Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
And as soon as he did, he knew that he would not be leaving this place alive.
“You drove us out, once,” John continued. “Taking from us our livelihoods, killing those you caught and hounding us from our lands. And for what? For coin? For money we could not spare to line the coffers of a false king?” He spat in distaste, eyes burning with rage as though itching to avenge his sufferings on this helpless captive before him, but holding himself back. “And now you’re here again, with greater numbers, hoping to do the same once more…” He smiled, his bearded grin savage with barely contained bloodlust. “But where are your men now, eh?” He jerked his head upwards and to the side.
Rodney followed with his gaze, straining to see past the crowd, his eyes roving higher and higher till at last he saw what was being pointed out to him and his blood ran cold. The pecking of crows and the low moaning of the breeze served to gently sway the corpses that hung there from the boughs of the oaks, a grim testament to the ferocity with which the outlaws would defend their homes. The tax-collector fought down his urge to retch, instead turning to his captors, spitting venom as he roared.
“You think this changes anything? You think your petty rabble can hold out here indefinitely?” He laughed, the sound incredulous given his predicament, and several villagers looked at each other in unease and confusion. “You think that my men and I were the bulk of our force? Well I have news for you, my friends.” He smiled, the effort painful given his cracked lips and swollen cheeks. “Your homes will soon be nought but ash once more. Your beloved forest burnt to the ground and with it, all memory of your pathetic treason.” His eyes glinted with malice as he spoke the next words. “The Shiriff comes and with him, he brings the vengeance of your king.”
A murmur through the crowd, low, hushed yet urgent, but a new voice cut through the din, quashing fear and instilling fires of hope in every breast.
“I fear no Shiriff, tax-collector. And I respect the authority of no king but the one, true saviour of mankind.”
“Hah!” Rodney snorted. “A preacher, eh? God spares not the traitor, you should know that well enough.”
John moved aside and the crowd parted, allowing the new figure through. Clad in simple clothes with a plain and unadorned axe by his side, the man cut no imposing figure, but even as the tax-collector’s mouth opened to insult him further, the words died in his chest. A trembling, a trepidation struck him, goose-bumps pricking their way across his flesh as this new man fixed him with eyes that seemed so honest, so human, yet burned with a fire that belonged to no mortal man.
Eyes that had been touched with a glimpse of eternity.
“I’m no preacher, Rodney. And I have faith in no gods.” He moved closer to the trembling captive, eyes boring into him as though seeking out the worth of his soul. “I believe only in the goodness of honest men. And the promise of our King.”
The captor could sense that his end was near; those brown, everyman eyes had weighed his heart and found him wanting. His fear and anger over-rode whatever glamour surrounded the Woodsman, and Rodney vented his rage that all the forest might hear.
“Believe what you will, Woodsman! The Shiriff comes, even now; this forest shall bu-“
The shrill whistle of a silver axe-head cut short his defiance. The tax-collector’s head fell unceremoniously to the leaves of the forest floor, gazing up at his executioner in final, uncomprehending denial.
Alann turned, pausing for an instant before walking away.
“Let him come…”
Chapter Two:
Shapes, blurry, indistinct. Colours beyond the spectrum of visible light. Eyes that were not eyes at all, straining to pierce the veil, streaming mental tears as they attempted to sift through the stinging, smoky fog of the ether. The future, the threads of fate, of destiny, impossible to make out, no matter how hard she tried. For something was wrong. History had been disturbed. And, with a cold prickling feeling, she kept coming back to the same conclusion.
It was all their fault.
Gwenna rose from the hard bed and sat upright, ringlets of long, red hair cascading to cover her face as she pulled the sheets about her slender form and shivered. It was cold, still night-time, though not long before dawn, she guessed. Looking about the dark loft space she could see the rest of her troupe still asleep, stirring fitfully on their beddings of hay.
Once upon a time, she might have playfully reached out with her mind, gently skimming the surface of their slumber, a visitor in their dreamscapes, unnoticed, in the background. The wonders of even the most mundane of person’s dreams would often leave her in awe, strengthening her respect for that person in the waking world. Often, they would never know of her transgressions. But, sometimes, things would come to light that would make things more awkward. And then she would have to be careful not to let her intrusions slip in conversation.
Her eyes alighted for an instant on Pol, the youth murmuring something in his sleep. In the past, she had made that mistake with his dreams. But she had no reason to worry about such things these days; Pol’s slumber would be no different from everyone else’s. Horns, teeth, flashing eyes. Towering creatures that reared above the water. The passing of Wrynn atop that fateful beacon. None could sleep soundly since that day.
None awoke rested who had witnessed the denizens of hell.
Out of instinct, she cast out with her mind, as she always did upon awakening; striving to feel the life-forces all about, as a deer might cast about in the glade for signs of the wolf. And, as always of late, she sighed with the effort; most of the spirits of this place shying away from her call, rendering every act of shamanic magic a wearisome toil.
You do not belong here, the spirits seemed to say. You are not of this world. Not of this time.
She rose, bare feet padding silently across the cold floor, taking the bed sheets with her to cover her slim body as she made her way to the window and looked out. The small village still slumbered in night’s embrace, only the moonlit trails of smoke drifting lazily from the chimneys betraying any life at all. In the distance, looming into the sky, the mountains. What had their new friends called them? Ah yes; the Pyrenees…
Unbidden, memories of home, of the Retreat, leapt to the front of her mind. The crisp mountain air. The evergreen trees. The peaceful feeling of isolation, of safety. In many ways this new land they found themselves in was similar. But even here, even now, a universe away from the dangers of before, they still found themselves under threat. For though the demons had been left behind, the prejudice of man was omnipresent.
A warm hand on her shoulder and she started.
“
Désolé.”
Gwenna smiled at the voice and turned to face the newcomer.
“It’s alright, Virginie. I’m still not used to being snuck up on.”
The native girl returned the smile, her bronze skin and light brown hair rendered grey in the half-light.
“I came to wake you,” the girl told her. “But it seems you’re already awake. Les rêves?”
Gwenna nodded, the lilting, almost-melodic accent of Virginie’s people no barrier to her understanding of their tongue. How so, she had wondered to begin with? But then, the wisdom of Wrynn that coursed through her veins had asked her another question. What limit to the powers of their Lord? The one who had sent them here to begin with. The one who had promised to return.
And she hoped he would, sooner rather than later.
“Yes, the dreams. But it’s not just the past that’s haunting me, but the future. Or rather, the lack thereof.”
Puzzled, the French woman drew near, standing beside her at the window. Even next to Gwenna’s diminutive form, she was slight, slender, younger by a couple of years than the shaman.
“What do you mean?”
Gwenna paused for a moment, uncertain whether to divulge what she suspected. But Virginie had been good to them, keen to help, never judging. Never scared or mistrustful of the shamans and their power. The exception, rather than the rule, in this land, as they knew too well.
She relented.
“When our Lord sent us to this world, he warned us that we may be scattered throughout time.” She gazed out into the dark sky, steadily growing lighter as dawn approached, eyes intense as though trying to pierce the veil and see back – or forward? – to the time whence they’d came. “The spirits upon which we call can sense this. They’re scared of us, because this isn’t where we belong. Or rather, when.”
Virginie nodded, whether out of understanding or acceptance, Gwenna didn’t know. The girl replied, though, and removed all doubt.
“So, because the spirits are scared, they refuse to co-operate? And your puissance - your power - is weaker?”
Gwenna nodded, impressed. The girl learned quickly. But then, was it surprising? As a swimmer, starved of air, would gasp for breath after breaking the surface, so might it be here, in this land, where persecution of those with any trace of the gift ran rife. The weight of guilt had been laid heavy on Virginie’s back by the robed men of… what had she called it?
L’église? The threat of a distant, untouchable god keeping the masses in line – a threat the shamans had known only too well in another life - but dashed when Gwenna had revealed to the girl that there was another way. A way of communion with the land itself.
Ever since Virginie had stumbled upon the shamans, the two dozen that still remained that is, crowded and sheltering in the dark and draughty barn, how many villages ago now? Three? Four? Ever since that day, Gwenna had found that the girl was different. Her knowledge of the land, the customs, helping them to slip away from their pursuers and find shelter as they made their way south, towards the safety of the mountains.
The light outside, growing stronger now. The tall, distinctive shape of the spire silhouetted, imposing in the golden dawn. Each of the villages had one of these buildings, she had noted. A towering reminder to the masses of their lowly position in the world. How Gwenna had laughed when Virginie had revealed her plan; that by posing as pilgrims, making their way towards a holy place, they could secure shelter and food as they moved ever-southwards towards the border. The very god of their pursuers providing them with means to flee and survive.
Stirrings behind. Some of the shamans beginning to rise from their slumber.
“How long till we reach the mountains?” Gwenna asked the French girl.
“Three days,” Virginie replied. “And we should be in
L’Andorre by week’s end.”
Three days. Gwenna hoped the girl was right as she watched the shamans stir and begin to dress themselves. They were weak, weary looking; where once they would have drawn strength from the spirits of the land, now they were cut off, like plants in a drought. Every day that passed, they grew more fatigued. Every day that passed, their pursuers drew closer.
She could almost feel the breath of their dogs on the back of her neck.
***
The centre of every French village was its market place and even now, early in the morning, the golden sun barely climbing overhead, the centre of this small village in the midi-Pyrenees thronged with traders selling their wares and villagers there to buy. Vendors of fruit, vegetables, clothes and animals, calling out into the still morning air, competing with the sounds of waking birds and the lowing of the tethered livestock.
Pol and Arris trailed behind her, shadowing her every move, eyes darting about as though suspecting every cloak to conceal a weapon, every corner they rounded to hide a foe. Virginie wished they wouldn’t. She understood that they were nervous, in an unfamiliar land, but the way they followed her about like jumpy chaperones would only arouse suspicion. She didn’t need anyone to watch her as she procured supplies. Especially not Pol; the youth had an attitude of over-protectiveness that the girl found quite off-putting. He carried himself haughty and gruff, as though he were a warrior. No doubt he was, judging by the tales she’d heard of her new friends’ past. But she didn’t need the power of a shaman to see the insecurities his bravado masked.
And there was nothing so unpredictable as the wounded pride of man.
No, if she had to be chaperoned, she’d rather it had been Gwenna herself. Only two years separated the girls, but the shaman possessed a wisdom that far surpassed her years. It intrigued Virginie. But it was the shaman’s uniqueness that made things so difficult; her curly red hair, so vivid, stood out like a sore thumb here, in the south. The Malleus knew who to look out for.
And they had spies everywhere.
She handled an apple, turning the fruit over in her hands as she sampled the wares. They would need a lot of supplies for the days ahead. The villages grew sparse the closer they got to the mountains.
“Deux centimes par livre…” The wizened crone that sat behind the stall didn’t even look up from her embroidery as she stated the price.
Virginie nodded, went to speak in return, but was cut off by a bellowing voice from behind.