Chapter Fourteen: Tragedy
Tyruc watches the past unfold, witnessing how a monster has driven the woman called Zifa to a point of madness that endangers her neighbors. The vision of the past continues to reveal the fate of the militia.
The vision skittered forward to dusk of the next day when Tyruc heard a rumble from the road behind him.
Focus. Remember the secrets revealed here.
A quivering sensation overwhelmed him as a large object passed through him and into his field of vision. The steam carriage, sans dents and scratches, chugged its way into the settlement’s center. Four figures emerged.
Ronnil hopped from the back first, a scowl on his face as he marched to the vehicle’s front end. After him, two other men stepped out into the clearing.
One of them Tyruc recognized as Murth, the Deepfolk man whom he would later carry to the Honeycomb Inn. He was dressed in a billowy silken shirt; an open, embroidered vest; and matching leather pants and boots. A rectangular holster hung from his belt in place of a sword. The man looked about the small settlement brightly, a grin on his face as he clapped his orc companion on the shoulder.
The ash-skinned, redhaired young man loomed a head taller than Murth, and though he smiled sheepishly, his eyes darted to and fro as he gripped the handle of a battle axe. His simple tunic-and-trousers outfit looked better suited for farmwork than monster hunting.
“Relax, Thochag,” said Murth in a lilting accent. “We haven’t come across anything in our patrol so far, and I doubt we’ll have any troubles here, either.”
The youth’s tight smile relaxed a bit, though his grip on the axe did not. “Sorry. That whole ‘eyes in the dark’ thing Sareit warned us about gave me the shivers, and I just can’t shake it.”
Murth laughed. “I didn’t think Frostfolk could shiver. To be fair, I’d have found Zifa’s little message a mite more unnerving myself if it weren’t for two factors at play.”
“What would those be?” Thochag asked, lulled deeper into relaxation by Murth’s easing conversation.
“Growing up underground means the dark is homey for me, not scary. Also, Zifa’s been known to spin a yarn. I expect this is a simple case of paranoia.” As he said that, his eyes glanced to where Tyruc stood. The Deepfolk man’s eyebrows twitched, and he stared for a long beat. “Then again, better to be over cautious than under prepared, eh?” His hand touched the edge of the odd holster at his side, and he began to slip something from it when heated voices from the front of the steam carriage interrupted him.
“Ronnil, just what is your problem?” asked a gruff voice. The voice’s owner came around the vehicle to reveal the final member of the militia, Gillibrand.
His stature was squat and round, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Frizzy, auburn hair covered his entire head and face save for a small pink window where his eyes and nose were. He wore a green tabard that had been heavily modified with pockets and loops for all manner of contraptions, and a dozen or so baubles dangled from the leather belt encompassing his broad midsection.
Ronnil followed Gillibrand, retorting, “You are my problem, Gilli. You’re deadweight. The one thing you’re supposed to do is get this piece of junk to work properly,” he punctuated with a kick to the steam carriage, “and you can’t even do that.”
As what little of Gillibrand’s face Tyruc could see turned bright red, Murth stepped forward. “Hang on, now; the carriage has been serving us fine. Got us everywhere we needed going.”
“Eventually,” Ronnil sneered back. “We’ve been running around for days, all because he insists on us playing with his blasted toy instead of just hopping on horses like we should’ve done in the first place. Not that any horse would carry a fat load like—”
“Stop it,” Thochag mumbled. “There’s no need to be nasty.”
Murth nodded in agreement. “He’s right. You need to cool off.”
Gillibrand hooked his thumbs on his jangling belt and lifted his bushy-bearded chin toward Ronnil in defiance. “The carriage has gotten all four of us to every farm and settlement around Bodra in just four days. A trip like that would usually take weeks, Ronnil, and you know it. No horses, no fuss.”
“But this isn’t what we agreed to,” Ronnil persisted. “Sareit said—”
A collective groan from the three other men stopped him. Apparently, this was ground well-tread.
Gillibrand rolled his eyes at Ronnil. “Sareit woulda been fine with the change of plans. What has got you so bent out of shape?”
It was quiet for a long beat. Ronnil repeatedly clenched and unclenched his one fist while the other three men watched him. His jaw worked, but no words came out.
Just as Tyruc began to form an idea of what was behind Ronnil’s brusqueness, a keening scream pierced the air. Not that of a human, but of something altogether other. It rang on and on, unending, deafening, maddening.
Tyruc had to give credit where it was due: the militia immediately dropped the spat between them to help the families of Zifa’s Farm. What proceeded was a confused mess of people darting out of buildings in a panic, the four men trying to calm them down while also scanning the area for what was making that terrible sound.
But Tyruc’s eyes were pulled to Zifa’s front door as though someone had hands on his head, directing his vision there.
It was shut. A tranquil moment within a sea of frenzy. But steadily, rising with Tyruc’s heartbeat, a quickening dread built. Any second, Tyruc expected the door to burst off its hinges from the surmounting tension.
Instead, it slowly cracked open, then swung silently. Just beyond the doorway stood Zifa, her eyes fixed on Tyruc, her hand clutching something by her side.
Her face was gaunt, her eyes rimmed red. She ambled out of her cabin, casually swinging the hatchet by her side in rhythm to her steps. No one in the square took notice of her. They were all too busy panicking, arguing, covering their ears against the shrieking on the wind. None of them noticed her calmly walking up to the portly neighbor who a few nights past had offered her aid.
The screaming sound died the moment Zifa raised her axe above her head, as though its maker did not want to draw attention away from what was about to happen. All eyes turned in time to see Zifa Featherhart, their kindly, lonely neighbor, bury the weapon in the man’s back.
Time froze. Horror was painted across every face, but none so much as on Zifa’s.
How? Tyruc asked. How could Som let this happen? Let this poor woman be driven by a monster to this?
The voice did not immediately answer. When the trickling sound came, it was reserved but not apologetic. Som’s plans are unknowable even to us Heralds. However, we know that Som is good and that He has a purpose. You are an instrument of His plans and are here now for that purpose.
But why wouldn’t he send me or someone here to stop this? For blaze’s sake, why couldn’t He step in and do something?
I do not have the answer for you, the voice admitted. But I know Som. I trust Him. If we continue forward as we must, the answer may become clearer. Are you willing to continue?
Tyruc did not expect the choice to be offered to him. What if I say no?
Do you?
I said “what if.”
There is no “what if.” There is only what is. Are you giving up?
No! Tyruc responded forcefully. But I have some serious questions about Som now. Doubts, even. Is that going to be a problem?
The voice actually chuckled. Som is not so feeble as to cower from questions and doubts. Now, are we ready to continue?
I don’t know how much more of this I can take… but yes. If there’s a task here for me to do, let’s get to it.
Good. We can skip forward to the last thing you need to see, and then it will be time to act once more.
Time blurred forward again, a frenetic dance of the women and children fleeing while the men rushed around clearing to the injured man’s aid. Tyruc could not tell exactly what occurred, but there was a scuffle between them and the hatchet-wielding Zifa that ended with the settlement’s open square empty of people. Night had fully fallen by the time a single figure skulked back into view.
Ronnil was alone and breathing hard as he approached the steam carriage and clambered into the forward cabin.
Firelight flickered briefly in the driver’s compartment. Another figure rounded the corner of the windmill, limping madly toward the carriage and shouting. Gillibrand waved his arms over his head, trying to attract Ronnil’s attention, when a large, black shadow collided with him. It lifted him up into the air and then flung him onto the roof of the carriage with a sonorous thud.
A third figure charged onto the scene: Zifa, with her hatchet raised and lunacy having fully claimed her. She howled and cackled as she repeatedly struck the hull of the carriage, all while the shadowy winged creature, the muse of her madness, toyed with Gillibrand. It tossed him about like a ragdoll, screaming obscene things into the night air in a myriad of voices.
By the blaze, how long does this go on? Tyruc thought.
His question was answered when the monster and her thrall tired of their prey. Zifa danced off between the buildings, scraping her hatchet across the cabin walls as she went, while the winged thing flew off to scratch and claw at the sails of the windmill.
More flickers of firelight came from the forward compartment of the carriage. Tyruc heard murmurings of curses and prayers alike from the man desperately attempting to get the machinery he had seemed to hate to work for him.
And then the shadow returned. It flopped onto the top of the carriage, just above the driver’s window, and it began to sing.
Time jittered forward again. After perching atop the carriage for some time and assaulting the windmill once more, the monster retreated across the river. Other movements occurred throughout the night, but the hurried pace of time made the events difficult for Tyruc to discern. None of it seemed pleasant.
This is the last thing you must see, the voice informed him.
Dawn crept over the horizon, the sun peeking at the farm as though afraid of what its light would reveal.
Ronnil cautiously climbed down from the driver’s seat, bloodshot eyes darting every which way, including above him. He approached Gillibrand’s still form on the ground where he had last been flung and hesitated.
Is he finally going to help him?
Ronnil did not. He instead rifled through the dwarf’s pockets with growing panic. Not once did he check to see if the broken man was still alive.
Movement from behind the windmill startled him, but he looked relieved to see Murth step into the clearing. Three long slashes across his torso glistened wetly, but he strode forward toward Gillibrand’s body. Ronnil scurried away to the carriage’s forward cabin with a gold contraption in his hand that had previously been hanging from Gillibrand’s belt, leaving Murth to handle Gillibrand alone. However, Murth was unfazed; he lifted Gillibrand easily into the carriage and closed the rear door behind them.
It did not take much longer for the carriage to roar to life and plow past Tyruc at the front gate. The steam carriage wrenched half of the gate from its post with a tremendous grating sound.
Time sped up again to a hastening blur, bringing heavy rainclouds and the occasional view of Zifa chasing one of her neighbors through the settlement. It all passed with a horrible dryness. As though it was just another day.
As though it had not been the end of the world for the people of Zifa’s Farm.
Coming up in Chapter Fifteen:
Having seen the events of Zifa’s Farm play out, Tyruc must now rescue the folk trapped there from their mad neighbor and the monster that caused all this.
“But Tyruc’s eyes were pulled to Zifa’s front door as though someone had hands on his head, directing his vision there.”
Nice.