Venzene Duchy of Kamieńalun
County Czarny Wodospad
Biały Klif
٢٧ Gerstesykli: ١ day prior to the Red Storm at Westsong
While the weather had been warm enough, the wind coming off of the lake wasn’t cutting. It was downright severing. Still, they’d been successful.
The marble had been selected. The price had been so masterfully negotiated that Guuvra saved nearly a quarter of Azhferd’s gold while arranging enough marble to complete the remodeling with material to spare. Even now, it was being transported at the cost of the quarry, no less, or at least included in the price they had paid, all the way back to Auburg.
The boys had helped to unload their possessions from the cart when they’d arrived. In the morning, they’d load them up again. For now, they were off exploring the town with their sister.
With the children gone, they did their best to take full advantage of the time alone, retreating to the room they’d rented for the family.
The day had been a better success than they could’ve hoped for.
That, in retrospect, should have set off every alarm bell her undermind could ring. Trouble is a predator. Wasn’t that what all the old women said? Trouble is a predator, and happiness has ever been its favorite prey.
The trip until this point had been stressful both mentally and emotionally. They had rarely traveled so far away from home. Still, the project looked to be completed within the allotted time, for the allotted coin, and with the expected quality. Every heir to every noble household, or member of the gentry that saw the work, would seek to hire Guuvra.
And so, now that all was over save the trek home, they had done their best to conceive a fourth child—made several valiant attempts, in fact—then fell into a soft, sweet slumber.
When they finally woke, the midnight bell was ringing.
They laughed at their foolishness, cast about the room, and realized they were still alone. They presumed the children were downstairs enjoying some alone time of their own, away from their parents’ prodding, nagging eye.
They dressed quickly, then ventured downstairs in hopes of finding some pottage and perhaps a cold drink—although nearly everything was cold here—in the common room. They would allow the children to spend a little more time with them before all of them trooped up to bed. They would begin the long journey home sometime near midmorning.
The children were, however, nowhere to be found. The patrons were questioned with a quickness, but neither their fellow boarders nor the staff had seen the children since that morning.
They moved to alert the watch, but their enthusiasm for a task that was nearly the very definition of their duty was minimal at best. Despite Lashjuk’s panic, the bored disdain with which the constable had treated them—and the lazy way he’d referred to her husband as “Tusk”—made things clear. They’d gain no real help in finding their children. They’d worn the wrong faces to hope for any such kindness.
First, they wandered through the town, then to its outskirts for the better part of three hours. Looking at one another at the same moment, each wore the same expression of utter panic desperately hid behind a false mask of calm confidence. Each was trying—and failing—to hide their fear.
They stopped and embraced, holding to one another, uncertain of what they could say that would offer some kind—any kind—of comfort.
The wind dropped for the first time in what seemed like hours. Everything was still. Then suddenly, there was a cry, a soft, muted weeping.
They broke apart, looking at one another, each with the same intention written upon their face. As one, they turned and bolted toward the sound.
Along the lake’s shore outside of town, tucked away behind several boulders, they found a single, broad tent. It had been secured with what appeared to be enormous metal stakes sunk deep into the wet ground. A nearly dead fire glowed, huddled within the sheltering bulk of the tent’s shadow. A single horse cropped grass contentedly some distance away, no saddle, bit, or bridle anywhere in sight.
Again came the sound, this time clearly from within the tent—a tired, miserable whimper with a hint of gravel.
Guuvra held up a hand for her to wait, and though she wanted to do nothing of the sort, she nodded. He laid his hand to the side of her face, cupping her left cheek gently, then turned, squared his shoulders, and barged into the tent.
There was silence for what seemed like an eternity. In truth, it was less than three heartbeats, but misery always stays the sand, they say. It stretches time, stopping it from passing until its full face at last crawls into view.
She heard a growling, snarling shriek rise from somewhere beneath the sound of the wind, overtopping it, overtaking it. It was a sound of such woeful rage that, for a moment, it froze her blood. Her Gnash roared, then sounded as if he’d sprung into motion.
There were other voices somewhere behind that shrieking sound. Voices that were screaming, weeping. Terror and horror intermingled in her mind, buoyed by that dreadful music.
Just as suddenly, the air seemed to swallow the sounds. All was quiet save the baleful, shrill whistling of the wind.
Her heart thundered in her chest, fist clenching and unclenching as she waited, listened, and offered prayers in silent fear, though she knew not to whom she prayed. Perhaps the world itself?
The wind died. In that moment, she understood exactly what that turn of phrase meant. She heard heavy breathing and soft, helpless whimpering.
Lashjuk shook, trying to prepare for what she knew she must now do. She held out a moment longer, hoping against hope that she would see or hear her Gnash, then resigned herself.
Reaching down toward the area where the fire fought to stay alive, protected by the front of the tent from winds coming off the lake, she plucked up a stout-enough looking branch. A dagger wouldn’t do. She had one, but a dagger simply wouldn’t do. She wanted something more visceral, something with more weight behind it.
Drawing one more breath and holding it for a two count, she strode into the tent, like the queen of vengeance given flesh and feature, tusk, and terror.