Welcome back to #SilvanusAndEmpire, my never-before published fantasy novel made available exclusively on Steemit! When last we left the town of Annex, Lyrinn and Caddoc had been abducted as night fell with none in town any wiser. With the dawning of the next day, all that's about to change....
Silvanus and Empire
Chapter Nine
image from Flickr user Jo Naylor
Dafydd woke when the cock from the neighboring farmhouse crowed. The newly risen sun was pouring golden light through the eastern window of his bedroom; Dafydd's wife Torlan groaned and rolled over, hiding her face against her husband's shoulder.
"Must we rise?" she murmured against the fabric of his nightshirt, clinging to him. It was her customary greeting, first thing in the morning.
Dafydd gave the usual response: "If we can, love, we must." He rolled out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes and scratching at his beard.
Torlan curled up and pulled the heavy quilted blanket up over her head. She groaned as Dafydd began prodding her good-naturedly with one finger. "I wish I was with child again," she said, rolling over and batting away Dafydd's meaty hand. "Then I could lie abed 'till midmornin'. How d'ye feel aboot another child, love? Per'aps a little girl this time?"
"Are ye daft, woman? We've three little urchins already and ye want another mouth ta feed? Why not just get a new hog? At least when that grows up we can kill it and get some bacon."
Torlan got up out of bed and stretched. Her long dark brown hair was in disarray; she tucked a few errant locks behind an ear and walked over to Dafydd. "Ye're a muddleheaded fool of a man," she said sleepily, "but I love ye anyway." She kissed him and left, on her way to the privy. Dafydd grinned and went to the other room to rouse their sons.
Gwilym & Meical were slowly stirring in their beds, but Einion's was empty. "Where's yer brother?" he said.
"Oh, Da, you know how he is," Gwilym said. He was the oldest at thirteen. "E's got a bladder smaller'n one of Mama's thimbles."
"Aye, e's prob'ly oot back, pissin' in Mama's garden again," said the literal middle child, Meical. He was three years younger than Gwilym and three older than Einion.
"Who's been makin' water in me garden?" Torlan walked in to the room. "Come on, my little bedbugs, the quicker yer up, the sooner we'll get breakfast goin'. Gwilym, go fetch some water for the pot. Meical, let's see what we can do aboot that sickly-lookin' cookfire in t'other room."
"But Mama," Meical said, "Einion's gone off again! Shouldn't we go look for him?"
"What, and get out of yer chores? Yer Da can hunt down little wanderin' Einion. Now come, bedbugs!" She shepherded them out and into the common room. Dafydd sighed when he heard her say, "So tell me, boys, how would you like a little sister?"
The sun had cleared the horizon and was already beginning to burn off the evening's dew by the time Dafydd strode outside. The door to the forge was open. "Einion?" he called. There was no answer, so he walked over and stuck his head inside.
The forge was empty, but showed signs that his youngest son had been inside; his little apron had been taken down from the peg it regularly hung on and had been laid across the anvil, the boy's clogs were tucked under the workbench as well, and it looked as though he had been readying the forge for the day's work before he'd wandered off.
Now where'd that boy run off to? Dafydd thought. He stepped back outside and surveyed the area, shading his eyes from the morning sun.
There was a commotion going on upstream from the forge. Dafydd could hear voices from over the hill, and there was movement on the horizon. At that moment the rising sun was blotted out as Einion dashed up over the hill, spied his father, and rand down the Cliffway towards him.
"Well," Dafydd said gruffly as his son pulled up, his face flushed with exertion. "Where've ye been off to, boyo? Gettin' a little early mornin' exercise?"
Einion shook his head and panted out a reply. "The baker's... it's bad, Da... looks like...." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Miss Lyrinn. She didn't didn't bring no bread this mornin' like she does usual, so I went t'get some... Da, you better go see what happened."
Dafydd frowned. "All right, boyo, go on inside and have yerself a breather. Don't say nothin' until I get back, all right?" Einion nodded and limped back to the house, clutching a stitch in his side. Dafydd set out up the Cliffway.
Poor Bloodhair girl got herself in trouble this time, he thought. Told 'em it'd be a mistake takin' her in. He trudged up the hill, expecting to see Morgaine from the roadhouse sitting on the ground with some raw meat on her eye. Those two've always scrapped, ever since they were wee little children. Lyrinn wouldn't pull any punches, even on account of Morgaine's pregnancy. He couldn't remember if it was her fourth or fifth; the girl seemed to get as big as a house every spring. He shook his head. Better keep Torlan away from her, he resolved as he crested the hill.
A small knot of pale, somber looking townsfolk were crowded around the baker's open doorway. They were all looking nervously about. "All right," Dafydd called out to them, "what's news? Ye can't all be waitin' fer fresh scones, can ye?"
"There won't be no more scones, Dafydd," the man nearest him said. It was Bryn, from the farmhouse a half-league upstream. "It's bad," he went on. "And yer little Einion was first on the scene. His yell roused half the town. C'mon." He gestured for Dafydd to come inside. The crowd parted around the doorway to admit him.
"What, am I th'only one goin' in?" He looked around at all the grave faces around him. "Is it that bad?" None would answer.
Bryn was waiting for him in the front of the bakery. "Have ye eaten yet?"
Dafydd shook his head. "No, why?"
"You'll see." Bryn sighed and motioned Dafydd forward. "C'mon, behind th'curtain." Bryn pulled it back and Dafydd gasped.
The baker and his wife were both seated at the small dining table, slumped over and unmoving. Their throats had been cut, and both bore grisly, ragged wounds in the middle of their chests. They were awash in dried blood, as was the floor. There was a horrid red streak leading from the woman's chair into the bedroom. Flies had begun to buzz about the bodies.
"They've been bled like hogs," Dafydd hissed, his eyes wide. He stared at Bryn. "My son found them? Like this?"
"Aye, like that." Bryn nodded, letting the curtain fall back into place. "We're not touchin' the bodies until Old Oren gets here. As much as a pain that 'e is, we've got to let 'im know aboot this."
"The little Bloodhair girl? is she...?"
Bryn shook his head. "Nobody knows. There's no trace of her nowhere. Her room's a shambles, but there's no blood."
Oren came bustling through the door at that moment, mopping his face with a dirty grey handkerchief. "One of the lads roused me. I came as soon as I could. Has anything been touched?"
Bryn shook his head. "No, Scribe, we took great pains not t'touch a thing."
Dafydd cleared his throat. "Where's yer apprentice, Scribe Oren?"
"He never came home last night," Oren said quickly, "which worries me to no end. First he disappears, and now this horrid, horrid business ... oh!" He pulled back the curtain and gasped. "By His Holiness," he breathed. "This... this is..." He let the curtain fall back again, his hands trembling. "Monstrous... inhuman..."
Ashen-faced, he turned to look at Dafydd and Bryn. "Master Farmer," he began haltingly, "please go outside and tell the rest of the townsfolk to go home, then stand outside the door and make sure no other crowd forms as I examine this. You can tell them..." he sighed, looking down at his hands for a moment. "Tell them that I shall examine this thoroughly. I will have my findings prepared by midafternoon. Master Smith, please stay with me. I need a corroborating witness."
Dafydd shared a look with Bryn - one that said why me? - before they both nodded assent to Oren's requests. Bryn moved off to the front door. Dafydd could hear him shouting at the townsfolk to get them to move off.
"Now, Master Smith, let us examine more closely what exactly happened here." Oren hesitated for a long moment, then pushed the curtain aside. "Touch nothing. If you see something of note, let me know of it immediately." Dafydd swallowed and followed the old scribe in.
Old Oren bit his lip as he surveyed the room. He walked slowly around the small table, trying his best to avoid looking directly at the corpses. The room showed evidence of a struggle - crockery had been smashed and ground on the rough wooden floor beams, and one of the three chairs had been broken into kindling. The table was scuffed and skewed at an angle. The one window in the room was open; the curtains flapped in the early morning breeze.
Fighting down a rising feeling of panic and dread, Dafydd leaned close to the baker's body. His throat had been cut jaggedly, and the blacksmith pointed it out to Oren. "Yes, yes, I see, Master Smith, very astute. The weapon used was most likely primitive or broken." The scribe picked up a piece of splintered wood off the floor and carefully began probing the gaping hole in the baker's chest. His hands were steady now as he stirred the probe around. "Here, look at this," he said finally, motioning Dafydd closer. "Look into the wound," he told the blacksmith. "What do you see?"
"N-nothing," Dafydd said. He stared at the dark, wet, gaping hole in the man's chest. The corpse had begun to smell, cloyingly; it reminded him of pork. "There's nothing in there, Scribe Oren." He silently vowed to never eat ham ever again.
"Exactly," he said. He removed the probe and placed it on the floor gently. "His heart has been cut out. The same, I'll wager, was done to his wife."
Dafydd looked up from the corpse. "Scribe Oren! Are you sure?"
The older man nodded. "Yes, Master Smith, I am." He stood up, slowly, from where he had bent over the baker's body. "It's been nearly twenty years, but it's begun again. The Silvani are among us."