Mud and Magic Ch. 06

It was a surreal homecoming. The last time he had been here, it had rained as well but grass was everywhere and the houses -- although they were simple -- were homely, brimming with light and life. Now, walking amidst the destruction, Rhys felt like he had stepped into a nightmare. It was the same place he knew so well and at the same time it wasn't. Debris had spilled into the street, carts had been smashed against walls by some incredible force, their cargo everywhere, burnt and broken by the same fires still flickering amidst the timbers and under the caved-in thatch roofs.

And then he saw the first corpses. Jenny Billings, her brother and parents -- all neatly laid out in front of their ruined home, all staring in perpetually frozen surprise at the sky. And wherever he turned, the same image. Whole families, neatly arrayed, industrially butchered. Choking at the sudden bile in his throat, he knelt down next to Jenny, with her dirty blonde hair and buck teeth. A small spatter of red had bloomed between her breasts, almost washed away by the rain. He tried to lift her shoulder. With a wet, sucking noise, the soaked back of her mud-caked dress parted from the blood-soaked ground. A much larger wound gaped, the edges torn.

"Someone stabbed them from behind," a soft voice came. Rhys shot up, whirling towards the voice with his staff.

Hilgrun easily blocked the clumsy swipe with her bracer, then caught Rhys as his knees and stomach gave out simultaneously. "The bastards used a barbed sword. Goes in easy. Out, not so much."

Rhys' answer was a sad, pathetic gurgle as he and his stomach's contents parted ways. Hilgrun gently patted his back.

A moment later, he straightened up. Still pale, still shaking, but his eyes were focused.

"Good. Be angry. You have every right." She balled her fists, her fingers cracking. "No just ruler would butcher his subjects like that. Battles are fought against warriors, not peasants."

"I don't understand," Rhys moaned. "What... why?"

"Only one way to find out," Hilgrun said gently. "We need to look around for clues. Over there, for example." She pointed to the village green, right next to the inn. Two tall structures had been erected. Crosses. Crows perched on the beams, bickering among themselves.

"Have you seen Lishaka?" Rhys asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Am... Am I the cause for all this?"

"Wait before you chastise yourself," Hilgrun said. She snaked her arm around Rhys' shoulders, keeping him upright. "Now, one foot before the other."

"I can walk," Rhys growled, slapping her hand away. Unsteadily, he made his way up the soggy road until he could see the crosses clearly. Two bodies had been nailed to them, gutted from the crotch to the chin. And both had wooden signs nailed to their faces.

It took Rhys some time until he could identify them. On the left cross, barely recognizable thanks to dozens of deep sword cuts and a missing arm, hung Daffyd. The remnants of his once proud beard gave him away. His sign read "Rabble-Rouser."

Rhys braced himself as he looked at the other cross. This body was female but no less devastated. Wet strands of copper hair stuck to the corpse's breasts and the sign nailed to her forehead read "Murderer."

Rhys tried to force breath into his revolting body. He sunk to his knees, sobbing helplessly. "No. No. Not you. Dara."

Hilgrun watched him, grasping the hilt of her blade helplessly. There was no one close by to punish for this atrocity. Someone had taken out their ire on the whole village, a thought she found utterly reprehensible. Her people were considered barbarians by most of the Western Continent, that much she knew from her time at the tower, but even at their worst, they settled their disputes between warriors, not civilians. They could simply not afford to butcher whole villages.

Watching all this devastation made her furious, to the point she quietly begged her namesake, Hilgrun the Frost Witch, patron mother of cold and hunger, to bring some enemies to slay. But no faceless warriors came. They wouldn't. Their butcher's work was already done.

"Oh, there you..." Lishaka stopped mid-sentence, her eyes going from Hilgrun to Rhys to the crucified corpses. She closed her mouth with a quiet click. When she moved again, to go to Rhys' side, Hilgrun stopped her with a hand to the shoulder.

"What kind of monster did all this?" the goblin whispered, horrified.

"Humans," Hilgrun hissed back, renewing her grasp on Lishaka's shoulder. "Let him be. The fury must burn within him or he will break before the day is over."

Lishaka looked up at her. "He is in pain, Hilgrun." Her voice was barely audible over Rhys' pained moans.

"You can soothe him after."

"I didn't know you were so cruel," Lishaka hissed.

Hilgrun gnashed her teeth. "I'll let that slide, just this once," she warned her softly. Louder, she said: "Rhys."

The young sorcerer looked at her, his face tear- and rain-streaked. He had left muddy handprints on his forehead and cheeks and his eyes reminded her of a young deer she had killed with a spear when she was just twelve, the understanding that the world was a cruel, savage place.

"Maybe there are survivors," Hilgrun said. "Bemoaning the dead will not help them. When we have scouted the whole village," she put extra emphasis on that, "we'll come back here and offer them a proper burial. But now I need you to be strong. If not for your own sake, then maybe for the survivors."

Slowly, like dragging a millstone behind himself, Rhys came to his knees. "Maybe they are in the shrine," he said, his voice dull, leaden. Lishaka clawed at Hilgrun's hand.

"This way." Dragging his feet through the mud, Rhys stumbled towards a small building a little ways off, on the other side of the village green. Even from across the field, Hilgrun could see the door hanging askew on half a hinge.

Together with Rhys, Lishaka and Hilgrun reached the shrine. Rhys tried to move the solid wooden door but it hung askance in the doorway and wouldn't budge.

"Let me," Hilgrun said. Rhys slumped against the side of the shrine, if held upright by his staff or the stone wall, Lishaka couldn't tell.

Hilgrun gave the door a long, hard look then lashed out with her metal-shod boot. The last hinge broke and the door clamored inwards, crashing to the floor with a thunderous clap.

"They heard that back home," Lishaka whispered to herself then looked past the broad behind of Hilgrun. The inside of the shrine was at the same time barren and ruined. There had been pews but those not broken had been tossed around like a giant's matches, with one burying the altar. Remnants of a beautiful icon were scattered across the small room and there was a shocking amount of blood, especially near the door. A thick trail of red led past the altar, to the small door leading below. Pieces of a shredded robe too. Hilgrun stopped. The tall barbarian had stepped on something. She bent low and picked it up. It was a half-molten and blackened piece of gold, barely recognizable as the Wings of Mercy.

"No one's here," Rhys muttered behind her. "Where is everybody?"

"Rhys..." Lishaka began.

"Maybe the farms on the outskirts didn't end up like this," he began. "Yes. That's it. Old Man Harrol's... or... or mine." He turned on his heels and sprinted from the shrine.

"Hilgrun!" Lishaka called, hot on his heels.

"By Desire's wrinkled asshole," Hilgrun cursed, bringing up the rear.

They say it is fear which gives men wings. Others think that hope may have a similar power. But all Hilgrun knew was that Rhys was desperate and desperate men did stupid things. Praying to all gods in hearing range, she pleaded that no looters or brigands were lurking in or around the village. Those types always were the first after the crows.

Thankfully, the area around the village was mostly fields, with very few obvious hiding places so approaching enemies could be seen easily enough. Rhys knew this place by heart, easily avoiding the worst potholes and deepest puddles. Hilgrun and Lishaka were not so lucky. Once, the tall barbarian had to drag the cursing goblin from a puddle which almost swallowed her to her hip.

No scavengers ambushed them and eventually, just as the sun was setting, they reached a small farm. The main building was a crude amalgam of field stone and large timbers, roofed with thatch. A small stable, hen house and barn were scattered around a courtyard awash with puddles. Rhys had stopped dead in front of a row of corpses. Five men, three women. He stood over one of the men, a withered, but wiry muscular elder. In death, his face was a mask of incomprehension. The other four men were big and burly, a bit too unkempt for Hilgrun's tastes and they looked like they had fought until the bitter end. No easy deaths for them, she thought, calmly noting the ghastly sword wounds. To her surprise, they didn't at all look like Rhys. The only people even remotely looking like him were the females. Even in death, their faces were empty. They didn't even struggle.

"She's not here!" Rhys gasped, throwing his weight against the hovel's front door. Hilgrun and Lishaka followed him inside. The house was mainly one large room, dominated by a big stone table. Around it, a fireplace and some cooking utensils. Two doors and a staircase led away from the main room, with Rhys dashing up the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Hilgrun called after him but he didn't listen or wait. Snarling, she sprinted after him.

"Gran? Gran!" Rhys called, throwing open the door on the upper landing. And then, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been brutally snipped apart, he crashed to his knees, emitting a horrid, wheezing breath.

Finally, Hilgrun caught up with him. The first thing she noticed was the stench of death, the unmistakable aroma of spilled blood. Then, her eyes finally attuned to the gloom and she could see beyond the doorway. The last bit of light coming from a small window at the room's back outlined a large rocking chair with a frail, old woman sitting in it. And then she saw the pool of blood and gore around the chair's skids, coming down her shoulder and arm, emitting from a ghastly dent in her skull. Something had hit her with enormous force, deforming her skull and killing her outright.

"Oh, Gran," Rhys moaned, slowly dragging himself forward on hands and knees. "What have they done to you?"

Behind her, there was a strange, metallic sound, followed by a bright light. Lishaka made a small, triumphant sound and joined them, holding a lit oil lamp aloft.

"At least it was a quick death," Hilgrun observed. "She didn't suffer, unlike most of the villagers."

"But why? She didn't do anything!" Rhys cried.

"Shh!" Lishaka said.

Hilgrun raised her sword. "Looters?"

"I don't know. I thought I heard something."

Rhys unsteadily came to his feet. "I...," he began, then stopped. There was something, a weak rustling. He turned to face Gran but the old woman was well and truly dead.

A sound came from below, like a hoarse whimper.

"Could it be that someone survived here?" Hilgrun asked. "Is this your whole family?" She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the corpses outside.

Rhys' jaw worked. "Mirrin. She isn't here."

Again that noise, a bit louder now.

"Mirrin?" Rhys yelled, at the top of his lungs.

Hilgrun rolled her eyes. Why not announce our presence with a whole damn fanfare?

A weak thud came from the floor. Rhys' eyes lit up. "Oh, Gran," he moaned, stumbling deeper into the room. He grabbed the rocking chair and pulled, dragging the heavy piece of furniture backwards, away from the door.

"Help me get the floor boards up," he panted, going to his knees and digging his fingers into a thin gap, not minding if the splinters tore open his fingertips.

"Why? What's down there?" Hilgrun asked. She didn't fancy crawling around in that huge pool of blood.

"Gran's stash. Get loose already!" Rhys screamed. He looked at his bloodied fingers, then drew a dagger from his belt. The noises from below the floor boards became frenzied, a muffled screech and more thumps.

"Let me," Hilgrun said, carefully wedging the tip of her sword between two floor boards. She used the sturdy blade as a lever. The old wood was no match for the Frostspire steel. A small, almost skeletal hand shot up from below the floor boards, covered in blood. Once the central board was gone, pulling away the adjacent planks was much easier, the nails had rusted down to little stumps. Hilgrun put down her sword and reached down, pulling what supposedly was Rhys' sister from the hollow beneath the boards. She was stick-thin, deathly pale and horribly light. Blood from above had seeped through gaps in the floor boards, turning her once bright dress into a horrible death shroud and caked her hair, but that was not all. Dried blood was around her mouth and down her front and as she carefully lifted the feebly struggling bundle of limbs from the hollow, Hilgrun saw lumps of rat fur and bones. Now even her battle-hardened stomach threatened to revolt.

"Mirrin! You're alive!" Rhys croaked.

"Barely," Hilgrun snarled. She crossed the room and gently placed the shivering and weakly kicking girl onto the horribly filthy mattress. "Healing potion."

Rhys dug around under his cloak, dropped the metal flask and finally handed it off to her. Hilgrun uncorked it with her teeth, spat out the stopper and held the flask up to Mirrin's lips. "Drink this if you want to live," she ordered, locking gazes with the emaciated girl. "Do you understand me?"

With trembling fingers, Mirrin tried to grasp the flask. "Stop that, you'll only drop it," Hilgrun snarled. She braced Mirrin with one arm and fed the bottle to her with the other. The blood-spattered girl drank greedily and gulped down the bitter liquid without missing a drop. Her skin gained a bit more color and the worst of her shaking subsided. Hilgrun let her sink back onto the mattress.

"Any more hiding places we should have a look at?" Hilgrun asked Rhys, who stared wide-eyed at the ghostly apparition on the bed. "Rhys?"

"Uh... no. I don't think there is anyone left," he muttered. "Mirrin. Is that really you?"

"You have to make a choice here," Lishaka said gently, placing her hand in Rhys'. "Do you want to stay and search some more?"

"No. Mirrin needs help. Elara or Idunn. And soon. Even I can see that." Rhys walked back to the door. "I'll see if I can find a blanket or two to wrap her in. I'll be right back."

"You're a tough little cookie," Lishaka said, grinning at Mirrin. The pale girl eyed her warily. Her spindly fingers grasped Hilgrun's hand.

"And she's more afraid of you than me," Hilgrun complained. "I'm hurt."

Mirrin's mouth worked but only weak rasps came out.

"Hush, little one," Hilgrun whispered. "Don't strain yourself too much. We're Rhys' friends. I'm Hilgrun, she's Lishaka. And don't let her looks fool you. She's nice."

Mirrin sighed and closed her eyes. Hilgrun reached out and touched the girl's neck. The pulse was faint but steady. She'd make it. Hopefully.

Rhys clambered back into the room. He had a some blankets with him. Together with Hilgrun, he wrapped Mirrin in them. Her arms suddenly shot out and she pulled him close with a strength belying her frailty.

Mirrin pressed her cheek against his. "Knew... you'd come," she whispered, barely audible. "Gran knew too." She sagged against him, as if these six words had drained her of all her remaining strength. Rhys lifted Mirrin off the bed and pressed her against his chest.

"I only wish I could have been here sooner," Rhys muttered, feeling hot tears well up in his eyes. "Maybe I could have done something!"

"Or maybe you would have died like all the others." Hilgrun snapped. "Chastise yourself when we're back at the tower and Mirrin is safe." She placed a hand on the goblin's shoulder. "Get us home, Lishaka. And make sure we're not scattered halfway across the Frostspires."

"Hey, it was my first Teleport," Lishaka complained. "And I kinda got the location right, didn't I?"

The goblin sorceress threaded one arm through the nook of Rhys' elbow and began to draw power around herself. She finished the spell with another high-pitched yell. Rhys could feel the surge of power rushing around them but it dissipated, going nowhere. Lishaka groaned and went to her knees, clutching her head.

"Now what?" Hilgrun asked. "Are you all right?"

"Do I look all right?" Lishaka moaned, wiping sweat off her brow. Her eyes were bloodshot and a small trickle of black blood ran from her nose. "I'm not strong enough to take you all along."

"We really need to make better plans in the future," Hilgrun muttered. "Now what?"

"I could try again with fewer people. And then maybe ask someone else to come back here and get the rest."

"Fine," Rhys said. "Hilgrun, take Mirrin and go. I will stay behind."

"Are you sure about this?" the barbarian asked, carefully taking Mirrin off Rhys' arms. Her eyes had fallen shut and her breathing gone shallow.

"I will probably never come back here anyway. I'll say my goodbyes until someone fetches me."

"I won't be long, promise," Lishaka said, already going through the motions of her spell again. "Hold on, Hilgrun!"

The barbarian woman had barely clasped the goblin's shoulder before Lishaka completed the spell. This time, it worked. Lishaka, Hilgrun and Mirrin vanished with nary a sound or flashy lights.

Rhys took the oil lamp and left Gran's room, slowly walking down the stairs to the main living area. The place hadn't even been looted. Apart from one chair which had been kicked over, everything looked like Padec and the rest of the family had just finished supper and were about to come back any moment. Even the stupid elven pitcher was in its customary place near the head of the table.

What happened? Why did they burn down the village? Kill Dara and Daffyd? And all of the others - all because of me? Rhys slumped onto the chair Padec used to call his.

What's the reason behind this butchery? Rhys balled his fists. And much like the last time he was here, the witch blood within answered, causing every loose item in the room to shake in time to his heartbeat. Rhys' eyes fell onto the old halberd hanging over the hearth. Padec had obviously not even thought about bringing the weapon with him when the butchers arrived. Maybe thought his status as former pikeman would save him, Rhys thought bitterly. Didn't he hear the screams of the dying all over the village?

There were only two people alive -- aside from the attackers -- who knew what really had happened and both were unable to talk right now. Rhys gnashed his teeth in frustration. Many of his old fears had diminished since Thurguz had taken him in. Even if Hilgrun and Borna still intimidated him from time to time with their sheer physicality, he had lost his fear of bullies. But there still was one thing he really could not stand -- not knowing why.

But sitting around here and staring holes in the walls won't get me anywhere either, Rhys had to admit. I might as well send what little family I had into Mercy's arms.

Sighing, he pulled himself to his feet and used the oil lamp to light the fireplace and several candles and lamps around the house. Outside, it was pitch-black and wet. The rain had picked up and was dripping noisily off the thatch. Rhys dug around until he found one of Delf's old cloaks, way too big for him but somewhat water-proof, then he trudged up the stairs and wrapped Gran's corpse in a blanket.

"You were the only one who cared, besides Mirrin," Rhys whispered, fighting the words past another thick lump in his throat. "You were more of a mother to me than the woman who birthed me."