Of Limited Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-four

13 May 1767 Piety Postsylvania, Mystria

In the morning’s dead air, nothing moved in Piety.

They’d come in from the east, topping a hill that looked down upon the shallow valley in which the settlement had been raised. A modest stream ran from northeast to southwest, with a small lake at the southwestern end. It wasn’t hard to see that the lake had once been larger, but the settlers had drained what had been marshland, reducing it by two-thirds, and had placed that land under cultivation. A wooden dock jutted into the lake and Owen easily imagined boys fishing off it on a warm summer afternoon.

Owen had crouched and taken out a journal to sketch a rough map of the village. The structures had been clustered toward the northeastern end of the valley. They had neither a mill nor a workshop, but a central blockhouse overlooked a village green and served as a meeting house. Smaller houses had been arranged around it, many with corrals and chicken coops built nearby. Four barns served the community, two on each side of the stream, all southwest of the settlement.

Nathaniel sank down beside Owen. “Ain’t nothing to see, is there?”

“Doesn’t appear to be.” Owen sighed. “We might as well go down and investigate.”

“Agreed.” Nathaniel stood. “Everyone stay together. Makepeace, you’ll be watching our backsides. Steward, you’ll be with Owen, telling him what’s normal and what ain’t. Kamiskwa, Colonel, we’ll be keeping our eyes peeled and don’t be forgetting the sky. Anything comes on bat-wings, I reckon we should send it back to Hell.”

The party made their way down into the village from the east and approached one of the houses from the rear. It really wasn’t much more than a log shack, ten feet deep and twenty wide. It had a long roof sloping toward the rear, with an overhang that covered a shelf for wood storage. Owen figured it had first been made as a lean-to, with the front face open, but that had later been finished with rough-hewn boards. A plank door hung crooked on leather hinges.

Kamiskwa swung a door to the chicken coop back and forth. “No birds, a little blood, but the coop is intact. Whatever took them wasn’t a wild animal.”

Nathaniel nodded and pointed toward the goat pen. “They also took time to brush away their footprints.”

“Looks wind-scoured to me.” Makepeace bent down to take a better look. “But ain’t no wind woulda done that good a job, save for a big storm, and we ain’t had that.”

Owen shivered. “Magick, then?”

He’d expected Kamiskwa to answer, but Fire hung his head. “Evil magick. I can feel it.”

Makepeace and Rathfield crossed themselves.

They moved on to the house. Owen entered first, rifle ready, but the small shack proved empty. A sleeping loft considerably lowered the ceiling over the main room. The fire in the hearth on the left wall had long since died. Cornmeal mush had congealed in the base of a cast-iron pot hanging there. The surface had cracked like the mud in a dry lake bed. The porridge had been served up and small mounds of it had dried on four plates set on a table suitable for seating six. Butter had melted and resolidified in a small crock, and the loaf of brown bread on a cutting board had grown stale.

“Do you know who lived here?”

Fire nodded solemnly. “Ben Mason, his wife, four children-a boy, three girls.”

Owen quickly mounted the log ladder to the sleeping loft. A large bed with a cradle at the foot of it lay to the right, and three sleeping mats with blankets lay to the left. The beds had been made neatly, with one of the sleeping mats having a small ragged doll in a grey dress and bonnet leaning against the pillow.

Owen descended again and rejoined the others outside. “Family was having dinner, must have come out peacefully because there is nothing out of place. If we didn’t know what had happened, a casual look-see and I’d assume they were all coming back inside the hour.”

“Miriam always did keep a good house. Encouraged the children that way.”

Fire’s observation did nothing to make Owen feel any better. The peaceful nature of the village contrasted with the horror of the wounds on the Green woman’s body. For all intents and purposes, every living thing had vanished in an instant, and there was no reason Owen could imagine that they couldn’t disappear just as quickly. His stomach tightened as the pain of never seeing Miranda again struck him. In its wake came the cold realization that his wife would not miss him. And when he visualized his daughter crying, the woman he saw comforting her was Bethany Frost.

He wished for one moment-one selfish moment-that she had come along with them. He told himself it was because he wanted her insight on what he was seeing. He was missing something and he knew it. She would have seen it. She will pick it easily from my journal notes. She would have made short work of the mystery of Piety.

But he also knew he wanted her there for more. Piety, empty and silent, made him feel terribly alone. He harkened back to when du Malphias had kept him captive and how it had been Bethany who nursed him back to health after his escape. And even limiting his recollection to that point in his life, he was cheating, and knew it. He’d resented those men who had paid Bethany court, and secretly delighted when their suits failed-even though he could have no claim on her.

The fact was that he’d felt alone for far longer than he’d been in Mystria. While he had no desire to be alone, he realized there was no escaping that fate. His wife might loathe him, but she would never grant him a divorce. To do so would be to admit, somehow, that she had lost something. He was a possession that she would never let slip from her grasp. More importantly, however, he would never ask for a divorce. He had been solemn and sincere when he made his marriage vows to her. It did not matter that she had abandoned her obligations to him; as an honorable man, he could not abandon his to her.

Owen shook himself and they continued exploring homes, working their way toward the block house. Each home matched what they’d seen in the Mason home. Families at supper had stepped out of their houses and had simply evaporated. No signs where they had gone, and no signs of the horror Becca Green had related.

Then they reached the block house. Rathfield entered first, then turned back and vomited. Hunched over, he still held a hand out, warning the others off. As he went to his knees, Fire comforted him.

The officer wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t go in there. It’s…”

Owen swallowed hard and moved upwind of the man’s vomit. He glanced at Nathaniel. The scout nodded, Makepeace crossed himself, and the three of them cautiously passed over meeting house threshold.

The single room had been arranged as it must have been for services. A lectern stood at the front, next to a table, facing the door through which they entered. Row upon row of sturdy wooden chairs, each handcrafted, with the family name carved uppermost on the back, faced the lectern. A few chairs without names formed the last row, as if waiting to welcome visitors. The most ornate chairs, being just bit larger than the others, had been reserved for family patriarchs.

The people of Piety had never left. Virtually every chair had been filled, with bodies sitting upright and attentive, hands clasped in their laps. The villagers heads had been cleanly removed, and sat on top of those hands. Time and warmth had begun to desiccate the flesh, but otherwise Owen saw no signs of putrefaction. No bodily fluids had dripped, and all he could smell was dust, no decay. While some of the clothes showed evidence of battle-like sleeves having been slashed during efforts to ward off attacks-the faces had been arranged to look impassive, if not peaceful.

The deacon’s body stood at the lectern. His head rested where the Good Book should have been. He stared toward the door with milky eyes.

Owen didn’t know how long he stood there. He’d seen horrible things in combat-bodies so thoroughly destroyed that all one could do was to pile bits into a basket and hope they all belonged to the same person. This was worse, far worse, because it had been done deliberately and with great precision. Not only had the people been slain, but their killing mocked who they had been. He could only imagine their horror as their fate befell them, and wept for all the fathers who had watched their children die.

He stuck out a hand to bar the Steward from going past the doorway. “You can’t.”

“I must.” Fire pushed past, then slumped back against the wall. “Oh, Heavenly Father…”

Kamiskwa stayed clear, as did Rathfield. Nathaniel and Makepeace got as far as the first row with bodies. They studied the patriarch of that family, then withdrew. Owen followed, guiding the Steward out with him.

“I counted fifty-two bodies. How many people lived in Piety?”

Fire glanced back toward the meeting house. “Seventy, last I knew, which was a month ago.”

“The two who made to Happy Valley brings that total to fifty-four. That’s sixteen unaccounted for.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Like as not, tain’t more than another two or three escaped the slaughter. Scout about; we could find some bodies.”

“So, that’s a dozen that vanished. The Mason family was two shy of full. A son and daughter.” Owen got out a journal and made a note. “I want to check something at the Mason home.”

He ran back, took a quick inventory, made more notes, then returned. His heart ached and he wanted nothing more than to lay down get drunk “It’s worse than we imagined.”

Rathfield, who still looked grey, sat in the shadow of a house. “How is that possible? Out with it, man.”

“We have a dozen people unaccounted for. The Masons were a family of six, but only four places were set at the table. One child was an infant, so it wouldn’t have had a plate. But that fifth setting is gone, plate, food, utensils, cup, napkin. And a doll is missing from one of the beds. I imagine, if we go through every home here, we’ll find other things missing. These people didn’t have much, so we might not notice what had been taken, but I’d imagine there will be empty spaces on shelves, or that things you might expect to find will be gone.”

Nathaniel nodded. “I reckon we can confirm that idea for you.”

“We could, Woods, but what would it prove?”

Owen closed his journal. “It would prove, Colonel, that we have a big problem.”

Rathfield laughed. “The congregation proves that.”

“We know it does, but no one in Norisle will see it that way. They’ll come and say that the people of Piety went insane. Outbreak of St. Vitus’ dance or, given the fact that they followed the Steward here, they’ll say he preached a wrong message. They’ll say parents slaughtered children, then husbands killed wives. They’ll say the deacon then killed the husbands and that the Steward here killed the deacon. They’ll make it into a problem that doesn’t require a solution because they won’t have a solution.

“In pointing out that things are missing, I’m pointing out that someone went through here and collected things, samples-same as those Prince Vlad asks Nathaniel, Kamiskwa, and me to collect. Whoever did this took things not as plunder, but to study.” Owen thrust a finger at the meeting house. “And given their willingness to kill so easily, does having them study a settlement make you uneasy? It does me, because I can see my wife and daughter headless in some of those empty chairs.”

Rathfield struggled to his feet. “What are you saying, Strake? That there is a madman out here who styles himself a naturalist like Prince Vlad? If you are, you’re mad. There’s only Tharyngians out here, and they hardly need to study Norillians.”

Nathaniel spat into the dust. “And you’re gonna be telling me that Ryngians done raised that ruin we done explored?”

The Norillian hesitated. “I don’t know if…”

“Colonel, someone from Auropa wouldn’t have no need to study us. But whoever did create that ruin, whoever did inscribe those tablets, ain’t from around these parts.” Nathaniel shook his head. “They may have run into the Shedashee before, so when they found Piety, it was something new, something worthy of study. And given how powerful they appear to be in terms of magick, I’d prefer them knowing less about us than more.”

Nathaniel slapped Owen on the shoulder. “I don’t reckon I’m much suited to thinking the way Prince Vlad thinks, but I am considerable good at collecting them things he likes to think about. I reckon we need to go over this here settlement and look for the things ain’t right. Since it seems magick was used to erase tracks, but didn’t blow so hard as to make too much of a mess, we might just find us some things could be useful. Let’s take it house by house and see what we can find.”

What they found didn’t amount to much. As expected, a variety of things had been taken from the homes, including candle molds, a fiddle, the Weaver family’s copy of the Good Book, and a few other odds and ends. Nothing made of iron or steel had been taken, as nearly as could be discerned, since every home had an ax, cast iron pots and pans, and not a single musket or pistol was missing to the best of the Steward’s knowledge. Owen assumed that the Prince would conclude that the creatures who had taken things were highly involved in magick, so iron and steel would be almost poisonous to them.

Kamiskwa, Nathaniel, and Makepeace found the most interesting artifacts out to the southwest. A bent barn nail had trapped a few long hairs, which, as nearly as any of them could discern, belonged to a wooly rhinoceros. They didn’t discover any tracks to indicate how the hair had gotten there, but Fire had never heard of any wooly rhinos being in the area.

As odd as that was, the two artifacts Nathaniel displayed in his open palm were far stranger. A claw, hooked, hollow, and black, had caught in the jamb on a hayloft door. Because it was thinner at the base than it was toward the top, Owen imagined that this claw had sheathed another claw below, and when stressed, had broken free. Beside it lay a triangular tooth with a serrated edge. It had a mother-of-pearl pattern to it, akin to the sheen of oil on water. Though it was no bigger than his thumbnail, Owen had no doubt that it would do a fair amount of cutting-and though it would have helped confirm his conclusion, he didn’t suggest returning to the meeting house to match wounds to either tooth or claw.

Nathaniel slipped the tooth and claw into his bag. “I ain’t sure what to make of these, and like as not I don’t want to hear what Prince Vlad will say.”

“I agree.” Owen closed his journal and replaced it in his satchel. “But the sooner we get back, the sooner he can figure out what we should do next.”

“I don’t see no reason to delay our departure.”

“Me neither, brother.”

The five of them waited at the edge of the green as Ezekiel Fire faced the meeting house and offered a prayer. Owen couldn’t hear it, so just offered his own. After he finished, Fire crossed himself, then tossed a burning brand into the blockhouse. They waited until the building caught fire solidly, then headed west, letting the blaze light their way.