A Thousand Crows

Polished 14.1 — 31m07s — 2020/08/22

Polished 14.1 and 14.2. Began polishing 14.6 and noted some changes to be made — 55m55s — 2020/08/25

Worked more on 14.6 — 47m47s — 2020/08/25

Finished reworking 14.6 — 42m52s — 2020/08/27

Reworking 14.3 — 1h35m47s — 2020/08/29

Still reworking 14.3 — 15m28s — 2020/09/01

Polished 14.1 and 14.2. Polished Crea and Malcolm, then moved them to the end. Polished 14.3 — 1h47m17s — 2020/09/13

Polished 14.4 and 14.5 — 1h04m28s — 2020/09/16

The Saots call it a leviathan. The Trohls call it a cloud kraken.

"To arms! To arms!" The voice of the duke carried through the tent.

Baet snapped awake, threw off his blankets, and snatched up his weapons. He skittered to his feet and wondered that he was making a habit of fighting in his skivvies. He reached for the folds of the tent that hid the entrance and found himself staring at Carringten. His captain stood amidst a downpour, his dark face etched with suspicion and determination. "See to the prisoners!" Carringten snapped, then rushed toward the call of their duke. No matter what else might be happening, Baet realized his captain took the threat of Ministrian throat-cutters quite seriously, and meant to hold on to their captives, no matter what else might happen.

Baet braced himself for the cold, threw open the tent, and ran into the pouring rain. He turned from the sounds of fighting and headed for the tent occupied by their Ministrian prisoners. He lifted the flap of the dark tent and entered, sword first.

"Stay where you are. You will be spared," he assured the Ministrians. Meriona believed him. She expected a certain civility from the Saot guards. She knew them to be men of their word, as they’d traveled together from Camp Calderhal to Ebertin. Still, it was scant reassurance to Baet. As far as he could tell, honor only went one way between them. He had it from Toar, who had it from Celesi, that the Jay meant to betray them all in Ebertin. She meant to see them hanged, despite the rescue—and what could he expect from the throat-cutters? They meant to murder his master. Might they possibly try to overpower him?

Yet, Baet was armed, and they were not. If they should rush him, he felt the odds were good that he'd kill every last one of them before they could overtake him. In a way, he hoped they might press their advantage. At least the fighting would make him warm.

A loud boom sounded. Baet cursed and denied the urge to be distracted by the sound of his very own musket. Sure as day, Cloud Breaker was fired, likely by the priestess. He wondered where the priestess got her hands on shot and powder, and also how she managed to load it.

More surprising than the boom of Cloud Breaker was the sound of a second musket—though it sounded a good deal different from his own. This time a stream of curses issued from the Saot’s mouth, and the Ministrians huddled together all the more tightly, wide-eyed and worried.

Celesi screamed. Her wails of anguish played through the heavy drum of the downpour, and forced Baet to wonder what the hell was going on out there! "Run! Run, you fools!” He heard Scurra scream. “Death comes for us all!"

Not even Baet could ignore such a call. He turned from his charges and peeked from the tent, barely able to see anything for the raging storm. Through the heavy rain, he could see birds. They flickered and reappeared in the gloom, growing as they raced on. The clouds were lit again and again by incessant lightning, and behind the increasingly massive birds came the darkest pit of a storm he’d ever seen, with great writhing tentacles as thick as trees sweeping through the sky!

Baet knew the creature—not from ever having seen one—but from those that had, and their descriptions were always given with a wild-eyed fervor. It was a leviathan, a beast the size of a village, and it was coming right at him! "Balls..." he muttered as he realized the birds were not birds at all, but dragons, and they rushed overhead, chased by the most intimidating thing he’d ever seen!

“What is it?” Meriona asked, and began to approach the entrance to the tent.

“Get back!” Baet ordered and dived from the tent, as a tendril of the leviathan whipped out from the storm and collapsed upon the tent. A shriek rose from the prisoners and assured the Saot guard at least a few had survived the crushing force of the tendril as it writhed among the thick canvas of the tent.

Baet did the only thing he could think to do and stabbed at the tendril. The tendril flinched and shuddered from the prick, then lifted into the air once more, and took Baet’s sword with it—then came crashing down—only this time almost on his head, as he dodged away and drew his dagger.

The tendril whipped toward him. Baet stabbed the beast again, to the hilt of his dagger, and prayed he did enough damage to make the beast think twice. It was enough. With a thin shudder, the tendril recoiled, then retreated, as the beast passed on overhead. Still chasing the dragons, the leviathan raced on, toward the east and south, and took the worst of the storm with it.

The rain lightened up immediately. In the continuing drizzle, Baet helped Meriona, Toddles, and Naiphan from the fallen tent as the last cradled his arm and cursed his luck. Baet looked after the last of the throat-cutters, Humfries—but the man was still among the folds of the fallen tent as far too much blood washed from his crushed form.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!

A sharp pain caught in Homoth's side and roused him from his sleep. Homoth lashed out as a foot struck him, but it moved quick beyond his grip. He pressed again, but the strong arm of his young brother caught him and kept him from fighting anymore.

"Save it!" Komotz roared. "We're under attack!"

Homoth blinked in the dark tent, and his eyes began to see the outline of Komotz, Saleos, and a shaky Elpis as they gathered their weapons and pressed from the tent into the raging storm.

With a deep frown, Homoth shook off his deep sleep, threw aside his blankets, and yanked on a pair of pants. He grabbed his long handled mallet as an explosion like nothing he'd ever heard boomed from the direction of the lake. He flinched at the massive clap of thunder and wondered at the storm. Was it thunder?

Homoth rushed from the tent as another clap of thunder sounded—this time followed by the immediate shriek and wail of Celesi. The thunder caused a dull ringing to sound in his ears, and for several seconds the rest of the world seemed muted. He glanced up, to see that the storm was not yet directly overhead, but over the lake, and quickly approaching.

The land sloped up a slight rise, before it sloped down to the edge of the lake. Homoth caught sight of Scurra, as she stood among the branches of her tree and pointed east. "Run! Run, you fools!” she yelled, as Homoth stepped to the crest of the small rise. “Death comes for us all!"

Homoth could not believe the scene that stretched before him. He froze.

Celesi was the closest, as she sobbed over the downed form of Toar. The Trohl guide was badly burned and bleeding, as he lay unconscious in Celesi’s arms. Beyond the apprentice Jay, a melee stretched over the beach of the lake. Men and naga fought over the trampled grass, and their mingling blood cast the nearby waters of the lake in a red hue—but all of this was nothing compared to what approached overhead. In the air, a swarm of dragons raced toward the melee, chased by a sizzling mass of aggression and vitriol like nothing Homoth had ever seen. Was it the legendary cloud kraken, the seeming impossibility, at which he’d always snickered and teased those that believed? The dragons swerved and streaked as they howled their fury and frustration at being chased.

A tentacle whipped out from the dark cloud and slapped one of the dragons into the lake, then dragged the soggy beast from the waters, and reeled it into the electric black vapors, like a trout on a line. The remaining dragons raced overhead as tendrils came down among the bodies on the beach. One swept the crest, knocked Homoth sideways, and wrapped itself around the tree where Scurra nested.

With a pop, the tree ripped from the ground, as Scurra jumped and rolled in the dirt to get away. The tree arched into the sky, then came down in the shallows of the lake.

And now the great beast was directly over them, shrouded in cloud that bristled with electricity as it rushed on. A roar like nothing Homoth had ever heard shook the ground, as he rolled to his knees and got to his feet once more. A tentacle smashed the ground nearby and caught about his brother. Komotz screamed as he was crushed and lifted into the air. Homoth leapt at the tendril and struck it again and again, as did Duboha and Aim. The fury of their combined attack caused the sky kraken to release and drop Komotz—but the older brother could tell by the limp manner in which his sibling hit the ground that Komotz was already dead.

Across the field, another tentacle wrapped about the legs of Saleos. His eyes bulged as he shrieked, and shot skyward. "IIEIEYEYEIiieyeiye..yi..ey..e.i...e....!" his scream faded as the tentacle whipped him into the roiling mass of cloud and blended with the sounds of the storm.

Tears ran from Homoth's eyes and mixed with rain as he watched his old friend disappear. Glazed with shock and horror, he stared about the battlefield, saw a naga caught in a tentacle, and the shaman caught in another. Krumpus and the naga swept upward as they were also pulled back into the storm, never to be seen again. Then, just as quickly as the cloud kraken came, the creature was past and its tentacles with it. It’s focus was still upon the horde of dragons that fled before it. What did it care for a few dozen men and naga scattered about some beach when there was the fine flesh of dragon on the menu?

Homoth stared after the impossible beast as it crawled across the sky and took the worst of the storm with it. Several flashes of fire erupted near its center. He could see the outline of a massive beak-like maw as something twisted and swirled in a mad spiral, much like a maple seed, chased by tendrils that couldn’t quite get a hold of it. The form fluttered in and out of its spiraling decent as it dodged the creature's grasp again and again, shrank into a dot, then disappeared, as it was carried away on the whipping winds.

Stunned by what he'd witnessed, Homoth dropped to his knees and added his grief to the sobs of pain and woe that lifted from the desolate field. He caught sight of Baet as the Saot cowered among the prisoners, as far from battle as anyone could be, and more than ever before, Homoth hated the guard for his cowardice.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

The sun peaked through the broken clouds and laid bare the atrocities of the battle. Bloodied, Creigal stood over an wounded naga that was too injured to escape. If he watched and waited, it was quite likely the beast would bleed out before his eyes.

Duboha approached and hissed as he realized the creature was still alive. He moved to strike it—but Creigal blocked his way and shook his head. “The fight is over, and we have won,” he noted. “If it wishes to join its fallen brothers, the you can give it that honor. If not, I ask that you spare it.”

Duboha huffed, then allowed himself to calm. He turned to the beast and spoke to it in Trohl. “Live or die?” he asked.

Maligno stared at the men, curious that he should be given the option. He answered honestly between shallow breaths, despite his fear and suspicion. “Live,” he finally answered, and wondered if his request would be honored.

Duboha turned to the duke and shrugged. “You have another prisoner,” he noted.

Creigal stripped the beast of its weapons, then ripped his own shirt so he could bandage its wounds. Carringten approached the duke as he worked. “Your bleeding,” the captain noted.

“Play with blades and your gonna get cut,” Creigal shrugged. “But none of them are that bad.”

Carringten snorted, then glanced off into the sky. “I didn’t think I’d ever see a leviathan,” he noted. “Indeed, I didn’t think they were really a thing.”

“I had my doubts myself,” Creigal agreed. “How are the others?”

Carringten shook his head. “A damned awful mess,” he confessed. “Saleos is gone, along with the shaman. The younger brother is alive—barely. If he makes it through the day, it’ll be a miracle.” He paused for a long moment, then nodded toward the priestess and Meu—who was human once more—and still naked. “The boy is dead.”

“Claiten?” Criegal turned and stared at Wenifas as she wailed and cradled the corpse of her son. Naked as a bird, and bleeding herself, Meu hugged the lady. Creigal wasn’t surprised to see Meu was bleeding from several cuts of her own. Indeed, he was surprised she was bleeding so little—considering the naga slashed and struck at her as she strangled the one with the burns on his face—but then, he knew nothing of her stone form.

“What of that one?” Creigal asked, as he stared at Andrus as Aim stood over him.

“He’s rattled and probably sore as hell, but the big man says his wounds are superficial. He’ll be fine in a day or two.”

Near the crest of the rise, Baet attended Toar as Celesi cradled his head in her lap. Meanwhile, the prisoners looked on, stunned by the sudden and strange violence they’d witnessed.

“Who watches the prisoners?” Creigal wondered.

“I watch them,” a grim smile spread across Carringten’s face. “Besides, they’re shook. A tendril came down on their tent—which is why we’re shy one. The camp in general is a bit of a mess, but we lucked out. Only a few of the horses managed to get loose, and most are unhurt.“

“well, there are less of us to ride,” Creigal noted with a shrug. “What happened to our guide?” He asked as he nodded toward Toar.

Carringten went to investigate. He spoke with Celesi and Baet for a moment, gathered something from the grass, and returned.

Creigal hissed as he saw the twisted metal and wood of the the ruined musket in his captain’s hand. “A Pemberton GremSorter!” He stared at his captain in disbelief. ”Where’d they get that?!”

Carringten shook his head. “I didn’t care to ask.”

Creigal snorted. “On second thought, I’d rather not know. To think those things are still out in the world…”

“Doing their job—discouraging others from adopting the musket,” Carringten noted as he inspected the broken weapon. “Celesi had it. Toar ran by as she fired. The powder blew out the side and caught our worthy guide in the face. Looks like he’ll live—but he’ll be lucky if he don’t lose the eye,” the captain explained.

Creigal snorted. “She’s lucky it only blew out the side of the gun, and didn’t explode it back in her face.”

“Must not have used a full pack of powder, which means it wasn’t Baet that showed them how to do it,” Carringten noted.

“What a nasty bit of devilry,” Creigal frowned. “I can see how these GremSorters have been so persuasive, but I can’t say I’m proud of my father for commissioning their creation in the first place.”

“An imperfect man in an imperfect world—but is it so sinister to sell faulty weapons to your enemies?” Carringten shrugged. “Still, it’s never good when the old demons return to haunt those that created them. Shall I rid us of the evidence, or would you like me to approach Baet with it?”

“I think you are quite right in your appraisal. Baet would not knowingly load such a weapon, and I am quite sure he knows all the bad brands,” Creigal gave a wave. “Do ask among the others and see they have no more of these faulty weapons among them.”

Carringten nodded and launched the shattered musket into the lake. With a sigh, he turned and looked over the wasted beach with a frown. “What a ruinous day,” he noted. as he stared about those still gathered. “What has happened to the sister?” he asked.

Creigal could not answer. He gave a shrug and turned his attention back to the captured naga.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Scurra walked through the woods at the edge of the lake and searched among the undergrowth. She berated herself for allowing the others to set camp at the edge of the lake. She’d know the danger, known it and allowed the others to set up camp anyway. She’d known the danger and she’d allowed the others to talk her out of her warning; then she thought if she saw the danger soon enough, if she raised the alarm quick enough, they might still avoid it—yet when the rains began shortly after midnight, she had not accepted it as a sure thing. She did not believe her own premonitions.

But there was a reason for that. If this was real, then the touch of death in the darkest of dark must also be real. Scurra had suffered the dream too many times, and always in the same fashion. There was a darkness upon her, a darkness like none other, and death lurked in that shadow. Despite her quiet, despite her caution, it always found her; and as soon as it touched her, she always jolted awake—her heart racing, her mind screaming. Out there somewhere in the world was a wickedness so dark and foreboding, it scared her more than a leviathan, and one day she was sure to find it.

Or worse, it was sure to find her.

Scurra looked for any of the plants or mushrooms her brother had taught her over the years. He’d shown her a hundred different plants, and each seemed to have a dozen different applications—but she could only remember a fraction of them. She searched for the ones she could remember and figured she’d stepped over a number of plants that could have done what she needed.

If only her brother had survived the Leviathan. How had he not seen the beast in his premonitions? But then, his dreams were always light and easy on the other side. On this side, he squirmed, and foamed, and looked like he was about to die with his eyes bugged, his body wracked, and his breath coming in sharp gasps.

At least he never suffered visions of the dark place. She asked him about it once, how it was her that always suffered the dark dreams while he played with angels. He’d said he’d never needed nightmares to know of the evil that stalked the waking world.

Scurra shook her head. All too often, she stepped into her dreams and found herself unable to do anything to change their outcome. She seemed fated to know the darkest moments of her life long before she should ever encounter them—though she had to admit it was not all her darkest moments. Why were there no dreams of her worthless husband and the beatings he gave her before she left? Was it because such a thing was all too avoidable if only she had an inkling of his true character? At least he had not lasted a few years, and at the beginning it was bliss.

Scurra chanced upon a colony of numb root. She took several stocks and thanked the plant for showing itself to her in her hour of need. Undoubtedly, Komotz, Andrus, and Toar would love to have it. A few steps more and she found sugar petal, which among other things would keep a wound from getting infected. She thanked the delicate flower and took nearly half of what she found. There were a lot of cuts among her friends.

With these two medicines in hand, Scurra felt it was time to return to the others. She gave Andrus a healthy dose of numb root, and the duke a half a dose as he had a good number of superficial cuts. Komotz was given a double dose as she prayed for his recovery. She did not like the look of him, and cursed the fact that Krumpus and Saleos were both gone. She asked Creigal if either of his men were trained in the healing arts only to have him confirm the only one of them with any real talent was Toar. Poor Komotz. The only treatment he’d get was numb root until they arrived in Excergie, a day's ride away. At lest the Oak and Beast had many friends and a fine house in the border town. Once there, they'd find someone of skill to treat him.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Creigal marveled at the numb root as Wenifas stitched his cut with meticulous attention. She too wondered at the numb root's power as she pulled thread through his skin. "You do not feel it at all?" she asked.

"I feel it," Creigal corrected. "I feel the needle puncture and pull my skin. There is simply no pain to it. There is no sharpness, only a dull tug."

With a nod and a frown, Wenifas said, "I think I should like a piece of that root."

Scurra shook her head. "It does not affect the emotions, my dear. It works only on the nerves."

Wenifas wiped her tears as she paused from her stitching.

"If you should like, I can finish..." Scurra began, as she reached for the needle and thread.

"Then what shall I do?" Wenifas cut her off. "Evereste sleeps. I much prefer to busy my hands," she said through her tears.

Komotz settled down a good deal once he was given the numb root. He could not chew the numb root on his own, so Scurra chopped and crushed the root until there was a good deal of juice extracted. Then she forced Komotz to drink it as well as she could. The younger brother was in such a condition that Duboha and Aim were forced to use their first aid skills as much as they dare. They set his bones as well as they could and bandaged his various cuts. Mostly, they simply worried for their friend. As Komotz relaxed under the influence of the numb root, his companions were also able to relax.

Scurra was forced to chop and crush the numb root for Toar. Once he had the numb root in his system, Celesi gently wiped the blood and powder from Toar's face under the direction of Baet. He was the expert as far as muskets were concerned, and also the injuries they inflicted. "Make sure to wipe right to left. If you go the other way, you risk pushing any shrapnel deeper into his soft tissues," Baet stated. Celesi followed his direction, though she resented his expertise. Indeed, the barrel of the musket fragmented and blew shrapnel out the side, and a couple dozen shards required removal. The largest was the size of a half bit, while the smallest were nothing more than the heads of needles. Since the cuts were about the fine muscle of his face, many required stitching.

Celesi was slow and meticulous as she proceeded. Often, as the others were turned away to attend other business, she'd lean over Toar and kiss her sympathies on the smooth, uninjured right side of his face. The worst was a small sliver of metal that was trapped between the lids of his left eye. It looked as if it punctured his eye, and for a minute she argued with Baet about whether or not she should leave it.

“It has to come out,” Baet assured her. “The longer you leave it in, the more likely it is to get jammed in further, or jostled, which will also cause more damage. I’ll do it if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she said, not wanting to trust Toar’s fate to anyone else. “I’ll do it.” Then, she took a solid minute to build up the courage, plucked the tiny sliver, which brought a hiss from Toar, then gently covered his face with bits from her other dress.

While the injured were attended, Carringten rounded up the horses. Andrus, Komotz, Toar and Maligno were placed in the wagon with the remains of Traust and Apulton. It was a crowded affair, one that Andrus immediately opposed. “I don’t want to ride with that snake!” he hissed as he stared at the injured naga.

“Well, he can’t ride a horse, and since you can’t either, you have to watch and see that he does nothing to Komotz or Toar,” Duboha told the man. They argued for a second longer, but the argument ended as Elpis drove the wagon from the edge of the lake.

A somber mood hung over the party as they finally departed. As they rode, Creigal felt more and more nauseous. Twice he stopped his horse and purged violently. He looked to Scurra to see if he should be worried. She shrugged. "It is normal to purge after taking numb root. Although it is easy on the nerves, it is hard on the digestion," she explained. "Do not worry. It is rarely fatal."

"Rarely?" Creigal frowned.

Although he was sick four or five times on their way to Excergie, and with a mighty force, he did not die.

Wenifas sat up front of the cart with Evereste in her lap. Several miles before the pass, Wenifas turned to Elpis and noticed that tears streamed freely down his face. For a time she pretended not to see it; then, with tears of her own, she adjusted Evereste in her lap, pulled close, and wrapped an arm around the sad Jindleyak.
As Wenifas settled against him, Elpis leaned into her and confessed his emotions. "It is poor of me that, despite our losses, I think only of the Lady Yandira?"

Wenifas shook her head. She held Elpis for a long time as she thought of her own lost lover. Derris seemed so long ago and so very distant, even though it was—what? Just over a month ago since the last time she saw him? It felt like forever as the same sharp emotions welled up in her once more. Still, it was good to think of him and not Claiten.

But then, she did think of the boy, and the tears came in unrelenting waves. She buried her face in the Jindleyak’s shoulder, then his lap, and as the tears finally subsided and exhaustion took over, she fell asleep.

So it was that the party entered Jindleyak lands. Despite the somber mood, everyone was pleased when Toar woke—except Toar. He was not pleased, as the numb root given Komotz proved too much. Like the duke, Komotz also spilled his guts, only without all the pomp and circumstance of Creigal's pyrotechnics—and so Andrus and Malgno both missed the incident, though Toar noted it when he woke to find himself soaked.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 14.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Malcolm realized Crea was going south with or without him, so he agreed quick enough and ran after her. He still planned to carry his post to Land’s End, but he hoped Crea’s family might have a few fighters willing to take him to the ducal seat, so for now he’d take a detour and pray to Abr that it was worth it.

Malcolm and Crea stuck to the game trails that ran through the forest. Crea claimed to know the area well enough and felt they were less likely to be discovered among the thick of the trees—which was about as much as she was willing to say. The silence didn’t bother Malcolm at all. He preferred not to speak.

Crea and Malcolm passed a number of farmsteads. It was worrisome each time they came across a burned out house, though just as many were whole and still occupied. They always passed at a distance, whether the farm was burnt out or not. A few times they were spotted. Farmhands watched them go as they held hay-forks, shovels, and the occasional sword in a threatening manner; but these peoples were not interested in chasing skulkers through the forest, and so Crea and Malcolm continued on, unmolested. They walked most the day and then for a while more as it grew dark—but the shade of the trees made in nearly impossible to see where they were going. Malcolm begged Crea to stop. She finally thought better of it, and the two set out their blankets for the night.

Malcolm tried to lay next to Crea, but she pushed him away. “I’m not a pillow!” she said, and cursed at the boy, which he felt was totally unnecessary. Sulking in the dark, Malcolm laid out his blankets and dreamed of a far more accommodating Crea.

The next day, Crea continued to press their march. Malcolm was quite astounded by her stamina, considering she had a delicate look about her, especially with the heavy bruises showing from under the edges of her dress. He liked her determination, and found himself staring at her shapely goodness as he followed her through the woods.

As the full heat of the day pressed upon them, Crea stopped at the crest of a hill. With a gasp, she dropped to her knees, and began to cry. “No… no…” Malcolm heard her whisper.

“What is it?” he asked as he rushed to catch up, then stared over the hill at the burned out house, barn, and privy. He realized this must be her family’s home, and felt his heart sink. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and moved to wrap her in a comforting hug.

Crea pushed him away and her demeanor grew dark. “Don’t,” she snapped at him.

Malcolm stared at Crea and wished he could hold her, to comfort her in some way.

With her hands to her eyes, Crea spoke. “Will you go look? I can’t stand the thought…” she began. She didn’t have to finish as he imagined the worst.

Malcolm turned to the charred remains of the house. There was no smoke. Likely, the raiders had left some time before. “I’ll call if there’s anything you can do,” he told her as he took off his pack. He pulled his sword, and with a gulp, marched to the burned out buildings. He hoped for survivors, but feared he’d only find an ambush. He thought he should tell Crea to take the post to Land’s End if he were killed, but thought she’d consider him dumb. Most people assumed the dead had no use of oaths.

“Hello?” Malcolm called into the house as he crept at the edges of the ruined house. Thanks to copious holes in the roof, there was plenty of light as he ventured inside. His heart jumped and he gasped as he discovered the twisted and charred remains of two humans. They were wrapped in an embrace with their heads tilted back in a silent scream. He glanced about to make sure he was the only one there, and then simply stared for several long seconds at the tortured souls.

Malcolm continued to search the property and found five more dead; another burned in the house, one bled to death outside the barn, two more in the barn were hanged and then burned, and finally one in the field as he returned to Crea. He shook his head, and her crying intensified, although she did so silently.

“How many?” she asked.

“Seven, he answered.

Crea mouthed the word, then gathered the hem of her dress and ran toward the house.

“Wait!” He called and ran after her. “You can’t unsee it!”

Crea broke down and sobbed uncontrollably when see saw the first of them dead in the field. She turned and ran back to Malcolm. She grabbed his hand—and a bolt of thrill ran up his arm at just the touch of her. “One of them is missing!” she told him. “Tell me of the others you saw!”

“There were two in the barn, and one outside it. There were three in the house,” he explained.

“Men? Women? How big were they!?” She yelled.

“I…” Malcolm shook his head. “Some are too badly burned,” he said barely above a whisper.

“But only seven…” Crea noted and put her hand to her chest. “I think maybe my sister is missing.”

“Young? Younger?” Malcolm asked.

Crea nodded. “She’d be smaller than the others.”

With a sincere nod, Malcolm stepped toward the house and stared at the corpses for several minutes. They all seemed large and full grown. He searched the burned buildings once more as Crea went into the field and yelled for her sister.

“Serrabela!” she called. “Serra!”

Malcolm didn’t like the yelling. He thought it might attract the marauders, but only the crows answered Crea’s call. For a time Malcolm hoped beyond hope that a younger and cleaner version of Crea might creep from some hidey-hole and throw herself around him for the rescue. Instead, he glanced down the privy on a whim and found her floating face down among the waste. He dress was covered in bloody splotches.

Malcolm stepped through the field and laid a hand on Crea’s shoulder. She jumped away from him and put her hand to the pommel of her fancy falchion. Malcolm shied away from her and shook his head. “She’s… she didn’t make it.”

“Where?” Crea asked.

Malcolm simply shook his head, unwilling to tell her.

Crea pushed past him, but he grabbed her arm. “Nonononono!!!” his eyes bugged. “It isn’t pretty!”

Her face went angry, and for a second, he thought she was going to fight him. Then the unexpected happened, and Crea rushed into his arms, weeping and wailing. Her touch was a salve to his to his worried soul. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back and hair. “I could bury them,” he said as she finally began to calm.

Crea turned to the farm, then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “Their spirits have fled this place. Let their bodies benefit the crows.” With that, she turned and began to walk.

“Where are you going?” Malcolm asked.

Crea shrugged. “There is nowhere I wish to be,” she answered without looking back. “Let us honor your oath and go to Land’s End.”

Malcolm felt his spirit soar as he followed after her. To think he’d spend another week with this wonderful girl at his side!