The Wanderer

A strange sound caught his attention. Something not quite human; somewhere between a screech and a wail; the sound lonely, beseeching, yet predatory all at once.

He turned upwards and saw the edge of a wing; feathers silken black in the morning light.

The crow banked slowly, its wings curved precisely to catch the breeze as it glided higher and higher. It circled back, its black gaze seeming to lock onto his for a moment. Those avian eyes were depthless, fathomless; an eternal abyss. They too had witnessed suffering; humanity's carnage a never ending feast for the winged scavenger and its feathered friends. And here they came now, joining their leader as his beak pointed toward the horizon, their sleek bodies instinctively wedging into a flying V formation, pointed unerringly at the impending disaster ahead.

The man followed, his steady footsteps eating up the miles as the day wore on. Long before he reached it, a column of smoke could be seen rising high into the sky. The incessant cawing of the crows reached his ears before the village finally came into sight. And joining their cries were barely human sounds combined together into a symphony from hell; the wailing, screeching, teeth gnashing sounds of grief raising a frightful din as what was left of the survivors gathered in the village common. And what they paid witness to was even more frightful than the din they raised.

It was a scene worse than the lowest circle of Hades itself. A funeral pyre; its fleshly tinder raising the mile high column of smoke he had seen earlier. Hands, feet, legs, ragged dirty clothes all jumbled together in a burning pile as the fire raged ever on. More bodies tossed into the flaming heap as their kin watched; the women mad with grief, tearing at their hair, the men staring helplessly; shoulders stooped in defeat.

Men in chain mail held back the crowd, swords at the ready and eyes sharp for any possible signs of organized defiance. A woman, eyes wild with pain, tried to run pass the king's soldiers and was met with a metalled gauntlet for her trouble. She fell to the ground sobbing and tried to turn her eyes away. Away from the skin slowly sliding off the face of her son like molten plastic as his body burned along with many others in the increasing pile of human bodies gathered and tossed into the flames by the king's men. But she could not, her eyes like those of others around her, hypnotically drawn to the last moments of their loved ones on earth as their bodies sizzled in the flames, the sickly sweet scent of their burning flesh sickening as skin melted into bones.

By order of the king, all those killed by the black death would be consumed by fire, their diseased flesh consecrated to ashes forever so as to prevent the further spread of the devil's sickness upon those still living. And so the villagers grieved, bearing witness to the last moments of their loved ones; black tongues bloated with disease and eyeballs running into soup in their sockets as their flesh burned away forever.

The king's soldiers watched and waited as their comrades went hovel to hovel, forcibly dragging out black bloated bodies for them to burn. They had become inured to such carnage as the plague swept throughout the kingdom, mowing down people everywhere like so many stalks of wheat indistinguishable from the chaff as the grim reaper's scythe cut down the living by the thousands. And so it went, village by village, hovel by hovel, bodies too many to count piled higher and higher onto the flames as the unending nightmare of the plague dragged on and on.

The man stood at the edge of the crowd and watched in silence. Face young but eyes ancient, he stared calmly, having seen much worse throughout his wanderings. He did not pity the villagers, for life was life and death was necessary to define it. At least with death came an end to suffering and with it the sweet bitterness of not knowing what came the morrow. When would his suffering end?

Finally, mercifully, the burning ended, the last body having been dragged from the village hovels. Now the carts came forth, as the villagers dispersed and the king's men pulled charred remains from the smoldering pyre and unceremoniously tossed them like sacks of leftovers into the carts, their blackened flesh plopping with a sick squishing sound as flesh met wood. One by one they left, their wooden wheels leaving a long rut in the dirt as the line of carts wheeled slowly out of the village. The king's soldiers followed and men and carts soon disappeared over the horizon.

The man's eyes followed the last soldier out then turned to survey the village. It was a collection of straw and twigs patched together with mud; not unlike the countless gatherings of many peasants into communal living he had passed through many times before.

A dog darted across the square then suddenly stopped to stare at him. Its fur was matted and streaked and stance weary, as if undecided whether he was friend or foe. Unsure, its teeth bared in a grimace; the canines gleaming sharp in the fading light. Giving a low growl, the dog shook its head then sauntered off. The man followed, his footsteps somehow striking up less dirt than the dog's.

Those odd villagers still out and about gave the man a nod as he passed. He returned the greeting, his gaze open and guileless. They could see from his bearing and threadbare clothes that he was one of them; of humble origin. Besides which, thievery held little fear and murder even less these days. What use were copper coins, when came the morrow, one might not even be alive to spend them? And why cling to life when you could end up on the funeral pyre at any moment?

Empty doorways met his gaze as he slowly walked through the village. Their black entrances yawned at him, hungry darkness seeping out from inside. Here and there a gaunt face peered out, eyes sunken as the skin stretched parchment like across skull features hollowed out by pain unimaginable. Soulless eyes briefly met his then slid away without recognition. The emptiness in them cut through even his jaded experience and gave him a shudder.

A soft moaning reached his ears as he approached a doorway. The voice was female, rising in a feeble protest as the sound of tearing cloth slashed through the entrance. "NO, please..." the plea faded into a fit of coughing, punctuated by a metallic clank hitting the dirt floor.

The man stood at the doorway, knuckles white at the scene unfolding immediately in front of him. A woman was on the bed, one hand scrabbling to cover herself even as the other struggled to hold off her assailant. The white of her eyes shot at him, darting back and forth between her assailant and the man in the doorway, unsure if he was savior or something even worse.

The assailant turned to face the man in the doorway. Taking him in at a glance, the assailant smirked. The unkempt hair, raggedy clothes, starved cheeks; all these spoke of something fearful, not something to be feared, namely peasantry. Whereas he was something to be feared, garbed head to toe in the finest chain mail forged in the king's armory. Seeing the man's empty hands, his smirk widened. He'd killed men for less; daring to stare him in the eye as this scarecrow of a peasant did now. "Take your eyes and leave, afore I take them from you."

The man made no reply, calmly taking in the soldier's measure. Callused hands, beefy shoulders, a jutting chin; the mark of one who had bested many by the sword no doubt. But how many of those bested had a sword to fight back? And even if they did, how many wore the king's insignia, backed by all the law and power implicit in such. Not too many I'd wager, else he would not be so careless when facing a foe, armed or no. Any man who had seen real combat, when your enemy gave good as he got, risking his life to take yours, knew the outcome was always uncertain until your opponent breathed his last. One slip of the sword arm, one move left instead of right, often spelled an instant death, the look of surprise frozen on your face for all eternity as the enemy's blade pierced your guts. Slowly, inevitably, the man's eyes traveled to the scabbard at the soldier's feet.

Still smirking, the soldier slowly crouched, his hand gripping the sword handle as he stood up. The blade made a soft hissing sound as it withdrew from the scabbard.

The man watched, eyes travelling from soldier to sword then to the woman on the bed, as if slowly coming to a decision. Her eyes trembled, tugging at his conscience. Once again, he turned back to the soldier, locked eyes with him a moment, saw something there he didn't expect. Looked down at his own feet, which shuffled nervously, then whirled and ran out the door.

The soldier stood frozen, looking non-plussed for a moment. Then he guffawed. And died laughing, a knife buried up to the hilt in his throat.

The man stood ten yards away and scanned the village. Nobody had seen or would see if he hurried. He ran back into the hut, dragging the soldier's body back inside. He was at the woman's bedside in an instant and ripped off her blanket. A tantalizing glimpse of creamy flesh that stopped him cold.

The woman reared up scream-his palm smothered her lips as he pushed her back onto the bed. Teeth ground into bone as she bit deep into his hand. He stared at her silently as the blood dripped from hand to mouth. He motioned to the soldier lying dead on the floor with his other hand and made a shushing gesture. She relented and finally released him.

Whipping away the blanket as the woman made to cover herself, he knelt and deftly pulled his dagger from the soldier's throat and leaped to the doorway. One swift jab and the dagger nailed one corner of the blanket to the doorway. He turned to find the woman pointing silently to a wooden box in the corner. Inside-A HA-a jeweled dagger, its hilt a nest of writhing dragons etched in silver. The other corner of the blanket went up, nailed to the doorway by dagger number two. He turned to stare at her.

She shivered, hands a shield much too small for not an inconsiderate amount of ivory flesh so white as to be almost translucent. Painfully, inch by inch, she raised her head off the pillow, mouth just beginning to form words just as she collapsed and lost consciousness.

The man went into the next room and came back with a warm cloth. He sat on the bed and gently brushed back tendrils of curly hair from a soot encrusted face; its features hard to make out in the candlelight. First a smooth brow then soft fluttery lashes were uncovered as he wiped. Then a tiny pert nose, delicate nostrils flaring defiantly even in sleep as the warm cloth continued its journey across her face. A gracefully rounded cheek next, its curve dove soft under his fingers and finally the bow shaped lips-NO!

His hand dropped the cloth in shock as he stared at her face. IT CAN'T BE HER! Not after a millennia!

Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers reached out and brushed her cheek then snapped back, as if singed by the contact. He closed his eyes a moment, mind travelling back in time, remembering her as she had been. Hair black and feathery soft as the wings of a raven. Eyes darker still; a fathoms deep pool into which he would gladly drown. Cheek the texture and paleness of a new born dove. And oh THOSE LIPS! Their curves leading endlessly this way and that, beguiling him, bewitching him as he lost himself in them for what seemed an interminable eternity. There was no doubt of it, the face was hers-IT CAN'T BE! NOT HER! NOT HERE! NOT NOW! He wasn't sure if he was praying for the former or the latter.

A soft croak followed by a sharp gasp of air and her eyes blinked open. She breathed again and stared at him.

Those eyes! Dark as ever; an endless abyss drawing him in with the irresistible force of a black hole. "Magdalena?"

She nodded. "How doth thou knowest my name?"

To be continued