. I tried. I was leading them to this cellar, but it caught us. I prayed. I prayed so hard, and I swear it listened! Then I heard it laugh. It actually laughed.” Tomas’ eyes filled with tears. “It ignored me and took them.”

“Took them?” Theron asked frantically. “What do you mean?”

“It spoke to me,” Tomas said. “It spoke with a voice like death, like pain. My legs wouldn’t hold me up anymore and I fell before it.”

“What did it say?” Royce asked.

The deacon paused to wipe his face leaving dark streaks of soot on his cheeks. “It didn’t make sense, perhaps in my fear I lost my mind.”

“What do you think it said?” Royce pressed.

“It spoke in the ancient speech of the church. I thought it said something about a weapon, a sword, something about trading it for the women. Said it would return tomorrow night for it. Then it flew away with Thrace and the princess. It doesn’t make any sense at all, I’m probably mad now.”

“The princess?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes, the princess Arista of Melengar. She was with us. I was trying to save them both-I was trying to-but-and now…” Tomas broke down crying again.

Royce exchanged looks with Hadrian and the two quickly moved away from the others to talk. Theron promptly followed.

“You two know something,” he accused. “You got in didn’t you. You took it. Royce got the sword, after all. That’s what it wants.”

Royce nodded.

“You have to give it back,” the farmer said.

“I don’t think giving it back will save your daughter,” Royce told him. “This thing, this Gilarabrywn, is a lot more cunning than we knew. It will-”

“Thrace hired you to bring me that sword,” Theron growled. “That was your job. Remember? You were supposed to steal it and give it to me, so hand it over.”

“Theron, listen-”

“Give it to me now!” the old farmer shouted as he towered menacingly over the thief.

Royce sighed and drew out the broken blade.

Theron took it with a puzzled look, turning the metal over in his hands. “Where’s the rest?”

“This is all I could find.”

“Then it will have to do,” the old man said firmly.

“Theron, I don’t think you can trust this creature. I think even if you hand this over it will still kill your daughter, the princess, and you.”

“It’s a risk I am willing to take!” he shouted at them. “You two don’t have to be here. You got the sword-you did your job. You’re done. You can leave any time you want. Go on, get out!”

“Theron,” Hadrian began, “we are not your enemy. Do you think either of us wants Thrace to die?”

Theron started to speak, then closed his mouth, swallowed, and took a breath. “No,” he sighed, “you’re right. I know that, it’s just…” he looked into Hadrian’s eyes with a look of horrible pain. “She’s all I’ve got left, and I won’t stand for anything that can get her killed. I’ll trade myself to the bloody monster if it will let her live.”

“I know that, Theron,” Hadrian said.

“I just don’t think it will honor the trade,” Royce said.

“We found another over here!” Dillon McDern shouted as he hauled the foppish scholar, Tobis Rentinual, out of the remains of the smokehouse. The skinny courtier, covered from head to foot in dirt, collapsed on the grass coughing and sputtering.

“The soil was soft in the cellar…” Tobis managed then sputtered and coughed. “we-dug into it with our-with our hands.”

“How many?” Dillon asked.

“Five,” Tobis replied, “a woodsman, a castle guard I think, Sir Erlic, and two others. The guard-” Tobis entered into a coughing fit for a minute than sat up, doubled over and spat on the grass.

“Arvid fetch water from the well!” Dillon ordered his son.

“The guard was badly burned,” Tobis continued. “Two young men dragged him to the smokehouse, saying it had a cellar. Everything around us was on fire except the smokehouse so the woodsman, Sir Erlic, and I all ran there too. The dirt floor was loose, so we started burrowing. Then something hit the shed and the whole thing came down on us. A beam caught my leg. I think it’s broken.”

The villagers excavated the collapsed shed. They pulled off a wall and dug into the wreckage, peeling back the fragments. They reached the bottom where they found the others buried alive.

They dragged them out into the light. Sir Erlic and the woodsman looked near dead as they coughed and spit. The burned guard was worse. He was unconscious, but still alive. The last two pulled from the smokehouse ruins were Mauvin and Fanen Pickering, who like Tobis, were unable to speak for a time, but other than numerous cuts and bruises, were all right.

“Is Hilfred alive?” Fanen asked after having a chance to breathe fresh air and drink a cup of water.

“Who’s Hilfred?” Lena Bothwick asked holding the cup of water Verna brought. Fanen pointed to the burned guard across from him and Lena nodded. “He’s not awake, but he’s alive.”

Search parties spread out and combed the rest of the area, finding many more bodies, mostly would-be contestants. They also discovered the remains of Archbishop Galien. The old man appeared to have died, not from fire, but by being trampled to death. His servant Carlton lay inside the manor, apparently not content to die by his master’s side. Arista’s handmaid Bernice was also found inside the manor, crushed when the house collapsed. They found no one else alive.

The villagers created stretchers to carry Tobis and Hilfred out of the smoky ruins to the well where the women tended their wounds. The old common green was a charred patch of black. The great bell, having fallen, lay on its side in the ash.

“What happened?” Hadrian asked, sitting down next to Mauvin. The two brothers huddled where Pearl had once grazed pigs. Both sat hunched, sipping from cups of water, their faces stained with soot.

“We were outside the walls when the attack came,” he said, his voice soft, not much louder than a strained whisper. He hooked his thumb at his brother. “I told him we were going home but Fanen, the genius that he is, decided he wanted his shot at the beast, his chance at glory.”

Fanen drooped his head lower.

“He tried to sneak out, thought he’d give me the slip. I caught him outside the gate and a little way down the hill. I told him it was suicide-he insisted-we got into a fight. It ended when we saw the hill catch on fire. We ran back. Before we reached the front gate, a couple of carriages and a bunch of horses went by at full gallop. I spotted Saldur’s face peeking out from one of the windows. They didn’t even slow down.

“We went looking for Arista and found Hilfred on the ground just out front of the burning manor house. His hair was gone, skin coming off in sheets, but he was still breathing so we grabbed him and just ran for the smokehouse. It was the last building still standing that wasn’t burning. The dirt floor was soft and loose like it had recently been dug up, so we just started burrowing with our hands like moles, you know. That Tobis guy, Erlic, and Danthen followed us in. We only managed to dig a few feet when the whole thing came down on us.”