Two people on horseback rode over a dirt lane. By the look of their clothes, it had been a dirt road for some time. Through the dirt, the marks of quality were visible: the broad man’s well-made but plain, and the woman’s ostentatious from her wide-brimmed hat to the kidskin boots with a coat of arms embossed in the leather. To either side, cows and sheep looked at them without particular interest. A village that had been a brown smudge an hour ago was drawing closer. With each yard they moved, the woman’s expression grew more sour.
“Filthy peasants,” her companion heard her growl. “The stench.” The man reined his horse in; the woman followed suit.
“They are our countrymen in need.” he said sharply. “You told the inquisitor you could manage cowpats and pigsties. If not, you can turn back now and I’ll handle whatever it is we’re here for.” The pale woman gave him a glare darker than her eyes. Her tight-lipped expression was only a smile because of the angle of her lips.
“I’ll manage everything, Ambrosius, until they find a way to give you people noses sharp—oh, for the love of God.” The riders watched the progress of something through the grasses, heralded by a wave of panic through the livestock. The woman tightened her reins and dug in her heels to prevent her horse from backing into her companion’s. Her mare nickered nervously at the large, tailless gray wolf that had just run up to them from the grasses. “Lorin, really?” the woman demanded of the grinning creature.
“We needed him. He was out afield, you know,” Ambrosius said in a bass voice that brooked no argument. His companion almost looked ready to argue, but as the man rummaged in one of his saddlebags, she subsided with a sigh. She stared pointedly up at the cloud-ridden sky until a reedy voice said, “Wotcher, Milly.” The woman’s eyes snapped downward onto a skinny, naked man, then back upward.
“Carmilla, if it’s all the same to you,” she said over his laughter, with the weariness of a refrain. She waited until the faint rasp of cloth over skin and the clink of buckles finished before lowering her eyes to their destination. “What is the name of this odious place, again?” she demanded as they began to ride with Lorin loping on two legs in the grass beside them.
“Upper Plat, and you remember very well,” Ambrosius said. “One of the flattest places in the country. Fine soil for crops, and good grass for livestock. And one of the highest populations out here too, too.” Carmilla tsked.
Upper Plat was not the largest of villages, despite Ambrosius' words; by the time the three entered it, they’d almost left it. Most of the buildings were ramshackle lean-tos, but since all they had to lean against were other lean-tos, they were haven’t-fallen-down-yets. There was no call for an inn out here, but the largest house in the center of town had a small stables attached. They headed for it. Carmilla had her eyes riveted to the sky again; Lorin’s grinning face was locked on the dirt roads, grass, and mud. Ambrosius scrutinized homes, inn, and stables alike.
“Nothing,” Carmilla said. “Not a single bird, or mouse. No sign or sound of anything.”
“I know this ain’t the biggest village,” said Lorin, “But I bet everyone can afford himself at least a pair of boots. Bloody stupid to herd anything without them. But lots of barefoot folks here, and booted prints ‘re pretty old.” His nostrils flared. “There’s blood in some of the footprints.”
“I know,” Carmilla hissed. Ambrosius handed his horse’s reins to Lorin and swung his long legs down from the saddle. He investigated the stables while his companions watched carefully. After a few minutes, he shook his head and returned.
“Not long enough that they’ve broken out of their stalls or started showing their ribs, but neither one’s been looked after for at least a week, probably more.”
“A fortnight, perhaps,” Carmilla murmured as she slid off her horse. The three of them traded glances.Wordlessly, Ambrosius stripped the bit and reins from both horses, put the tack in the saddlebags, and gave each a soundless slap to the rump to send them running out of the village. The three of them watched, but nothing seemed to trouble their mounts.
Something leaped upon Lorin’s back. Later, he complained: Carmilla was a fool’s target, obviously, but just because he was thin and wiry and Ambrosius was massive and imposing, people looking for a fight threw themselves at him. If you were willing to attack a stranger wearing the Church’s colors, you should be willing to bite the bullet—or bite the fist, as it might be. It was the work of moments for Lorin to pitch his attacker forward off his back. The man landed heavily and wheezed for air. Lorin knelt beside him.
The man’s lungs recognized the pain, but his face did not. He couldn’t be less placid if he were made of marble, and his eyes were glazed like they’d been enameled. The entranced expression was in harsh contrast to the manner in which he lunged at Lorin, but the man was ready for him, now. He cracked the man one in the jaw. Lorin expected him to rise again and attack again, in which he was obliged. Lorin got him down and then knelt on one arm as Ambrosius knelt down on the other. Carmilla above them watched their surroundings like a hawk. Lorin accepted a small hand mirror from his companion. When he held open an eyelid and angled sunlight into the man’s eyes, his pupil did not shrink. Lorin pushed back the man’s grubby sleeve to perform a twofold test with a massive pinch to his attacker’s arm. Not only did the man not react—he’d already been scrabbling at the earth, trying to get up, but he did not yelp or grunt—but the skin was slow to reform. Dehydration. He lifted the man’s foot and saw the bloody sole he’d expected.
“Someone doesn’t know how to take care of his toys,” he murmured.
“Not intentional, then,” Carmilla said.
“Would someone do that on purpose?” Ambrosius asked her. Carmilla laughed.
"You know it, and I very much know so.” She fell silent while the men rolled the villager over and bound his wrists behind his back, then his legs. They gagged him, for the look of the thing, but he’d made no sound throughout the process. “I don’t feel anything,” she said. “It’s like trying to see a candlelight beside you when you yourself are the sun.” Lorin laughed hoarsely. “But,” Carmilla continued a little hurriedly, “This man has been... affected. I can certainly tell that.” The woman hesitated for a few moments before she knelt in the dirt and grass. She pressed a reluctant kiss to the back of the villager’s lice-covered head and whispered in a low voice. He went limp with sleep.
“I think we should take him into the inn, out of the way,” Ambrosius rumbled.
“We don’t appear to have the luxury,” Carmilla said. The two men looked up and followed her gaze. People were issuing out of buildings throughout the village all around them and moving toward them with somanabolic speed—they kept falling over easily-avoided obstacles like small rocks, raised bits of ground, and each other, but they always got back up, and always kept coming. Ambrosius hauled the slumbering villager to relative safety beside the inn and rejoined his companions.
“What do you think?” Lorin asked.
“Well, you’re already in it for three moons,” Ambrosius said. “Might as well, if they won’t stop trying to kill us.”
“I just want to say that if I ever slip my chains and come after anybody, it’ll probably be one of you two,” Lorin said.
“You do care,” Carmilla drawled just before she breathed sleep into an attacker’s face. The trio were fighters, and the villagers weren’t. But there were a lot of villagers, and they didn’t react to injuries. There was only so much fists could do, even with Carmilla’s particular methods at their disposal. She had difficulty getting close enough when she had to clamber over piles of slumbering or concussed civilians. Gradually, fists turned into the flat of blades and pommels. Carmilla’s attempts to counter the effect bespelling these people resulted in dead bodies in earnest—with brain leaking out of their ears. Then the edge of the blade and the claws were in play.
Lorin tore through villagers whose only sin had been to live in the wrong place as Ambrosius chopped through hypnotized innocents. Carmilla took the time to scoff as he first chopped at them at the arms or knees, but even limbless they attempted to engage his attention, and that could be a deadly distraction. They were still holding their own, and there might still be some villagers left when all was said and done, thanks to Carmilla—
None of the three saw the perpetrator, but the villagers remaining turned as one to face one of the houses.
“Filthy peasants,” her companion heard her growl. “The stench.” The man reined his horse in; the woman followed suit.
“They are our countrymen in need.” he said sharply. “You told the inquisitor you could manage cowpats and pigsties. If not, you can turn back now and I’ll handle whatever it is we’re here for.” The pale woman gave him a glare darker than her eyes. Her tight-lipped expression was only a smile because of the angle of her lips.
“I’ll manage everything, Ambrosius, until they find a way to give you people noses sharp—oh, for the love of God.” The riders watched the progress of something through the grasses, heralded by a wave of panic through the livestock. The woman tightened her reins and dug in her heels to prevent her horse from backing into her companion’s. Her mare nickered nervously at the large, tailless gray wolf that had just run up to them from the grasses. “Lorin, really?” the woman demanded of the grinning creature.
“We needed him. He was out afield, you know,” Ambrosius said in a bass voice that brooked no argument. His companion almost looked ready to argue, but as the man rummaged in one of his saddlebags, she subsided with a sigh. She stared pointedly up at the cloud-ridden sky until a reedy voice said, “Wotcher, Milly.” The woman’s eyes snapped downward onto a skinny, naked man, then back upward.
“Carmilla, if it’s all the same to you,” she said over his laughter, with the weariness of a refrain. She waited until the faint rasp of cloth over skin and the clink of buckles finished before lowering her eyes to their destination. “What is the name of this odious place, again?” she demanded as they began to ride with Lorin loping on two legs in the grass beside them.
“Upper Plat, and you remember very well,” Ambrosius said. “One of the flattest places in the country. Fine soil for crops, and good grass for livestock. And one of the highest populations out here too, too.” Carmilla tsked.
Upper Plat was not the largest of villages, despite Ambrosius' words; by the time the three entered it, they’d almost left it. Most of the buildings were ramshackle lean-tos, but since all they had to lean against were other lean-tos, they were haven’t-fallen-down-yets. There was no call for an inn out here, but the largest house in the center of town had a small stables attached. They headed for it. Carmilla had her eyes riveted to the sky again; Lorin’s grinning face was locked on the dirt roads, grass, and mud. Ambrosius scrutinized homes, inn, and stables alike.
“Nothing,” Carmilla said. “Not a single bird, or mouse. No sign or sound of anything.”
“I know this ain’t the biggest village,” said Lorin, “But I bet everyone can afford himself at least a pair of boots. Bloody stupid to herd anything without them. But lots of barefoot folks here, and booted prints ‘re pretty old.” His nostrils flared. “There’s blood in some of the footprints.”
“I know,” Carmilla hissed. Ambrosius handed his horse’s reins to Lorin and swung his long legs down from the saddle. He investigated the stables while his companions watched carefully. After a few minutes, he shook his head and returned.
“Not long enough that they’ve broken out of their stalls or started showing their ribs, but neither one’s been looked after for at least a week, probably more.”
“A fortnight, perhaps,” Carmilla murmured as she slid off her horse. The three of them traded glances.Wordlessly, Ambrosius stripped the bit and reins from both horses, put the tack in the saddlebags, and gave each a soundless slap to the rump to send them running out of the village. The three of them watched, but nothing seemed to trouble their mounts.
Something leaped upon Lorin’s back. Later, he complained: Carmilla was a fool’s target, obviously, but just because he was thin and wiry and Ambrosius was massive and imposing, people looking for a fight threw themselves at him. If you were willing to attack a stranger wearing the Church’s colors, you should be willing to bite the bullet—or bite the fist, as it might be. It was the work of moments for Lorin to pitch his attacker forward off his back. The man landed heavily and wheezed for air. Lorin knelt beside him.
The man’s lungs recognized the pain, but his face did not. He couldn’t be less placid if he were made of marble, and his eyes were glazed like they’d been enameled. The entranced expression was in harsh contrast to the manner in which he lunged at Lorin, but the man was ready for him, now. He cracked the man one in the jaw. Lorin expected him to rise again and attack again, in which he was obliged. Lorin got him down and then knelt on one arm as Ambrosius knelt down on the other. Carmilla above them watched their surroundings like a hawk. Lorin accepted a small hand mirror from his companion. When he held open an eyelid and angled sunlight into the man’s eyes, his pupil did not shrink. Lorin pushed back the man’s grubby sleeve to perform a twofold test with a massive pinch to his attacker’s arm. Not only did the man not react—he’d already been scrabbling at the earth, trying to get up, but he did not yelp or grunt—but the skin was slow to reform. Dehydration. He lifted the man’s foot and saw the bloody sole he’d expected.
“Someone doesn’t know how to take care of his toys,” he murmured.
“Not intentional, then,” Carmilla said.
“Would someone do that on purpose?” Ambrosius asked her. Carmilla laughed.
"You know it, and I very much know so.” She fell silent while the men rolled the villager over and bound his wrists behind his back, then his legs. They gagged him, for the look of the thing, but he’d made no sound throughout the process. “I don’t feel anything,” she said. “It’s like trying to see a candlelight beside you when you yourself are the sun.” Lorin laughed hoarsely. “But,” Carmilla continued a little hurriedly, “This man has been... affected. I can certainly tell that.” The woman hesitated for a few moments before she knelt in the dirt and grass. She pressed a reluctant kiss to the back of the villager’s lice-covered head and whispered in a low voice. He went limp with sleep.
“I think we should take him into the inn, out of the way,” Ambrosius rumbled.
“We don’t appear to have the luxury,” Carmilla said. The two men looked up and followed her gaze. People were issuing out of buildings throughout the village all around them and moving toward them with somanabolic speed—they kept falling over easily-avoided obstacles like small rocks, raised bits of ground, and each other, but they always got back up, and always kept coming. Ambrosius hauled the slumbering villager to relative safety beside the inn and rejoined his companions.
“What do you think?” Lorin asked.
“Well, you’re already in it for three moons,” Ambrosius said. “Might as well, if they won’t stop trying to kill us.”
“I just want to say that if I ever slip my chains and come after anybody, it’ll probably be one of you two,” Lorin said.
“You do care,” Carmilla drawled just before she breathed sleep into an attacker’s face. The trio were fighters, and the villagers weren’t. But there were a lot of villagers, and they didn’t react to injuries. There was only so much fists could do, even with Carmilla’s particular methods at their disposal. She had difficulty getting close enough when she had to clamber over piles of slumbering or concussed civilians. Gradually, fists turned into the flat of blades and pommels. Carmilla’s attempts to counter the effect bespelling these people resulted in dead bodies in earnest—with brain leaking out of their ears. Then the edge of the blade and the claws were in play.
Lorin tore through villagers whose only sin had been to live in the wrong place as Ambrosius chopped through hypnotized innocents. Carmilla took the time to scoff as he first chopped at them at the arms or knees, but even limbless they attempted to engage his attention, and that could be a deadly distraction. They were still holding their own, and there might still be some villagers left when all was said and done, thanks to Carmilla—
None of the three saw the perpetrator, but the villagers remaining turned as one to face one of the houses.
Jesus, this is good. A couple words I think were not right. Like, it should have been any more placid and not less placid. But that's nitpickery.
ReplyDeleteHaven't-fall-over-yets was it? That was brilliant.
Carmilla's "You do care," seems out of character for her, though.
Please. More of this.