Wintertide (7 page)

She saw no one, nothing alive.

She quickened her steps towards a familiar stone fence. Its wooden gate hung at a crooked angle. She thrust it aside as she entered, calling out Rina’s name and the names of the children.

She found Aric slumped over the large table in the main room, a spear in his back, his lifeless hands reaching out towards...

Shaken, she glanced at the end of the table. Nothing was there, at least, not anymore. By the hearth were the bodies of Cavell and Lissa, their throats slit, their dark eyes staring into eternity. A gasp of horror escaped her lips and Khamsin felt her knees buckle. She reached down to gently close the children’s unseeing eyes with a touch and her hand trembled uncontrollably. Her voice was strained as she whispered a departing prayer to Ixari.

Rina and Taric she found in the kitchen, huddled together in the corner. Taric’s throat, too, was slit. The shaft of a spear protruded from Rina’s chest. Her white apron, painstakingly embroidered only weeks before, was stained a deep red from the flow of thick blood that drained into her lap. Her left hand still held her son’s lifeless ones; her right, a long scrap of dark fabric, bordered in red. Colors worn by South Land Hill Raiders.

The new baby’s cradle lay nearby. It was empty, its quilted coverlet that Khamsin had made discarded on the floor. Hill Raiders often stole infants and raised them as their own.

Khamsin touched the edge of the cradle and suddenly sobbed in great gulps. She clasped her hands over her mouth, unable to contain the emotions within. She lunged for the back door, her only thought now that of her own home. And of Tavis.

The smithy burned fiercely as she approached her front door of her house. A sudden gust of heat almost sent her reeling backwards but she pushed against the heavy oak partition, crying out at the top of her lungs.

“Tav-is!” She ran to the kitchen. Her cupboards were stripped and emptied. She rushed back to the main room and into their bedroom. The bed linens were torn off and the mattress slashed with great, long strikes as someone looked for hidden gems. But other than that, the room was empty.

She raced down the short hall, stopping only when she reached her cupboard. The Book was with her, as well as the Divining Cloth and several of her potions. All she left behind were some minor amulets and charms. She was surprised to see that they were still there, the cupboard intact. The Hill Raiders, too, had their superstitions.

She heard the creaking and groaning of the burning timber outside as the forge began to crumble. There was a great crash just as she exited through her front door. She watched, dazed, as the entire back wall of the smithy caved in, sending a shower of flames and sparks high into the air. If Tavis was in there...

The thought was too horrible for her to even imagine. She leaned weakly against the low stone wall in front of the house. He couldn’t have been. He was strong, one of the strongest men in the village. Surely, he fought the Raiders successfully or found some way to escape. She forced herself to stand and head back to the center of the village.

She was only a few houses away from the buring smithy when a scuffling noise behind her caused her to stop and turn. She recognized Enar, one of the Covemen. His pale face was covered with soot and blood and in one hand he clutched a short dagger.

“Witch!” He limped towards her. “Have you come back, witch, to see if we all died? Where’s that cat of yours? Or was she one of the demons you sent to us?”

Khamsin stood, horrified. “Enar, it’s me, Khamsin, Tavis’ wife. Where is Tavis, Enar? Where is he?”

“Don’t you know?” He flashed the blade before her. She stepped backwards. “He’s dead, like all the rest you abandoned. Look!” And he flung his arm out to the left, pointing towards the large trees near the dockyard. A body dangled from a rope tied to a high branch.

Choking back a cry, Khamsin ran towards the docks, recognizing the dark blue trousers, leather apron and high leather boots of the Smith. But before she could reach him hands grappled out towards her, rough hands, smelling of salt and ashes and death. They clamped over her mouth and around her shoulders and waist. She was dragged downwards and she landed on her back, small stones grinding into her skin.

“Witch!”

She heard the cry, recognizing the faces of Gilby and Turpin and Enar, all Covemen. They tore roughly at her thin bodice and layered skirts.

She flailed at them, tried to push them away, then felt a presence burst into her mind: angry, frightened. Very close...

Nixa.

She balled her hands into fists, pummeled them against arms slick with blood.
Go!
she commanded the cat. The witch’s demon cat.
Run! Safety! Be safe!

A distorted view of herself, struggling on the ground flitted through her mind. Then greenery, scrub brush. Her contact with the cat faded.

Someone grabbed her by the hair and she cried out in pain and fright. There was the flash of a knife and the pain on her scalp was gone, as was most of her hair. Another dull flash of silver and the blade turned towards her throat. It was only then she came to her senses and fought for her life.

Swiftly, she raised her knee up into Turpin’s groin. He collapsed back against the stocky Enar. She rolled to one side as Enar reached over his groaning companion, but his grasp fell short. Her shorn hair no longer provided the hand hold it did before, when it fell almost to her waist.

In one movement, she was on her feet. She lashed out with her forearm at Gilby, fist closed, just as she had learned to many years ago in the mock battle-games she played as a child.

It was only the glare of Enar’s dagger that at last quelled her desperate efforts.

She held her hands out before her, her breathing ragged. “Enar, this is madness.”

“No, this is revenge for what you’ve brought upon us.” He took the rope Gilby held out to him. “What the Hill people did to Tavis, we’ll do to you.”

“I’m not a witch, Enar!”

“No, even your husband knew that. Sorceress, he called you. Did you know that? He tried to warn us. Said you’d run off. To practice your sorcery. Then the Hill Raiders came from the south. We know it’s Tarkir’s spawn, the infernal Lucial, you pray to now.”

“That’s not true!”

A sound in the distance caused both men to hesitate and exchange glances. “Raiders. Coming back,” Enar said in a hushed voice.

Gilby nodded. “For her.”

“Then we’ll give her to ‘em.”

Khamsin screamed as they grabbed her. She flung her arms wildly in an effort to break free of their hold, even if only for a short time. It was all she would need to summon an elemental, something she would never have done in the village before. But the village no longer existed. And the men who roughly held her small body had every intention of killing her.

Desperately she shoved against them. Gilby stumbled and her left hand was free. She cupped it against her chest quickly then flung it outwards, screaming the incantation at the top of her lungs. Flames like fireflies danced on the ground around Gilby’s boots. The thin Coveman tripped on his own feet as he scrambled backwards.

“You filthy bitch!” Enar slapped her hard across the face and this time it was Khamsin who stumbled, wrenching her arm as the stocky man still grasped her firmly. He threw her to the ground face down and clamped his boot hard against her back. He grabbed first one wrist, then another. She cried out as he forced her arms backwards, almost pulling them out of their sockets.

“Scream, witch!” he bellowed as he lashed her hands together. “Scream while you die!”

“Enar!” It was Gilby. He clawed at the older man’s trouser leg. “They’re almost here!”

The sound of hoof beats was getting closer.

The Coveman stood tensely for a moment, hatred glittering in his dark eyes. Then he spat on the ground. “Come on!” he ordered gruffly, grabbing Turpin by the scruff of his neck. “Gilby, take his arms. Let’s get out of here.” The men ran, dragging a limping Turpin between them.

Khamsin lay sobbing in the dirt and stones, her arms aching. Her mouth tasted of dust and blood. She cried out for Tanta Bron, her voice like a child in pain. She’d lost her home, her husband and friends, her sister-in-law and all that she cherished. She was beaten and accused of sorcery. Terrorized. Damned. And today was the day she was to turn eighteen years old.

She cried ‘til her voice was hoarse and choking, then cried some more. Her body was vaguely aware of the thudding of hooves coming nearer. The riders that Enar had seen. Hill Raiders.
Let them kill me,
she pleaded inwardly.
Let them slash and mutilate my body. I have nothing, nothing. Am nothing, anymore.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she slitted open her eyes. The ground trembled beneath her face and she saw the spindly but powerful legs of horses slashing through her field of vision. One horse drew nearer, no, two. Maybe more. She could no longer count legs, make sense of what her stinging eyes told her. She tensed her body, the Supplications to Her Goddess echoing through her mind in a senseless litany.

For protection, I beseech you.

For guidance, I entreat you.

For protection...

Someone shouted. It sounded like the Olde Language. Bronya had used those words. But when? Where? And who but a Raheiran would speak…

The Sorcerer. Raheiran was the language of all magicks. She would finally hear his voice, calling her true name.

But she heard nothing, save for her rasping breath and the distant crackle of burning timbers. Everything was silent again. If not for the pain coursing through her limbs, she would have thought she was dead.

Someone touched her, grabbed her shoulders. She no longer cared to fight. She let her body go limp and unyielding.

Let it be done. Let it be over with.

Her hands were untied but still she didn’t move, didn’t resist even when she was turned, slowly, onto her back. She let her head fall to one side. She hiccoughed spasmodically.

At the sound of her own name she opened her eyes.

“Khamsin? Lady Khamsin?”

She looked up, expecting for all the world to see the hideous countenance of the Sorcerer, or the fierce face of a South Land Hill Raider. And saw only the pale eyes of Rylan the Tinker. Her swollen lips mouthed his name.

He shook his head then murmured something she couldn’t hear. She tried again to speak but he silenced her, his finger to his lips.

The last thing she remembered was being lifted into his arms.

Then cool water was placed against her face. She opened her eyes. A gaily striped awning formed a partial roof overhead, framed by brown, green and golden leaves beyond. A faint glow of orange told her it was near morning. The Tinker’s face swam ethereally before her.

“Lady Khamsin.” His voice sounded distant.

She blinked rapidly a few times and tried to speak. But nothing came out. She gasped, aware of a searing pain throughout her body.

“Hush, hush.” The Tinker placed his fingers lightly against her parched lips, his touch gentle, reassuring.

She closed her eyes and fell again into a merciful oblivion.

Towards midnight she tossed restlessly, waking and sleeping in small spurts. Her dreams were filled with the black of burning timbers, the bright red of blood. She saw Rina again, her throat slit. She saw the baby’s empty cradle.

A low moan of terror escaped her lips. And then a touch on her face and she sank into forgetfulness.

In moments of wakefulness, her eyes sought something recognizable in the dark shadows that surrounded her. She saw nothing and fearing she was blinded, groped out into the darkness. Her fingers rested against cloth, warmth and then stronger fingers were wound into hers. Her hand was held tightly. She tried to return the comforting grasp but failed.

Tears trailed down her cheeks in frustration. Then she heard a familiar sound. A soft, rumbling purr.

Nixa?

Warmth, comfort flooded through her.

She slept.

The following morning she woke to find Nixa curled against her side. She whispered the cat’s name, found her voice stronger, her throat less painful. She admonished the Tinker as he wiped her brow with a damp cloth.

“You shouldn’t.” Her voice cracked slightly. “They called me a witch, you know. They’ll come back.” She swallowed painfully. “They think Nixa’s a demon.” The tears began to flow again.

“Their grief drove them more than a little mad. You were simply a convenient object on which to vent their anger.”

She cried anyway. Words had no meaning, not even the kind sensible ones from the Tinker. He held her, her head cradled in his arms until her sobs abated. Voice shaking, she asked for her medicine belt and pouches. He brought them to her and with stiff fingers she sought what she needed, swallowing a pinch of this and a leaf of that; applying a touch of balm, ever-so-sparingly, here and there. Her hands came up to touch her head.

“They cut off my hair.”

“A bit crookedly, too. But when you’re feeling better, I can fix that. Perhaps we’ll start a new fashion.”

And so it went as she lay in the Tinker’s tent in the wooded grove, healing her body with her herbs, while the Tinker countered any despondent statements she would make with his light comments and witty retorts. It was as if it were all a great joke to him. Finally she sat up in anger, her eyes blazing like pale lightning. She accused him of being an insensitive, shallow, arrogant bore.

“Good. Get angry. That’s healthy. It means you’re feeling better.” He poured more tea into the mug they shared and held it out to her.

She let her head fall forward onto her knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just…”

“I know, m’Lady,” he replied softly, nudging her hand with the warm mug. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

She drank and wondered just how long it would be before she would ever be able to feel anything, again.

*

The fifth morning after the raid, she woke very early, the sunrise was still a vague promise on the horizon. There was a slight chill in the air. Nixa was already off stalking breakfast. Khamsin tugged at the blanket that had slipped down around her waist during the night. She could hear the steady breathing of the Tinker who lay nearby. She turned slightly on her side and studied the man who had rescued her only days before.