The Fragile Fall At Tallow Bridge (The White Blood Chronicles Book 1)

Fall At

Tallow Bridge

By

Mark G. Heath

Copyright 2015 MG Heath

The Fragile Fall At Tallow Bridge

Book One of the White Blood Chronicles

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Allsaints Publishing

Cover designed by Peter O'Connor

Of bespokebookcovers.com

First Edition 2015

To Simon and Joshua, my inspiration and joy

To my parents for their love and support through stormy waters

To Rapunzel for letting her hair down

To the Cod Army for welcoming me to the fold

Samael Thaindire succumbed to their assault far faster than a man of his swordsmanship ought to have done. Notwithstanding the variety of foes he had battled, he had never faced such an opponent previously and perhaps it was this lack of familiarity that had occasioned his defeat. Quite how one was to be accustomed to such an infernal foe, was not a question he was given time to answer. He halted his black horse when the small figure appeared in the roadway ahead of him. Thaindire had been staring at the road, the rutted dirt track, which wound through the dense woodland, when his foe made its sudden appearance. It had been several days since he had departed from the City of Lancester with his mandate from the Order, several days of following the road as it meandered further and deeper into the Forest of Centopani. His instruction from Lanceholder-General Gaddine was clear; he was to ride to the village of Aftlain, investigate the reports of unholy works and ill-behaviour and if so confirmed, mete out the Order’s Judgement to the transgressors without mercy or lenience. He recalled the gravel-voiced Lanceholder-General, who had leant forward and stared sternly into Thaindire’s face as he uttered the injunction,

“ Steadholder Thandire, your investigation awaits in Aftlain.Once again word has reached us of the influence of the Fallen One rising within the village. The High Church will not stand for this troubling darkness, all the more so, given the ancient reputation of that place. Nobody is to be spared the Order’s detailed attention. Wield your authority wisely yet extensively. The whisperings of witchery must be silenced. This is what we are charged to do, to hunt down witchcraft and eradicate it, without favour or restraint. The One True God decrees it.”

Accordingly, as a Steadholder of the Order of Allsaints, the disciplined and zealous military wing of the High Church of Albion, he had made the long journey, heading to Aftlain. Bound by his Ordinances and Strictures, he would first seek out the suspected witchery and once unmasked, bring his judgement to bear on the guilty. He relished the opportunity to exercise the Order’s authority, rooting out the unnatural and dispatching those who invoked the false, dark deities. He was highly trained, blessed, an instrument of good.

Thus entreated, he had journeyed, uneventfully so far, from the Order’s seat in Lancester, northwestwards through the Forest of Centopani, heading for the village often referred to as being at the end of the world.

Despite his attentiveness to the route ahead he had not seen the diminutive form emerge from the tightly packed trees, but rather it had presented itself dead centre of the earthen track. It had just appeared, manifested in the road without sound or grandeur. It stood there unmoving as Thaindire craned forward, trying to establish what it was. Thaindire brushed his stark white hair away from falling across his bright blue eyes. His right hand moved to the hilt of his long sword and his fingers entwined around the solid metal, with experienced familiarity. The figure, which barely reached four hands high into the air, was slender, sinewy even and wore some kind of uniform, that of a soldier. He could make out the dark tunic, dulled buttons across its front, its condition poor and accustomed to being worn by something that was familiar with conflict. Epaulettes adorned the shoulders, possibly denoting some kind of rank but he could not make out any markings. The black, peaked hat it wore was pulled down low obscuring its face so even at twenty yards from it, he could not discern its features. This mattered little for suddenly he was given a far closer view as a second figure leapt onto the neck of his horse directly in front of him.

“ By Allsaints!” gasped Thaindire as his horse began to wheel, unsettled by the new arrival. This second figure was dressed similarly to the first, which now began its advance towards Thaindire, moving along the road with a rapid, loping gait. The second creature hissed and Thandire stared at its malevolent, amber yellow eyes, set into a thin, sharp featured face, which was clearly not human, but like some kind of gargoyle that adorned Lancester’s cathedral or appeared as of an imp, having crawled from the netherworld A cruel gash of a mouth revealed thin, spindly needle-like teeth and the skin was grey, pallid and leathery. Thaindire drew his long sword, the large sapphire set in the pommel flashing blue irrespective of the autumnal sunshine.

“ I am your judgement!” cried Thaindire, brandishing his impressive blade. The second imp sprang at him from the horse’s neck, but Thaindire swung and caught it a glancing blow, which was sufficient to knock the imp away to the left and onto the track below. It bowled over backwards, head over heels and then righted itself with a guttural growl, boots kicking up small clouds of dust from the dry ground. Thaindire saw the imp’s tunic had been torn and knew he had at least marked the beast. His horse began to panic and he clutched at the reins, switching his gaze between the imp, which scuttled along the road towards him and the unseated imp, which was darting about between the horse’s legs.

A weight landed on Thaindire’s right shoulder and he instinctively raised his gauntleted left hand, only to retract it as a sharp pain lashed across his hand. He glanced down and saw the leather of the gauntlet had been shredded and his white blood was spooring up between the strands of black material. He grabbed at his dagger, which was tucked into a sheath under his tunic and stabbed at the imp that was on his right shoulder, the blade hitting its intended target. The wounded imp issued a high-pitched scream in his right ear but did not let go of his shoulder. The first imp had replaced the second on the horse’s neck and snarling made to attack. Thaindire felt a presence right behind him, as if another rider had sat up on his horse with him. Something tugged at his azure blue cloak and he heard the cloth being torn as he lashed out at the first imp. With impressive dexterity it hopped back, avoiding the sweeping arc of the long sword, its malicious mouth twisted almost in delight at evading his blade. In his peripheral vision Thaindire could see more of the infernal creatures swarming from the woodland to his right. He had not expected to encounter such ungodly manifestations this soon. He chopped again at the first imp, his movement impeded by the encumbrance on his shoulder as he felt a sharp paroxysm of pain in his lower back. The pain increased whilst his flesh was torn and he bucked backwards letting out a yell of agony. Talons clawed at his right foot, trying to pull him from his mount, but he swung his foot and felt the weight lessen as he dispatched that aggressor with a firm kick.

The frenzy of hissing and snarling, combined with the frenetic movement of the imps, proved too much for his steed and with frightened whinnying it reared, front legs kicking out. The first imp catapulted forward and crashed into Thaindire’s chest, spittle from its mouth flecking his face as he dropped his dagger and made to grab at its tunic to haul it away. Before he could do so, the momentum of the panicking horse and the imps setting about his back and shoulder, tipped Thaindire backwards and he slid from his saddle. He gave out a cry as he plummeted off the rear of the horse, pain sweeping his back and hand and he then hit the ground hard. He felt his long sword tumble from his right hand, the polished blade landing amongst the dirt of the road. His head slammed into the track, causing his vision to blur and the snarling that filled his ears took on an echoing quality. He tried to scramble back but his legs would not gain any purchase. Thandire felt the imp on his chest shift position and instinctively brought up his arms to shield his face from the coming attack.

“ No, spare him,” cried a voice from nearby. The instruction was firm and authoritative and moreover, human. His impish assailant obeyed the command and there was no further attempt to wound him. Thaindire’s head lolled to one side. Through dimming vision he saw a pair of highly polished black riding boots, much larger than those worn by the imps, walking towards him. He tried to raise a hand to grip one of the boots but his eyes closed and all became dark.

He was shaking. It was dark and the whole of his body was shaking. The momentary confusion as to his whereabouts was dispelled as pain stabbed his back, the tendrils of agony radiating outwards. He then became aware of the sharp pain in his left hand and right shoulder along with a duller, throbbing pain emanating from somewhere on his head. Tentatively, Thaindire chanced opening his eyes. The darkness immediately receded and as his gaze focussed he could see light blue, with wisps of white also. He slowly turned his head, wincing as a fresh bolt of pain shot from the back of his skull and he could see the tops of the trees cutting into his view of the sky above. His mouth was dry. He groaned, a feeble groan as the weakness swept over him. He had known this sensation before, the humiliating sapping of strength following having been bested. He wanted to close his eyes, to descend back into the cosseting darkness to escape the assembly of afflictions that assaulted him but he needed to ascertain what had happened to him. The memory of the attack flared in his dulled mind and his thoughts began to muster. He was alive. That in itself surprised him as the blurred image of the imp on his chest reminded him of the savage danger that had overcome him. Was he now their captive? He gently raised his left arm and then his right, his right shoulder burning in protest but he found he was not bound. Similar movements of his legs confirmed his liberty. Or did it? He was in no condition to put up any fight, or even to run so perhaps they had dispensed with the need to place him in bondage. The fog of concussion lifted slightly as his senses fought to establish themselves. He was shaking or rather he was being shaken, for he was moving. Judging by the feeling of the hardness against his wounds he was lying on a cart of some description, each jolt causing a moan to escape his lips. He lifted his head slightly and looked down over his body. He was still dressed, tunic and pants worn, his boots still on although he could see neither his dagger nor his long sword. His hands moved slowly seeking out the scabbard and sheath but they were gone also. Thaindire listened. He heard no sound other than the rattle of the cart and his own breathing. If the imps had him they were remaining silent. He twisted his head to the left and saw the wooden side of a cart, a length of rope spooled together just by his left ear. Grunting, he tried to move to see what was behind him but it was no good, his exhaustion and injuries were such that the action was too great for his condition and he soon gave up. What was unusual was the smell that drifted into his nostrils. It was a damp smell, like, like hops. Yes, he inhaled sharply through his nose and the scent of hops was definitely recognisable.

Thaindire wondered how long he had been unconscious? It was still light and the colour of the sky, not bearing the scarlet and yellow of sunset meant it must still be afternoon, assuming of course that it was the same day as the attack. He could have been unconscious for longer, certainly the fatigue he felt made him feel as if the attack had not been too long ago. He raised his left hand, which still had the lacerated gauntlet upon it and could see the dried white blood on the leather. No attempt had been made to dress his wounds and this caused him to think that he was still within the gift of the imps.

What in the One True God’s heaven had those things been? He had never encountered such creatures before. They moved with a speed, which defied his swift reactions and they were well equipped with those razor teeth and raking talons. They clearly operated as a group although at whose direction it was not apparent. Their wearing of uniforms confused him. Was there an army of those beasts or were they just brigands seeking to overcome and rob those they fell on, on the highway? Certainly if he was being held by them, he was no in condition to fight them, they had robbed him yet had kept him alive. For what purpose? He must only have been a couple of miles from his destination of Aftlain when the attack occurred. Was he headed towards that village or away from it, or to some other destination all together? His map had shown no other roads other than that which he was travelling on and it ended at the village of Aftlain.It appeared, therefore, that the reports of dark activity at the village were already proving correct. He could not discount the fact, however, that these dark creatures were privy to other unknown routes and he was being taken miles from his goal. His mind swam with many thoughts and he ran his tongue over his lips for he badly needed a drink. He felt his eyelids lower as the fatigue swept over him again. He fought it and combined with a heavy jolt of the cart, his eyes opened, staring up at the canopy of sky above. He noticed that the tree tops were now overarching him more readily, at times the branches from either side reaching in the middle to create a tunnel of trees and leaves. Glimpses of blue sky, peppered the russet, gold and orange of the autumnal treetops, the occasional leaf falling from its twig and floating down on the breeze. He could not be certain but it felt as if he was moving down a slope as the pressure on his head and shoulders had increased. He struggled to alleviate the discomfort, too weak to adopt a better position than on his back. Thus supine, Thaindire watched as the trees slowly passed by as the cart journeyed on.

              Thaindire wondered that if he was being taken to Aftlain, what might he find there. He knew that the village was reputedly seated on a place of great, holy power and it was this power that apparently was corrupted. This resulted in the inhabitants purportedly possessing skills and crafts beyond that of the ordinary, but all he had ever heard had been rumour. Of course, the existence of such unholy rumours was trouble in itself, a sufficient reason to allow his Order to investigate and punish those who even repeated the rumours. He was much more interested in whether there was any basis for the reports and if there was, he was most eager to dispense his Order’s judgement, on behalf of the High Church of Albion and strike down those who embrace the false, dark deities.