Cameron woke from troubled sleep. He slept lightly, his heart troubled for reasons he could not account for. There had been a noise outside, loud and sharp. He took it for the sound of shattering glass and it hadn't been far away. Rousing himself fully, he leapt from his bed and across the room, taking up his sword and pulling it free from the scabbard in one fluid motion. He slung his shield over his left arm and ran to the window, seeing a bright orange reflected in the glass. The barn was ablaze. Sheets of flame rising better than ten feet already rolled off the back end of it, bringing with them clouds of smoke, choking the night. Servants ran to and fro, getting water from the well, trying to put the blaze out. He wondered why any of them hadn’t come to wake Devlin. Not bothering to stay on that thought, he rushed from his room and down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Mirrian was there, at the bottom of the stairwell, talking with two of the servants that had been outside battling the blaze. One of them was Edgar Rollint. Both their faces were marred with soot mixed with sweat from the blaze. Edgar had been burned along his forearm. The skin was bright red and cracking.
"Cameron!" Mirrian's face softened with relief when she saw him approaching, "The barn is ablaze! I fear that it might be the poachers back for more than just the cattle! Would you be kind enough to scour the land? I fear for the safety of my children."
"Of course, mistress," Cameron nodded to her then turned his attention to the servants. He eyed Edgar, who seemed less then pleased with his presence there, "Edgar, come with me. You," he pointed at the other servant, "stay here and make sure nobody makes it near the house without raising warning to me. Understood?" The servant told him that he did indeed understand and Cameron was out the front doors with Edgar close on his heels. Mirrian watched them go, fear clutching at her heart. She wasn't fool enough to believe the words she just spoke. And she didn't think that Cameron believed her either. Praying for the safety of her family she bid the servant to follow her and spun about to head back upstairs.
Cameron was at the front of the burning building in seconds, Edgar huffing and puffing behind him. He put his hands on his knees and bent over to catch his breath.
Strained himself battling the fire, Cameron thought. Not bothering to see if the man would be alright, he plunged into the barn, intent on seeing if any were stupid enough to be inside it. He hadn't considered that he was equally as stupid for charging headlong in as well. He saw when he entered, through the haze of smoke and falling embers, Karnov, trying his best to rally the horses and lead them out the back doors, which happened to be partially alight with fire. The animals feared the heat of the fire, the bite that it gave to any who dared too close to it and stayed back, whinnying fearfully. Karnov screamed at them, cursing and snapping a training whip that had hung on a wall near the stables. The snap of the whip proved to be enough bite to make the animals move and Karnov steered them through the flaming doors one after the other. The last horse was about to run free when the support that ran along the ceiling just over the doors fell free, crushing both Karnov and the panicked animal under its smoldering weight.
Hearing his friend's strangled scream as the timber fell over him made Cameron bolt into action. He ran forth, gracefully leaping over a burning hunk of the ceiling that barred his path, stooping low when he reached him. Karnov was unconscious, the blow from the wood having struck him almost directly on the head. The horse had endured the worst of it. The burning animal lay dead no more than three feet from the man. Cameron circled around the debris, putting his shield before him when the fire sought his face, and laid both weapons down when he cleared the barn. Putting his hands on either of the man's booted feet he tugged at him, endeavoring to pull him from the barn before it collapsed from its own dead weight.
A red sliver of slag, nearly melted from the intense heat, wafted down from the barn top and landed on Cameron's back, sizzling flesh instantly. He wore no shirt, nor his leather armor to keep the metal from eating away his skin. Instead he gritted his teeth and endured the pain, keeping hold of Karnov to ensure that they both wouldn't burn to death in the fire.
Pain lancing his back, he succeeded in freeing the old man from underneath the timber. Only a moment later the latter half of the barn caved in, sending a rush of white hot air and ash outward. It buffeted Cameron as he attempted to keep his shield aloft to block the worst of the fallout.
"Edgar!" Cameron screamed with lungs that were filled to bursting with smoke, "Edgar, where are you?"
"Here!" the man came running at the sound. His head was bleeding near the top now, streams of red sliding off the top and down his brow, into his mouth, "Edgar is here, Camren! What do ya need?"
"Take Karnov," Cameron heaved once, his body trying to expel the smoke that it had taken. The motion made the wound on his back scream anew, "Take Karnov to the servant's housings and make sure that the old man stays there when he comes around. I don't need him running off to help and getting more injured. Do you understand that?"
"Course I understand! I'm not stupid!" Edgar shouted at him. Cameron saw the man ball up his fists. His teeth were clenched. He looked like little more than an animal poised to strike if given the opportunity.
"I never said you were, Edgar," Cameron kept his voice calm, reassuring. The last thing he needed was to get into a fist fight with this man while the rest of the manor could be burning down.
"Just please, take Karnov to the servant's housings. I need you to do this. Will you?"
"I will," Edgar agreed reluctantly, the desire to fight plain on his face. Cameron sighed and left Karnov in Edgar's care, standing up and rushing back to the house. Something is happening here, Cameron pondered. This isn't the work of a band of poachers intent on stealing stray cattle. And why do I have the feeling that Mirrian knows something about this? Regardless of the cold that began to fester in his belly he ran on, into the blackened night.
Huros and Kirstin clung to each other like frightened little children when they heard the first sounds of struggle downstairs. Men were in the house, fighting. Huros thought he could hear the clang of weapons connecting but it wasn't the wooden practice blades that Cameron used with him in the old church grounds. These ones had the ring of steel in them. Men downstairs were killing people. Indiscriminately. Huros broke from his sister's embrace and stood up, racing over to his dresser where the wooden practice sword lay against the corner of the room. He took it in hand, raising it over his head and leveling the blade out before him. In the chaos of the night he took comfort from the weapon that was in his hand.
Is this the god that you worship, Cameron? Huros banished the thought from his head. It wasn't hard to do. Kirstin still huddled in the corner of his room, tears streaking her face. She was frightened, far more then Huros felt now that he had the sword in hand. She had come running into his room just minutes ago, saying that father had told her men were coming, that she should find her brother and find some place to hide themselves. She had wept then, holding Huros and crying, letting out fear that she had never known before that night. Then came the sound of wood unhinged, the door splintering. Men dying below their feet. And the sounds of the struggle were getting closer.
"Kirstin, you need to hide. I will hold off these ruffians for as long as I can," Huros marveled at how level his voice was. A minute ago, before the sword, he would have been as weak sounding as she was, but not now. Cameron had taught him. He wouldn't fail against these men, these thieves that broke into his father's house.
"What are you doing, Huros? You can't go down there and fight! Don't you hear what's happening down there? Father told us to hide away until they have been dealt with, so please just come with me, and we'll find someplace to stay until they're gone."
"That's what you're going to do, sister. I intend to fight. I won't stand idly by while these men invade my home, or let Cameron fight the battle for me. I've learned so much!"
"No, Huros! That's what Cameron is being paid to do! Fight for us!" She clutched at his sleeve, her eyes pleading with him. He tore his arm free of her grasp and helped her to her feet. Going over to the wall, he pulled free a section that was flush with the paneling. It was a secret closet, built in the wall for reasons that Huros could not guess. But it had room enough for a body to hide in and couldn't be seen from the outside, as it was flush with the wall in every way. The panel fell to the floor with a muffled thump; the carpet absorbed most of the sound.
"Climb in here," Huros said urgently. He thought he heard heavy footfalls making their way up the eastern stairs, to where his closed door awaited.
"What is this, Huros?" Kirstin asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Mother showed it to me a long time ago. She said that if ever we needed a place to hide away that this would be the place to do so. No one will find you in here, so I swear. But that won't matter if you're not in there when they come here. Now get in!"
"Huros please, for the love of the One God, come in here with me! I'm scared, so scared! Please don't do this!"
"It doesn't matter, Kirsten. I can't close the damn thing from the back, only when I'm outside it. I've tried it before." A slight grin crossed his face of memories passed. Those thoughts too he shoved from his mind. He knew that a warrior need only concentrate on his opponent. He watched with satisfaction as his sister crawled into the hole in the wall, pulling her skirts after her, wrapping her arms around her curled up legs to ward off the cold that lurked in the attic space. She pursed her lips together, ready to give him one last plea to join her in there, be safe with her. She didn't want to be alone.
Huros gathered his courage and picked up the wooden slab, placing it over the gap and sealing her there, keeping her out of harm's way. Pulling his over coat off to be more maneuverable in combat he whirled around to face the door. The footfalls were close now, just beyond it. He prayed that his sister would stay quiet long enough so that she wouldn't give her position away. The steely courage that the sword gave him when first he lifted it was going, dripping out of him like his life's blood, no matter how hard he tried to hold it there.
The door splintered on its hinges and a man in a dark cloak entered; a sword in hand. It gleamed brilliant silver in the moonlight. His face was shadowed in the folds of the cloak. The only part that he could make out was the heavy riding boots he wore, black with buckles that ran up the sides.
"Drop the weapon, boy," the man said calmly, his voice devoid of emotion.
"I will not. You invaded my home, attacked my family! I demand that you drop your sword, now!"
"Amusing," that same cold voice rose, "Just tell me where the young lady is. You tell me that and I'll let you live. Do we have a deal?"
"Kirstin?" Huros felt confusion mingle with his fear, "You're here because you're after my sister? What has she done that merits armed men storming the house?"
"You don't need to know. Do you know where she is? Yes or no."
"I wouldn't tell the likes of you if I did know."
"Have it your way, then," the cloaked man leapt forward, his blade stabbing in at Huros' midsection. The youth barely avoided a lethal blow, side stepping. Still he felt the pain of steel as it lanced his side, ripping flesh and muscle. Huros doubled over but raised his blade at the same instant, using all the strength he had to strike straight down. The cloaked man made a groaning noise and toppled to the floor as Huros fell over his bed. The sheets drank up the blood, turning them from white to crimson. Standing on wobbly legs, Huros let out a cry of pain from the wound, cupping a hand there to staunch the flow of blood.
He grinned, seeing the man laying there on the floor, struck down by the blow he had delivered. Breath coming in ragged time, he stepped over the body and made his way to the wall where the panel was, ready to tell his sister how well he fought against that man. He stopped cold when he heard the shuffling of heavy boots and another, softer groan behind him. He turned and saw the man standing up, sword clutched in his fist. A hand went up to his neck and rubbed it tenderly.
"You're going to pay for that, you little cur," the man snarled at him and lunged forward. Huros did as Cameron taught him to, letting his wrist slacken some to allow the blade to slide off. Weapons connected and the cloaked man, expecting a solid connection, was instead thrown off balance by almost none at all. He was quick to pivot though, bringing the length of steel about and stopping short Huros' swipe. Another connection split the wooden sword cleanly in half. The upper part of the sword fell at the cloaked man's feet and stayed there, Huros staring at the cloven blade in his hand with wide eyed shock. The courage was gone then, leaving him so quickly that the cold rush of fear that claimed him left him paralyzed.
The cloaked man thrust in, not bothering to wait for his opponent to recover, and grinned when he felt the blade strike home. Huros screamed again, a desperate pain filled cry that filled the room before fading off to nothing. Before Huros had the chance to hit the floor the cloaked man wrenched the sword free of flesh. Seeing that the youth was taken care of he checked the wall where he had been making his way to. There was something odd about the paneling. With careful hands the cloaked man searched the wall, looking for signs that the wall might be false. His search was not in vain. He got his hand in something that looked like a knot on the wooden surface but was really a pull handle. He saw a crawl space beyond, and darkness beyond that. If the girl that he was looking for was in there she must have went deeper into the house. Cursing bitterly, the cloaked man left the room, cloak sweeping over the still form of Huros.
Huros watched him go, unable to anything but that. The cloaked man was gone and the wound in his belly grew to a fire that ate at him. It made him sleepy. He felt coldness under him and realized, with dim curiosity, that it was his rapidly cooling blood he felt. The light of the moon failed to reach him, leaving Huros with only the dark to take comfort in. In his last moment he thought of Cameron. One God, he thought, I pray that your God is a merciful one, Cameron. Then there was nothing more for Huros Telba. He was dead.
Another of the assailants rushed Devlin Telba. He raised his sword and locked blades with him, sending him back against the large desk in his study with a well placed kick. The other man that he had been fighting stood again, placing his weight on his left leg, the other damaged from a gaping slash along the thigh. The man led in, keeping Devlin pinned toward the wall, trying to drive him right up against it. Devlin parried the blow and swung his blade down along the man's belly. He barely got his blade in place before having his stomach torn open on a steel edge. Devlin pressed his attack, chopping quickly with two handed blows that rocked the man on his heels. He changed his attack at the last minute, swinging for the man's head when he should have gone for his chest, and the man faltered. A second later there was a splitting noise and the man's head rolled along the floor, followed down by the thrashing body. Blood sprayed from the stump, sending gory red all over the floor, awash under Devlin's feet.
The second one, seeing his decapitated friend on the floor, was more wary about approaching him. Devlin readied himself, putting his sword before him, waiting. The man heard a noise from behind him and spun around. Cameron came at him slashing with surgical precision for him. The man raised his blade and blocked the attack but Cameron twisted the blade and pulled back, sending it spiraling in the air behind him to rest in the hall. The man tried to dive back, to avoid the lethal caress of the next attack but failed to; feeling the flash of the blade cut him deep in the belly, spreading a wave of red to coat the wall beside him. Gurgling, screaming, the man clutched at his innards and fell face first at Cameron's feet. There was silence for a time after as each man regarded the other.
Cameron clutched his sword tighter and stepped over the dead attacker. Devlin lowered his blade, a guarded look on his face. Cameron thought he could see something hidden there, almost plain in the heat of battle, but then it was gone and Devlin was as he always was, cool and calm.
"Where did you learn to fight so, son of the mayor's advisor?" Cameron crossed the room as he spoke, looking down the study's open door into the hall. He could hear nothing, the sound of silence reigned. Shadows filled the joining hall thirty paces down where a pair of lanterns had been snuffed out.
"I'll check the rooms above. See to your wife, lord Telba." Cameron ran out of the room, sword in hand, and shield on his other arm, cursing himself for not being more ready. If there were deaths this night it was on his head.
A scream tore through the still manor, and Cameron stopped cold. Kirstin? He gritted his teeth, followed the sound to a lower bedroom at the back of the house. More of the lights had been turned out, to keep the halls in shadow, to let the trespassers move without notice. He plunged down the darkened hall, moving to the last room on the left side before he found the back exit. It was Sara's room. It figured that she would come to her friend's room, frightened by the chaos that erupted in her peaceful house. He stopped before the door, reaching a hand out and opening it, swinging it inward. There was the coppery smell of blood around the room, thick in the air. Grimacing, Cameron padded back down the hall and snatched one of the lit lanterns from the hook it hung on. Holding it before him, sword still at the ready, he plunged back into the darkened room.
Blood splatters pasted the wall on one side, just beside the bed. The bed roll was also covered, caked in it. Cameron crept around the bed, kneeling at a still form that lay just beside it. A sheet was wrapped half around the figure but even then he could see the slender, pale legs of a young woman sticking out. He reached out, setting the lantern down and wrenching the sheet back, swallowing hard. Dark, wide eyes stared out at him. Matted hair clung about a pretty, white face. Her mouth was frozen, forever screaming the last moment of life and pain she had ever known. There lay Sara, murdered in her room, cut down where she stood for no reason that Cameron could fathom. Closing his eyes, blocking out the sight, he let the sheet fall over her again, to cover those eyes.
A silhouette filled the doorway, a swath of black just behind him. Cameron spun around, blade at the ready, a steely calm on his face. There stood Devlin Telba. His shoulders sagged at the sight of the young woman that Cameron was kneeling over. He saw the shock in his eyes, the color drain from his cheeks. The thoughts he was thinking were clear enough.
"It's Sara," Cameron stated, watching relief mixed with shame rush over his features, "She was killed not long ago. The blood is still warm." Cameron stood and shouldered past him, intent on getting away from the blood smell, "The killer could still be on the grounds."
"Your back. You were injured."
Cameron craned his head back, the memory of the wound making it sting anew. He rubbed at his bare shoulder, wincing at the pain in his back. The slag that had scorched him was probably still there, but he couldn't pause for pain now.
"Where are Huros and Kirstin?" Cameron asked, looking over at Devlin.
"My wife told them to wait upstairs. I believe she told them to hide in the crawl space that was built in Huros' room. It connects to the attic and a ladder that was placed over the east wing. I had it put there in case of fire, so that the children would have a plan of escape. Mirrian insisted that I add the edition when I first decided to build this manor."
Cameron raced upstairs, taking them three at a time, racing around the first landing. He turned a corner and found one of the servants on the floor, bleeding from a gaping wound on his shoulder. The wound was wide, but it was shallow. The man would survive. Instructing him to put pressure on it and tie his shirt around his shoulder he raced on. The door to Huros' room was ajar, flickering light emanated from it. He stormed in the door, blade at the ready, only to find that once again he was too late. The panel that Devlin spoke of was removed from the wall, laying flat on the floor at the foot of Huros' dresser. Kirstin was kneeling on the floor before the body of her brother, hands cupped over her face. Broken sobs escaped her lips as tears fell from her chin, splashing down on Huros' face. The youth clutched a broken wooden sword in his hand, blood staining his chest where a real sword had pierced him. Kirstin's dress was stained from the pool of red that covered the floor; Huros' life blood. Cameron surveyed the rest of the room then came to stop beside her. She started when she heard the floor creak under his feet, but then leapt to hers and embraced him, her sobbing growing even stronger in her grief.
"It's my fault! Huros made me go in that crawl space and sealed it up after me! He said that he couldn't close it from the inside! He died because of me, protecting me!" She clung to him, burying her face in his bare chest. He caressed a hand over her dirt streaked hair and tried to soothe her even as the pain in his own heart made him wince. One of his charges lay dead before him. It was to be a simple task, he thought. Protect the youths from ruffians. How many times was he going to fail in his life with so many simple duties offered to him? It seemed that running to Hamla accorded him nothing as well.
Angry, he shoved the thoughts from his mind and lead Kirstin from the room. She shouldn't have had to see this, Cameron thought. It wasn't easy, he knew, seeing someone dead for the first time. Especially if that dead person was someone that you cared for. Cameron closed his eyes, banishing the memories that threatened to return to him, full force.
"You're safe now," Cameron tried consoling her, hearing how empty the words were in his mouth, "The men that did this are gone or dead. I saw to that. Calm yourself. I'll lead you to your mother."
"No!" she screamed, pulling away from him, "Don't you see? Huros is dead and I did nothing but hide while I heard it happening! Oh Huros..." she collapsed on the floor in the middle of the hall and Mirrian was there, putting her arms around the girl, offering comforting words to her. Kirstin sank into her mother's embrace and wept like a child. Mirrian cast her eyes up to Cameron and they were haunted. A woman that has seen the past merging with the present.
This woman knows something of what happened this night. Cameron couldn't shake that feeling as he felt her eyes on him, if only for sparse seconds. Then she was attending her daughter once more. Devlin came from behind his wife, his bed robe trailing after him, sword still in hand. He looked to Cameron for explanation.
"Kirstin is fine. She escaped the fighting through that crawl space you spoke of..."
"And Huros?" Devlin questioned, his tone eager, "What of my son?"
"I'm sorry, Devlin. Huros is dead. He died protecting his sister. There was nothing I could do. It was all over before I reached here."
"Huros...is dead?" Devlin seemed to shrink on himself, growing older by the second as Cameron watched him, "My son is dead." There was nothing in that voice. No emotion was portrayed; a man that already knew the statement as fact.
"Your daughter is well, my love. At least there is your daughter," Mirrian assured him, her voice almost choking with grief. Devlin cast her a wicked look, anger crossing his face, contorting it to full blown rage.
"My daughter!" he shouted, his voice hoarse, "No, I think not! She had never truly been mine! Not truly!" Devlin shook, the fist holding his sword turning white from pressure, "What have you brought on us woman? Why has this happened? Why?" he stormed off in the thrall of that same rage, leaving Mirrian staring at him in shocked silence. She sobbed then as well, clutching her daughter, seeking the same comfort that she had tried to give moments ago.
"Not his daughter?" Kirstin asked, her voice weak, "What had he meant by that, mother? Why did father say that I wasn't his?"
"He is hurt, Kirstin," Mirrian told her, swiping a stray hair from the girl's face, "Hurt and unknowing of what he says." She said nothing else, intent on sitting where she was, holding her daughter close to her.
Edgar was suddenly there, running down the hall, dropping to both knees before his mistress. Dirt and sweat mingled on his face, the mark of a man that had been battling the blaze in the barn.
"Karnov's hurt, mistress Telba," Edgar told her, "But the fire's out and we saved the horses...what happened to the young mistress?"
"Nothing, Edgar," she whispered, "Kirstin is well. Fetch the father from the village, if you would. Wake him if he is sleeping. There is need of him here. My son is dead. Tell him that Huros is dead."
"The young master is dead?" Edgar turned to look at Cameron, his face echoing the black hate in his heart. Cameron readied his sword, anticipating an attack from the servant but Mirrian's sharp words made him listen.
"You will go to the village now! Retrieve Father Alohm! Insist that he come here with you! Understood?" Edgar was reluctant to leave her side; he stood up, waiting for her to prompt him farther. Cameron stepped forward.
"I will get the father. I can ride there and be back in less than an hour."
"Do so then," Mirrian's voice was almost gone, "It would seem there is no more need for your protection here." Cameron left, feeling the sting of her words. He paused long enough to stop in the room he had been using since his arrival. He found his leather in the closet where he hung it up on his first day there. It pained him to don it, the ache in his back screaming from the rub of the hard leather on it. He tightened the buckles on it and slipped the shield over his back. He took up the scabbard for his sword that lay in the corner of the closet and fastened the belt on his waist.
He left by the front door, dimly aware of Devlin in the shadows of the front room watching him. He whistled once in the cool night air and was satisfied to see Starn come riding to him without delay. The saddle and harness were still in the barn, or the remains of it, so he would have to take the horse bare back. When Starn reached him he swung his leg over and took two handfuls of the horse's mane. Digging his ankles in some he got the horse to a gallop and made his way to the village.
Andor Dravan started at the sounds of breaking glass in his Shoppe, followed by the crunching sound of footfalls over that same glass. Men were in his house. Men who had taken little care to conceal the fact that they had just broken in. Andor was up from his rocker in an instant, grabbing at the fire poker that sat beside the hearth. The old man approached the heavy set side door where his Shoppe gave way to his home. He locked it at dusk when he closed his business as more of a formality then an actual precaution. Now he was glad that he chose to do so.
Holding the poker in front of him he reached the door and placed his ear against it. There were voices in the room beyond. Two, maybe as many as three men were in there, getting closer to the door. They sounded as if they were arguing, angry at one for making so much noise. The one that must have broken the window told them that it didn't matter because they had orders to kill them both. Andor gasped and the voices fell silent.
"Father?" came the voice of his son behind him, nearly scaring him out of his skin, "What was that crashing noise? Did something in the Shoppe just fall over?"
"Kamil, get out of here. Go out the back and run for the church, tell the father that there are thieves in the village."
"Thieves?" Kamil stepped closer to the door, curiosity drawing him. The door suddenly bulged and cracked, splinters from the wood spraying over the floor. Kamil leapt back, his pulse racing. The door cracked more violently, threatening to give way.
"Get out now!" Andor screamed at his son, waving the poker at him as to hit him. Kamil slammed up against the wall, fear pounding in his chest. He watched his father approach him, "Get to the church, now! Do as I tell you!" Kamil raced to the back room, his bedroom, and opened the window, sliding it up on its frame. He leapt out in his bed clothes, bothering only to take an overcoat with him as he slipped out the open window, running for all he was worth for the church and the imagined safety that it offered. He couldn't bring himself to look back at his house even once.
Andor thanked the One God that his son had sense enough to listen to him and readied himself to die. If he could only take one of the cretins on the other side of that door, he'd be happy. The door collapsed and two men spilt into the room. From the shocked looks on their faces they had expected to find the house empty, he and his son fled to the church. That was what Andor had been hoping for. He lunged in and swung the poker over his head, bringing it down on one of the men's heads before they had a chance to ready themselves. The metal poker made a dulled cracking noise as it hit home, bringing the man to the floor and leaving him there, crumpled at Andor's feet.
The other man was quick to draw his sword, wrenching it free of the scabbard and swiping low at the old man. Andor stepped back and his legs gave way. He wasn't used to moving so fast, a thing he thought he had given up years ago. But the move saved him, the blade whistling over his head where his chest had been a second ago. Andor tried to recover, pulling himself up but the attacker was younger, faster. He hammered at the old man, reigning blows on the metal poker that Andor held overhead for protection. Sparks flew in the air from the connections and Andor felt his hands fast going numb.
He rolled away, praying that his strength wouldn't fail him, and stood up, using the wall behind him for support. The attacker rushed in, thrusting the sword, meaning to impale him. Andor side stepped and felt the blade part his shirt, just missing flesh. The end of the weapon struck home in solid wood, trapping it. Andor saw his moment and took it. He raised the poker and brought it down, bending the metal rod across the man's head. His attacker fell to his knees, moaning from the pain that thundered in his temples. Andor swung the poker up once more, hoping that he could strike faster than his opponent could recover.
The attacker, however, moved swifter then the old man, side stepping the blow that may have rendered him unconscious. He balled up his fist and punched the old man square in the jaw. Andor fell back, bowling the table over. He broke a chair as he landed on it. His joints flared with bitter pain but he fought them too, making himself stand again to face the youth that sought to kill him.
"Did Cameron tell you to come here?" Andor asked him, trying to buy enough time for him to recover.
The attacker didn't seem to recognize the name Andor mentioned, judging by the cool look on his face. "That name means nothing to me, old man." The youth scooped up the poker that Andor had been fighting with and sprang forth. Andor tried to dodge but the blow caught his side. He fancied he felt ribs crack from the force of the strike. He fell to the floor, holding his hands out to ward off more blows he knew he would be facing. The man brought the poker down on the old man several more times, bringing slight trails of red with it after the third strike. Finally he stopped, panting from the battle. Andor Dravan lay there at the man's feet, unmoving.
The man made his way over to his companion and checked him, putting his hand over his neck, feeling for a life sign. It was there. Weak, but there. The man succeeded in pulling the blade from the wall where it sat suspended and walked back over to his companion. A quick thrust down ended his life, piercing his heart. There would be none to speak of what happened this night. Then the man was gone, chasing after the youth that fled for the church.
Terrible pounding woke Damien from his sleep. He thought at first that he was dreaming; he did it quite often. But he felt the pillow under his head, tasted morning film in his mouth. This was not a dream. Pondering what could be urgent enough to wake him from sleep so late in the night he crawled out of bed, putting his slippers on and throwing a thick robe around his bed skirt. He opened the door to his room and found Ferrin trying to sneak by him, shoulders hunched, tiptoeing. When the youth saw the father standing there he gave him a sheepish grin. Damien shook his head and smiled. Ferrin was a hard one to be around and not end up smiling. He had that quality about him.
"You might as well come with since I know that you'll only sneak right back out here and find out what's going on anyhow." Ferrin looked shocked at the accusation but didn't hesitate to follow the father into the prayer room where mass gathered. Damien hurried to the door, only stopping once to take a lantern from a shelf on the wall. He unbolted the doors and threw them open, nearly getting bowled over by a wild eyed young man. The youth, he recognized him as Kamil Dravan, son of Andor, was frantic. His hair disheveled, he only wore an overcoat to cover his bed clothes. His feet were bare. Damien knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that something was very wrong.
"Calm yourself, child. What is it that has brought you here so late? Is your father's illness worse?"
"Father!" Kamil gasped between rapid intakes of air, "Men are at my home! They broke in a window and were breaking down our door! Father told me to leave, said to come here for safety." The Kamil spun back toward the open road, his body shivering, "One God! Father is still in there! They'll kill him!" Kamil tried to run away but the strong hand of the priest bade him stop. Ferrin sympathized. He knew how futile it was to struggle in that grasp. Damien forced him to calm himself, to sit on the step of the church and breath. When Julia appeared, fully dressed in a soft leather tunic and calf skin breeches the father told her to go back into the church and fetch the boy some water. Scowling, she did as she was told, disappearing back into the bowels of the church.
"I will check on your father," Damien told him, putting a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder. "I'm sure that there is nothing to fear."
"You don't understand! They were trying to break in! I've never seen father like that, so scared!" Kamil stopped, his breath caught. Coming from the main road of the village were a pair of men, one coming out from an alley behind the Perris residence, the other marching right down the center of the darkened street. Cloaks covered them as much as the night did; masking who it was they might be. Damien stood and marched down the stairs, coming to a halt at the bottom, watching the pair of men as they converged and made their way to the church. Ferrin shuddered, catching a scent on the wind. It was something that he had been able to do for as long as he could remember. Tell by scent when men were ready to kill. That was how he was taken off guard by Cameron. He couldn't catch the scent on him. On these two, though, it hung there like a pall. Baring his teeth, Ferrin went down to stand beside the good father.
"What brings you to our humble village this late at night, good sirs?" Damien questioned, raising his voice to a pleasant talking level. Neither man stopped, nor did they show their hands, content to let them rest under the folds of their cloaks. Kamil scrambled back, trying to hide in the doors of the church.
"That young man that you're harboring," One of the men said, his voice barely audible, "We need him."
"What would you need him for? Has the lad done something that I should be aware of?"
"You'll never know, holy man," the other cloaked man growled. He pulled a bared blade out from under his cloak and charged, his companion just behind him. They were black on black, wearing nothing but, the silvery swords gleaming in the night. Damien held out his hands as if to tell them to stop, never backing away.
"God of creation listen now, I implore you. Your humble servant calls on your majesty and power to calm the hatred in these men and cast away their desire to fight." A strong wind gathered about the priest, as if his words alone could summon the storm to his aid. It coursed about him, making his robe flap, pushing his hair back. Ferrin felt it too. Not a forceful wind, never that. It was gentle, calming. It made him think of his mother, and the only pleasant time in his life he ever truly knew. He was content just to stand there and savor the memory, oblivious to anything that happened around him.
The cloaked men, on the other hand, shied away from the soothing wind that enveloped the priest, hanging about him like a shield. They moved around it, cursing as they felt the will to fight ebb out of them like their life's blood. One backed away and the wind failed to reach him. He gathered that it was centered only where the priest stood and decided to circumvent it. He made his way around the stairs that lead up to the doors, watching his companion fall to his knees, the sword he carried dangled in limp fingers. Gritting his teeth, feeling the calm fall over him again when he clenched the rail to pull himself up he gathered his rage and leapt over the wooden banister, aiming his sword for the priest's heart.
He would have met his goal if not for Ferrin. The youth was taken off guard by the man's sudden appearance, fear lulling him out of the state the good father had put him into. Ferrin dashed in at the last second on the stairs, slapping the man's arm aside and making the blade go astray of its mark. Damien started at the scuffling noises on the stairs behind him and spun to see what the matter was. The powerful wind fell to nothing; the night was as still as it had been before he called on the strength of the One God. He saw Ferrin in front of him, guarding him. The wiry young man twisted low, putting both hands on the stair he stood on and delivered a kick to the man's chest that sent him sprawling backward. Ferrin was upright as quickly as he had cart wheeled and followed the man's descent, using one hairy foot to boot the sword up the stairs and into the dark of the church.
He was distracted when he heard a shocked gasp from the open doors and looked up to see Julia standing there, a glass of water in her hand. Her jaw was slack, perhaps from the sight of four men, including the good father, fighting on the steps of the church. She let the glass go and it shattered at her feet, spraying water about her ankles but she failed to notice.
The cloaked man took advantage of this and sprang up, punching Ferrin in the jaw. It would have been a much harder strike but Ferrin saw it coming at the last second and had started to lean away from it. As it was it nearly knocked him right off the steps, over the banister. His attacker pressed his assault and caught him there, clamping both hands over the youth's throat and squeezing hard. Exquisite pain danced along his neck as Ferrin fought the man, trying for all he was worth to pry those hands off his throat.
At the bottom of the steps the other man had recovered from the effect of the prayer and rose quickly to his feet, fixing to kill the father before he could offer up another prayer.
"Hear your humble servant, lord of my life!" Damien cried out, fighting to maintain calm, "And grant me the power to...” his words were cut short by a clenched fist that smashed him square in the face. Damien rocked back, blood from his lip leaking into his beard, but he maintained his balance if nothing else. He brought his hands out, palms outstretched, and pushed hard. His would be killer pitched to the ground, caught off guard by the priest's strength.
"I don't want to fight you, but to protect the life of that young man I will. I implore you to cease this madness and just tell us what it is you truly desire. Why is there the need to fight each other?" Damien asked the man as he stood up, raising the sword between them. The man snarled at him, crouching low.
"This isn't a fight," the man told him, "This is an execution." He swung hard, using the length of his blade to lash out at the priest. Damien stepped back, just missing the sword's arc, but tripped over his robe and fell on the steps. He saw the man bearing down on him and prayed to his God, asking him to forgive the sins that he had committed in life and accept his servant with open arms. The cloaked man went suddenly slack, his face losing all expression. He pitched forward, face first in the dirt before the father, a blossom of red growing on his back. Cameron Reol stood there, dressed in his armor, sword at the ready.
"Good thing that one of our Gods was here to save the day, wasn't it, father?" Cameron asked, extending his hand for Damien to take. Frowning but grateful, Damien took his hand and stood erect.
"Yes, it is fortunate that my God bid you to come here when you did, or who knows what might have happened?" Damien couldn't help but smirk a bit when he saw Cameron scowl at the comment. Both their heads craned up when they heard a loud scream pierce the still air.
The man still held Ferrin strong, and for all he could do, Ferrin felt himself slipping away. Blackness was near him, calling to him. The pain in his neck was distant, then, and he thought he almost enjoyed the sensation that the dark brought with it. But then air came to him in a rush, along with a piercing shriek that caused him to wince with pain. The cloaked man staggered back, one hand clutching behind him, endeavoring to pull free a jagged hunk of glass that stuck there. Julia backed away from the man, swallowing hard as she watched the pain contort his face. Pain that she caused him. But the One God would understand, she hoped. The man was killing Ferrin, and she was doing what she knew was right. Still, it gave her a cold feeling in her belly. But with that cold feeling came the rush of adrenaline that tended to accompany such an act. She thrilled at the feeling of the fire in her blood then blushed furiously. She silently admonished herself for relishing such barbaric thoughts. If she dwelt on them then she was no better than Cameron Reol, a hired sword, who made his coin from killing and causing pain to others.
The man wrenched the glass out of his back and fell up the stairs, crawling into the open doors of the church. The glass eyed boy that he had been fighting was still gagging on the step, he was no threat. Neither was the young woman who stabbed him. She seemed to sink into to some sort of shock. He clenched his teeth, crawling to where he saw that boy kick his sword. He found it, taking it in hand and standing. His prey wasn't far; he could see the boy running deeper into the church even now. But there was something to take care of first. The man in the armor that he caught a glimpse of. He carried a sword in hand and had the look of a killer on him. He had to dispatch this man before he could complete his goal. Gathering his courage, he walked back out of the church and went to face Cameron Reol.
Ferrin watched the man come back down the steps from the safety of the church side, away from the front. Damien had dragged him there when the cloaked man went to retrieve his sword. Julia joined them at the corner, a helpless look on her face. She nursed her hand. A deep gouge ran along the palm where she cut herself on the glass. Cut herself saving my miserable life, Ferrin thought and he smiled at her; a warm open smile that he rarely gave anyone. She returned the smile and seemed to calm herself, if only a little. That was good, Ferrin thought, because he could smell the kill on these men now, strong as it was. Neither one of them were going to be walking away from the fight until one fell. Ferrin prayed that it was Cameron that won, or they all might be joining him.
"You came with the others from the Telba manor?" Cameron asked the man as they circled each other. Both had their swords out. Cameron opted to leave the shield on his back.
"What is it to you?" the man retorted, "I'm doing what I came here to do. Nothing more and nothing less."
"You come here to kill Lord Telba? Or threaten the life of a priest? What benefit could there possibly be in that?"
"I'd tell you," the man said lowly, "But dead men have little use for such information." The man swung in and their blades locked, sparks singing off them. Cameron pulled away and slashed low at the man's leg, testing his reflexes. His opponent whipped the blade around and blocked, pushing the weapon away and returning with a strike of his own. Cameron side stepped the attack and stepped past him, laying open the man's back in a single fluid motion. His opponent screamed, struggling for balance. He found it and swung about, blade before him.
Cameron didn't hesitate. He struck the weapon aside and swept low, the edge of his sword slicing cleanly through cloth and splitting his thigh. The man stumbled back, shifting his balance to his left leg, trying to keep up. Cursing under his breath, he lunged in, cutting down with all the speed he could summon. Cameron dropped to his knees and caught the blow by setting his sword horizontally. He pulled back from the staid attack and flipped the hilt about in his hand so the blade stretched the length of his arm. A pulling gesture opened the man's stomach open, spilling dark blood all over Cameron's knees and thighs.
The man fell against him, dropping his sword. Cameron caught him in his arms, holding him there, watching the light leave his eyes for the last time. The man struggled to reach Cameron's side and he leaned closer, gathering that the man wanted to tell him something.
"I'll...” blood flecked his lips, frothing over his chin, "...be seeing you in Hell, warrior." The man smiled, his teeth red and bright.
"Certainly," Cameron returned the smile, "When you get there just tell the devil in charge that I'll be seeing them sooner or later." The man hissed with the last of the racking pain, then the body went slack in his arms and there was nothing. Cameron set the body down in the dirt, sheathing his sword after he cleaned it on the man's cloak.
"In the name of the One God I bid you peace and love everlasting in the next life. May your maker be fair in his judgment and all that is known of you be laid bare so that you cross the threshold in innocence as you so entered this world. Peace be with thee, amen," Damien offered the prayer on one knee, holding his hand over the dead man's forehead. A single tear crept from his eye and he let it roll down his cheek.
"Amen," Julia offered, echoing the father. She looked shaken, pale. She shivered openly though the night was far from cold. Father Alohm moved to the next man and Cameron caught his arm.
"You weep for these men?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.
"I weep for any loss of life. The gift of life should never be taken for granted, no matter the reason. For this I grieve, even if there is no one else who would do the same."
Cameron shook his head at him, "You're a better man than I am, father."
"Never sell yourself short, my friend," Damien told him, patting him on the shoulder, "Now if you will excuse me, there is another man that I need to perform the Prayer of Passing on." Cameron watched him stoop low before the man and take a Komin from his pocket, placing the holy symbol on the man's forehead, repeating the words he just spoke.
People were coming out of their houses, then, lanterns dotting the entire center of the village. When some saw the scene at the foot of the church they ushered their children back into the house. Some went in themselves, sickened by the gory sight. Ferrin couldn't blame them. He felt nauseous from the blood smell in the air. He tried to breathe through his mouth but that failed. It gave him the impression that he was breathing in a blood rare steak. He laughed silently at the picture of him inhaling, only to gag on a giant steak that flew through the air. Laughing, silent as it was, only made his raw throat hurt all the more so he decided that it wasn't so funny after all.
Kamil came out of the church, peering around the frame of the door and seeing all the people converging on the church. He was about to sink back in when a thought raced back into his head.
"My father!" he cried out, leaping down the steps and barreling through the crowd, pushing away anyone that got in his path.
"Go with him," Damien motioned to Julia, "Ensure that his father is well."
"Of course," she replied, hastening to keep up with the frantic youth. Damien stood from the other body. His eyes never left Cameron.
"There is something that you came here for."
"There is. Your church was not the only scene of battle this night. The Telba manor was attacked earlier. Mistress Telba sent me to fetch you. There are more dead there, and I fear it's worse than just dead bandits."
"The children?" Damien asked, his voice quivering.
"Just come with me, father. You'll soon see what I mean."
"Of course," Damien told him, just allow me to change swiftly and I'll saddle my horse. We'll ride out to the Telba manor together." The father went back into the church, stopping only to pat Ferrin on the shoulder and thank him for coming to his aid. The youth just shuffled his feet and signed, you're welcome.
A light rain suddenly began to fall from above, coating Cameron with cool wetness. He stood there, head held high, thoughts darker than before. He knew answers weren't far from coming, but he didn't know if they were the answers he'd want to hear. The father finally joined him, horse saddled and ready. Ferrin also climbed on, not taking no for an answer. The youth was adamant about not staying in someplace alone where two men just met their deaths.
"Very well then," Damien looked to Cameron to take the lead, "Let us ride."
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