Chapter 12d: Drummen in the Cave

The water had risen to his upper thighs, soaking his britches with cold. He didn’t care. His brothers and sisters had been arriving, a few at a time, for hours. They stood around him. He couldn’t see them but the stone cavern echoed the sloshing water as they shifted in anticipation of the feast to come.

The dreams of rending flesh, warm blood and screaming voices continued. They pacified him, temporarily quenching his hunger, but they hardly controlled his need. The visions barely kept him under control. His tongue licked moisture from his upper lip. His teeth chewed the soft flesh of the lower one. He craved flesh, a hunger that the dreams wouldn’t be able to fulfill much longer.

A splash echoed. A low growl thrummed over the rippling water and reverberated off the walls of the cave. The growl grew into a roar. Water splashed. Bones crunched. The rich smell of blood wafted through the air, a faint aroma that stood out from the smell of rot and mildew. The odor drifted through the air like a steak cooked over an open pit. He hungered. It almost drove Drummen to action. Almost.

He didn’t turn to look, but he could hear the wet feasting stirring the water behind him. A beast had entered the cave; a beast like himself, but different. A predator had taken one of his brethren. A predator sent by the Voice. Another creature slid through the water behind the predator; one like himself, but different.

The two new presences were also brothers, older brothers; wiser brothers. The Voice told Drummen to obey them, to follow their commands. They would show him a cornucopia of flesh, rivers of blood.

He could hear the beast snapping and tearing meat from bones. Water splashed and rippled, soaking more of his pants. He didn’t care. The creature feasted in the humid darkness. The beast devoured one of his brothers. He hardly noticed as the wet smacking continued for minutes, maybe hours. Time no longer mattered. He only cared about his hunger, his hunger and the Voice.

Finally the meal ended. The ripples and splashes lessened.

The beast and the stranger moved through the liquid water, the black void. They moved by him, an arms length away. The predator splashed through the water; proud, daring any of his brethren to approach him. The other one moved with a fluid grace, a smooth wake ripped through the waters behind him. The beast and the stranger moved with intent, a hunter’s stride.

The beast thoughts radiated to Drummen; a kindred spirit living for hunger, anger, and hate. The stranger’s mind shone like green swamp gas, vile and shapeless. Alien.

The beasts splashing stopped, but the smooth wake of the stranger continued up the dark cavern corridor. It had another purpose, one that didn’t involve waiting with the beast, or Drummen.

Within minutes the echoes of the strangers ripples diminished and again water dripping from the ceiling and the occasional shifting of his brethren were the only sounds to be heard other than the occasional growl of the beast.

Chapter 12c: Rescue Plans

Stiles stood next to the War Room door rubbing his temples. The War Room. He had never been within the palace walls before being rescued from the training yard. Just a few short hours ago he had been a lackey for Drummen and now he stood in the palace waiting to be called to a private conference with the Duke and his top advisors. I bet Wellan’s in there. Thinking the Wizard would be in attendance comforted him a little, but there would also be generals and maybe even that haughty Priest, Piet Lithor. Thinking about the Piet stole the comfort Stiles gained from imagining the Wizard’s presence.

What if they think I did a terrible job of getting my men out of the dungeon? What if they want to demote me, put me under Ash, or even throw me out of the city guard all together? His hand rubbed up and down the leg of his britches. His stomach twisted into a knot.

He had botched the dungeon breakout. He had hesitated when he should have know what to do and acted. Ash shouldn’t have been the one making the decisions. Stiles had the responsibility of keeping his men together, keeping them from being killed. Maybe I should step down, suggest to the Duke that Ash be put in charge? Ash had the men’s respect. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t crumble under pressure.

What if they have another assignment for me? Maybe they want me to sneak out and get help? The thought didn’t ease his anxiety.

He spun around as pounding footsteps raced toward him, a guard. The man stopped in front of the oaken War Room door, straightening his helmet. He beat on the door with a glove-covered hand.

“Come in.” a muffled voice from behind the door.

The guard pushed the door open and strode into the room. Stiles peaked around the corner. Inside the room sat a large table with a map of the city laid across it, painted wooden markers stood at different points across the map. Three men leaned over the table, the Duke himself, Wellan, and an upper ranking guard that Stiles barely knew, but not a general, and no Piet.

The guard snapped his hand to his chest in a salute before speaking in a winded voice, “My lord Duke. The people are moving away from the palace, further into the city.”

The Duke straightened from his bent position over the table, his brows coming together at the bridge of his nose. “They are retreating?”

“To be honest, sir, we are not sure what they are doing. About ten minutes ago they turned and started walking away from the palace. The areas around the walls are cleared of them for the moment.”

Duke Renier turned to Wellan, a what do you think look on his face. Wellan shrugged. The Duke turned back to the guard. “Groyce. Your name is Groyce isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, Groyce, did you see where they went?”

“No, my lord. The drizzle is starting to slacken, but visibility is still poor and the surrounding trees and buildings hid them from us pretty quickly.”

The Duke faced Wellan. “Well, my friend, do you have any idea as to what may be happening?”

Wellan shook his head. “I haven’t got a clue, but I don’t think they are retreating. Whatever is going on, I don’t believe it bodes well for us.”

“Well, I think we should use this to our advantage.” He turned back to Groyce. “Thank you for that information, Groyce. You’re dismissed.”

The guard saluted once more before turning and striding out of the room.

The Duke waved to Stiles. “Come in Stiles.”

He walked into the room. Every step felt more awkward and clumsy than the last, a duck waddling through a room full of hawks. He could feel his face turning red. He stopped in front of the Duke. His salute seemed lame after seeing the other guard do it. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Yes, Stiles, I have a job for you and it looks like the Fates are smiling on you today.”

“A…a job, sir?”

“Yes. A few hours ago someone rang the bell on top of the Temple of Vaspar. The guards on the wall said they saw at least three men moving about in the bell tower and there could be more people below. I would like you and your men to go to the Temple and bring those people back. I don’t know how they have survived there this long. I would send some of my personal guards, but there are few left.”

He wasn’t being demoted, not even reprimanded. The Duke had handed him an important assignment. He stood straighter. “You can count on me, Sir.”

The Duke smiled, “I knew I could, Stiles. When you and your men reach the church I would like half of your men to keep going, to get out of the city and go to Baron Milchev’s castle. I need to warn him of this epidemic and see if he can send help, though I’m not sure he will. He is an ornery bastard to say the least, but he needs to be warned of what happened here. Hopefully it will keep him from suffering our fate.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Wellan cleared his throat. “You might also want to send some of the men into the city. Let them find out where the people have gone and report back here.”

“That is an excellent idea. Send a quarter of your men to warn Baron Milchev and another quarter to find out where the people are and what they are doing. You can decide which men will be scouting and which will go to the Baron.”

“Yes, Sir. They are good men. I know they can do as you ask.” They aren’t going to be happy to hear about this assignment. Not happy at all.

Duke Renier rubbed his chin, thinking. “Wellan and I had discussed causing a distraction to pull the people away from a section of the wall and then lowering your men down on ropes, but since they have left the area around the walls I think you should try and go out the front gates. What do you think Wellan?”

The wizard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He smiled. “Their retreat at this moment is fortunate. I think we should give it a try.”

“Then the front gate it is. If they don’t return you can come back that way also. If they do return we will keep an eye out for you. If we see you coming we will distract them as we planned and lower ropes down to pull you to the top of the wall.”

Stiles clasped his hands behind his back. “That sounds good. Anything else, my Lord?”

“No. That will be all.”

“Yes, Sir.” Stiles’ salute remained as awkward as ever.

Chapter 12b: Observations

"How long are we to sit here and wait?” Lurok Bos Spielter grumbled. He squatted on the tiled alter steps with his hand propped under his chin, staring at his feet. Lithor didn’t care for his choice of seats, the alter being the holiest of ground, but under the circumstances he didn’t think it worth mentioning. Brother Cylus, on the other hand, fumed and glared at the merchant. His mouth had even opened once or twice to say something, but the rant never got past his wrinkled lips. Bos Spielter didn’t move and no one, not even Brother Cylus, wanted to start an argument that wasn’t necessary.

“If Duke Renier is still alive, and I have no doubt that he is, then help will come as soon as he can arrange something.” Though he spoke to the group with confidence, his words were spoken to comfort himself as much as the others.

When no one replied, Lithor walked to the window. He could only take so much of the merchants’ growling and complaining. Thank Vaspar the man had finally tired of his own grumblings. He desperately wanted to put the merchant in his place, to do what the old Piet would have done, but he didn’t want to return to being that man, the one who ran. He didn’t want to ever see himself cowering behind a bed again while a friend, a brother in Vaspar, stood in his place against the forces of evil. No, he wanted that man to be gone forever. If he had to sacrifice his pride in order for that to happen then so be it. The loss of his status would just be one of the many penances he planned on paying for a lifetime of sin and arrogance.

He watched the mass of pale bodies meander aimlessly back and forth at the edge of the safe zone. Their numbers had decreased, but not knowing where they all were bothered the Piet more than watching them stumbling about in front of the temple. Maybe they will get bored and find somewhere else to haunt. Or should I be doing something? Did the lord Vaspar save me and give me a weapon to combat them? If so then why do I cower behind the walls of His temple? What does He have destined for me? What is Your will, my lord?

Brother Cylus’ liver spotted hand grasped the window frame, interrupting the Piet’s thoughts. His raspy voice asked, “Why do they stay? What are they waiting for?”

“Us, I think.”

Two of the bodies walked into one another’s path. Each turned to avoid a collision.

“Why don’t they attack their own?”

Lithor’s thumb rubbed up and down the pommel of the sword. His eyes focused on the crowd. “I don’t know.”

“Why do they hate us?”

He pulled his gaze from the window and looked at Brother Cylus. “I don’t believe they do. I’ve looked into their eyes. I didn’t see hatred; longing perhaps. Hunger, desire, need maybe, but not hatred. I believe I even saw fear or revulsion when they looked upon the holy sword, but hatred…no that I haven’t yet seen.”

“Do you think they still have souls?”

Lithor returned his gaze to the window. Since entering the temple he had asked himself that question over and over again. He wanted to think they still had souls, a part of themselves that could be redeemed and brought back. He shuddered to think that they could be lost in the void, without any hope of return or salvation. Or worse yet, trapped within those mindless bodies, forced to see themselves committing atrocities they couldn’t control. He tried to tell himself that they were still in there somewhere, blind to their actions and desperately trying to escape the prison of their own bodies. He wanted to see them returned to the lives they had lived only hours earlier. He wanted to put the world back where it had been less than a day ago. Though he wanted to put everything back like it was, he couldn’t’ see how things could be put right as he watched them aimlessly stumble through their environment. They ignored everything, walking around objects and occasionally into them, only becoming driven in the presence of the uninfected. Violence and desire seemed to be their only motivation.

“Piet Lithor, do you think they still have souls?”

“I wish I could tell you that they do, Brother Cylus. I honestly do, but to be honest with myself…I don’t think so. I don’t know what evil causes them to hunt us, but I think their souls are gone. I only hope that they are in a better place and not devoured by the force that created them.”

“Where do…”

“Please, Brother Cylus. No more questions. I’m…”

Footsteps pounded on the bell tower stairs. Both priests turned as Tollis raced down the steps. Everyone stood. The newborn let out a whimper in his mother’s arms. Two hands clasped as the newlywed couple tried to comfort one another. A mother pulled her two sons close to her sides.

Tollis looked at each person, searching. A grin lit his face as his eyes fell on the Piet. “They want us to wait.”

Bos Spielter growled, “What are you talking about, boy? Who wants us to wait?”

His smile faltered. “The guards, Bos. The guards want us to wait.”

Lithor spoke up, before Bos Spielter could snarl at the boy again, “How do you know this, Tollis?”

“A sign, your excellency. They spelled out ‘wait’ on a sheet and unfolded it down the side of the castle wall.”

The Piet turned to Bos Spielter, “I told you the Duke wouldn’t let us down.”

Chapter 12a: Awakening

"Who can know the depths of evil, and is there an equally good force to compare it with?"

~Secret Holy Scriptures of the Waken Book

---

"Come here, Tanilla. Come to mommy.”

The baby took a wobbly step forward. A pudgy hand stretched out, narrowing the gap between mother and toddler. The other stayed on the chair seat.

“Come on, honey. Let go of the chair and come to Mommy.” Rachelle motioned the baby to her, arms open, enticing the child with promises of a hug.

She smiled as the toddler took two awkward steps then stopped. Tanilla looked at her mommy as if to say, where seat go? The baby glanced over her shoulder at the chair. She tipped back and forth as she kept her newfound balance, and then turned back to Rachelle. Her face lit up with a triumphant grin. See what I did, Mommy! With a squeal of delight the baby gave herself a single clap, almost falling over, and then looked down at her feet to verify the truth of matters.

The room darkened. The golden glow of sunlight shifted to the hazy light of dusk. Shadows crawled across the floor and walls, giving the quaint room an ominous appearance.

Tanilla’s head snapped up, far quicker than a baby should have been capable of. Her once happy eyes turned completely white, the faint hint of pupils hidden beneath layers of milky film. None of the blue showed. Blood coated her mouth and dripped from her chin as lips pinched together in an ominous grin. The toddler opened her arms and walked toward Rachelle. The unsure stagger gone, heal to toe, heal to toe. The child moved like a predator. Her mouth opened, revealing dozens of narrow bloodstained fangs, more teeth than could possibly fit within the child’s closed mouth. In a deep voice that reverberated throughout the room the child screamed, “MOMMMMMEEEEEEEE!”

“Madame Rachelle. Are you alright?”

She jerked away from the voice, shifting to the center of the bed. Her heart pounded in her chest. A scream threatened to leap from her throat.

Wellan stood beside her, his brows furrowed together with worry.

She sat up in the bed. Tears dribbled from the corners of her eyes and became diluted in the sweat that covered her cheeks. The gray light of dusk shone through the window, filling the small room with long, menacing shadows.

Wellan’s knobby hand gently touched her shoulder. Rachelle jumped. “You must have had a bad dream. It’s not surprising…considering…”

She pulled the covers to her chest and held them tight, a thin wall against the horrible nightmare, against a world gone mad.

The wizard’s voice softened to a gentle whisper, “I…I need to talk to you, to ask you a few questions. Are you up to it?”

She turned away. My baby, Tanilla. Gone, taken away by disease, a plague…or the man with the bow. No, she was gone before he shot her, but had she moved. I felt her move within the blankets. I saw her stand. I saw her try…try and…bite. Fresh tears rolled down her cheek, starting a flow she couldn’t stop, a flood of grief that couldn’t be dammed away with glad thoughts or logic. Her shoulders shook. Her breath hitched in her throat. My baby lost her soul.

She shook her head. No, I can’t talk right now. I just lost the only thing that meant anything to me, and I’m having a little trouble putting it behind me right now. If you could come back in say…a year or two then maybe, just maybe I will have something to say.

Though she faced away from Wellan she could almost feel him nod his head as he said. “I understand. I will come back later when you feel better.”

The door creaked open.

“Wait.” The whispered word left her mouth before she could stop it. She didn’t want him there. She didn’t want to speak with anyone. She couldn’t bear sharing her grief, but she couldn’t be alone. The thought of not having someone near frightened her more than letting him see her pain.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No...Yes…I…I just don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”

“I understand.”

She paused, staring at the floor, she needed to tell him something, say anything. Nothing came to mind, nothing but her baby lying on the floor of her cottage, the look in her eyes as she came back to life, the hunger. She couldn’t just sit and stare at the wall. Wellan had more important things to do than console her.

She focused on a dark corner of the room and tried to clear her mind.

“My daughter. I found her in my house. Dead.”

Light footsteps followed by the rustle of robes, a chair creaked. “I’m so sorry.”

She thanked him for his sympathy with a single nod. Her eyes closed, taking away the distraction of the dim light shining through the window, the texture of the wall. She visualized the morning again as she spoke, stepping through every heart wrenching moment. “I raised Tanilla by myself. Her father disappeared at sea when she was small. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he just didn’t want to be a father. I don’t know and I don’t guess it really matters. She was all that mattered, the only thing I cared about. Now she’s gone.”

“Madam Rachelle, I…”

“I picked her up, held her close. Cold. She was so cold. I don’t know how long I sat like that, I lost track of time. I wrapped her in a blanket, the blanket that Miss Whorton made. It had little animals all over it. Tanilla loved animals. I wrapped her up like a baby, an infant, with only her face showing. She always reminded me that she was a big girl, but at that moment she was my baby. I think I wiped the blood from her mouth. I’m not sure.”

“I carried her outside. I don’t know where I planned to go, maybe nowhere, maybe to bring her to you. I don’t know. I just walked.”

“People, blood covered people, followed us. I became afraid. I thought they would try and take my little girl. I couldn’t allow that, but I couldn’t prevent it. She started moving, struggling beneath the blanket. My heart surged with hope. I think I sat her down.”

Seconds passed in silence. Madame Rachelle wiped her closed eyes with the palms of her hand. The memory of those next moments twisted her stomach. A fresh wave of despair washed over her. Her shoulders shook with renewed sobs.

Finish the story. Get it all out. It will consume me if I don’t release it.

“I don’t remember…I…her face. Her eyes, the dead eyes, they looked at me with a need, a hunger. Like…like an addict. I can’t explain the feeling that came over me. Fear. Shock. Despair. It was then that she…her head…an arrow. That…that’s all I can remember.”

She turned to the wizard, her eyes swollen and bleary with tears. “That’s all I can remember.”

“Madame Rachelle, I’m so sorry.”

She nodded once and turned away.

“I do have some news that might make you feel better.”

Air stuttered to her lungs. New tears trickled down her cheeks. She hadn’t thought there were any left.

“I think the…the situation awoke the magic within you. I think you could be a wizard.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t care.