Rhapsody: Child of Blood

32

The gray day began to give way to a dim twilight. The forest had gone deathly silent long before the light had left the sky. No winterbird song could be heard, nor the rustling of any living thing. Even the wind was quiet. The only noise to break the stillness was the creaking of the white branches under the weight of the snow, the occasional crash of a limb giving way under the icy burden that bent it.

Finally they came to a clearing, the edge of which was choked by thick, thorny underbrush. Rhapsody noted absently that the brambles were blackberries, though they bore no sign of fruit on their sharp branches, and from the look of them, she doubted they ever would. Beyond the scrub they could see a shape, a house, it seemed, though at first it was difficult to tell through the brush.

They moved forward slowly, creeping along the edge of the road, until at last they could see beyond the brush. There they saw a large house in the clearing, too large to be mistaken for anything but the place they sought. In one corner was a tower, built of ancient stone and overlooking a square courtyard. It was protected on all four sides with walls guarded by sentries.

In this courtyard was a leafless tree, which from a distance looked dead rather than dormant to Rhapsody. Her time at Llauron’s had given her ample schooling and opportunity to gauge tree health, and this one to her seemed choked with disease.

The walls of the courtyard were whitewashed, with many years’ growth of moss and lichen clinging to them. The roof was made of slate, and a large front door was left partially ajar, almost as if someone was expecting visitors.

Achmed and Grunthor split to either side and began circling the house through the forest cover. It never ceased to amaze Rhapsody how silent they were in heavy brush, and how hard to discern, especially given Grunthor’s gargantuan proportions. She looked around, praying desperately that they would not be seen while on their maneuvers out of her sight. She looked back at the house.

The door was guarded on either side by men holding long spears, clad in leather-backed ring mail. No candles could be seen in the open-paned windows in the growing dusk. The only sound came from the scratching of the long white limbs of the birch trees reaching out from the forest edge to tap gently on the windows, walls, and roof of the House of Remembrance. Rhapsody thought she heard a muffled wail, but decided after a moment’s pause that it was the wind.

“Are you ready? Try to stay where we can see you.” Achmed’s whispered voice seemed to be next to her ear, though he stood a few feet behind her, obviously having returned from his circumspection of the outpost. She nodded, and he slipped into the shadows again, moving to the far side of the road. Grunthor readied the poleax for a charge. Rhapsody took a deep breath, then stepped out of the underbrush and walked toward the front door.

Instantly the guards leveled their spears. Rhapsody felt almost giddy as nervousness swept through her. She smiled at them and a disengaged calm came over her. She thought, distantly, that she smelled the odor of rotting meat.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly. The effect on the guards was immediately obvious: their grip on their spears loosened, and Rhapsody thought she could see one of them tremble visibly, seeming entranced. “Could you tell me, is this the House of Remembrance?”

One guard nodded dumbly. She noted that the second man was not so quick to drop his guard. In him she sensed a stronger, almost consuming desire that set her ill at ease.

“Well, that was easy,” she said, smiling brightly. The second guard’s hands were now trembling, too. Whatever transformation I underwent in the Great Fire must have left me frightening to behold, she thought in amazement. Surely these guards were not intimidated by her small stature.

“I’m supposed to meet some friends here. Have you seen them?” Rhapsody chose her words carefully, thinking she might be able to tell if Grunthor and Achmed had been spotted during their scouting a few moments before.

“Will—will you marry me?” the first guard stammered.

Rhapsody blinked, then laughed. She thought about what Grunthor’s reaction might have been to the comment if he had been close enough to hear it.

“You know,” she said, leaning forward confidentially, “I don’t think my friend would particularly like you joking with me about that. He’s rather protective and can be quite ferocious if he thinks I’m being insulted.”

Panic seized the guard’s face. “No, miss, I—”

“Anyway, have you seen him? I’m sure you would know him if you had, he’s rather—well, frightening.”

The two guards looked at each other, and Rhapsody saw a look of fear pass between them. Her words had some meaning to these men that she had not intended.

The second guard summoned the courage to speak. “You’re here to see him, then? No, he’s not here, miss, but he’s expected later today. Please come in and wait in the warmth; my friend didn’t mean no insult.”

The first guard stumbled backward, pushing the door open, and then held it for her. Rhapsody looked behind her, but saw nothing where Grunthor and Achmed had been.

A shouted warning went up from the sentries which appeared to have been directed to the others about her. She could almost hear the curses Achmed was undoubtedly directing her way under his breath.

Placing her hand casually on the hilt of the sword, she followed the first guard across the threshold. They entered a darkened foyer with heavy doors to either side and an open portal in front of them that led into a large garden. Rhapsody stopped and gasped in horror.

The first thing that hit her was the stench of decay. An almost visible cloud of overwhelmingly thick and sickly-sweet air tainted with the sour stench of fouled meat assaulted her nose. Rhapsody choked on the odor as the color drained from her face. She forced down the bile that rose from her stomach. The smell was nothing compared with what she saw.

The garden in the central courtyard was large, the dead tree in its center. The snow had been stained red, making it look like a rosy-hued blanket. Set in the center of the courtyard were two large wooden frames, the kind Rhapsody was accustomed to seeing used to slaughter swine.

Between them stood a large, dark-stained stone altar. A channel had been carved into the foot of the altar leading to an intricately designed trough that joined with two other troughs, each one coming from beneath the slaughter frames, where large vats had been built.

Together the three canals made an interweaving pattern leading in and out until at last they fed into a large brass brazier charred black from fire. Each of these canals was encrusted with dark stains, and in each of the basins were thick pools of a black, viscous liquid.

The source and nature of this liquid was not left for Rhapsody to guess. On the altar, and hanging upside down above each of the basins, was the body of a child. The children that hung from the frames had had their throats and wrists sliced open, and had been left to drain of their blood. The world swam suddenly before her eyes as she was overcome with nausea.

Her reaction was apparently not what the guards expected. The first turned to her with a questioning look. Behind her she could hear the other soldier shift position quickly, as if readying to attack. Then she heard the soft hiss of projectiles from Achmed’s weapon, and the instant collapse of the guard behind her.

She drew Daystar Clarion at once, and the sound of the longsword as it emerged from its scabbard was like the winding of a melodic horn. The blade flamed to life, burning brighter than she had seen it before.

As she drew the sword the remaining guard tried a desperate and ill-balanced attack. The flames of Daystar Clarion swelled and billowed in her hand.

“Drop your spear!” she ordered, her voice harsh with fear and anger.

The guard charged. Rhapsody sidestepped the poorly aimed spear thrust and lunged, just as Grunthor has taught her to. Daystar Clarion slipped neatly into his chest, encountering only the slightest resistance as it sliced through his ribcage. The sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh filled the rancid air.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but all that escaped was a whimpering gasp as his lungs instantly blistered and seared in the white-hot fires of the elemental sword.

Rhapsody grabbed him and eased his fall to the floor as his face contorted in agony and confusion. His eyes, already looking beyond this world, fearfully searched her face, and in her mind she could read the question that filled his last thoughts: What’s happening?

The same question was wrenching its way through her own mind. By the time he touched the ground his body had gone limp, and his wound was smoldering. She suddenly became aware of a slight sizzling noise as her blade cooked the meat of his body, and with a growing horror she quickly withdrew the blade and dropped it, even though the hilt was still cool to the touch. She stared at the body on the ground before her as the world began to spin.

“What’s the matter?” Achmed whispered from behind her. She had not heard him approach. She turned to see him looking around the garden, Grunthor by his side.

“He’s dead,” Rhapsody answered, her voice shaking.

“Yes. Your sword skills are getting better.”

“I’ve never killed a man before.”

“Now you have,” Achmed replied. “Let’s get on with this.”

Rhapsody drew a breath and nodded. It had to be done; keep going, she thought as her gaze returned to the macabre scene in the garden. Achmed motioned for her to pick up the sword.

“Any sign of anyone else?”

“No, but there are others here, at least one, and more people are expected,” she said. She touched the cool steel of the blade, which showed no blood, and sheathed the weapon in its rock-scabbard with a shudder.

“Well, we can put a stop ta that,” Grunthor said. He closed the front door behind him and barred it with the large bracing beam that stood next to it. “Well, sir, Oi guess we know why your blood sense came alive.”

“Let’s find out who else is here,” Achmed said as he looked around the scene of the slaughter. He turned to the side door and gestured for them to enter.

Rhapsody stood on one side of the door, Grunthor on the other. At Achmed’s signal, Grunthor slammed the door with his hand. The sound of splintering wood and the crash of the door as it was torn off its hinges filled the air. Achmed held his fire. They looked into an empty room.

It was a long hall, with smoothly polished wooden furniture that seemed almost organic in its design. A large woven rug covered the center of the floor, one corner and the wood about it marred by a dark stain. A long series of windows looked out onto the central courtyard, where they could see melting snow touched with pink.

Achmed crossed the room to the dark stain on the rug and bent to touch it. It was long dried, perhaps years so, but he knew at once it was blood. A person had been killed here, the blood draining freely from the body before it had been moved.

Grunthor stood by the door, wishing that there was room enough to use his poleax, but knowing it was safer to keep his snickersnee in hand as long as they were indoors. In the pit of his stomach he felt a knot that tightened to a deep nausea on looking out the window, even though he was used to ignoring such feelings.

Rhapsody moved to the next door, listening, guarding it. After a moment she shook her head.

“Nothing. What next?”

“Come on,” Achmed said after a moment, and stood before the next door. The others took their positions as before and they repeated their procedure. The door opened toward a blank wall, and they had to enter the room to see it clearly.

They had come upon the Great Hall of the House, a room that stretched back to the main tower of the structure. Along one wall was a series of large windows which opened into the courtyard, on the other tapestries whose intricate patterns had faded and been defiled by excrement.

The far end of the hall was part of the tower, and a grand staircase led up to what had probably once been part of the defenses, but now was just an open doorway. The other wall was a series of glass-paned doors that were open into the courtyard.

Along the base of the tapestried wall stood a throne made from bones. Femurs, ribcages, long bones, and vertebrae had been crossed, stitched, and nailed together to form a gruesome chair browed by seven skulls, and a soft red velvet cushion had been placed on its seat.

In the center of the room sat, crouched, and lay a group of children, staring in fear at the trio who had just broken their way into the room. Like a pack of starving, beaten wolves, their eyes glittered in the half-light.

They were a mixture of humans and Lirin of varying ages and clad in clothes in successive states of disrepair. Iron manacles were bound to their ankles, and each child was linked to the others by heavy chains.

Their faces and bodies were covered with bruises and cuts, their eyes dulled with the look of those who had seen horror that no mortal should. They shivered with the cold of the winter air as it blew in through the wide curtains and open doors. None of them spoke or even cried as their eyes darted between Rhapsody and the two who flanked her. The children of Navarne.