Read Online Dark Mist Rising by Anna Kendall - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anna Kendall
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last look at the puzzling grey fog, wispy and motionless around the circle of the Dead. Then I bit my tongue and crossed back over.
Darkness—
Cold—
Dirt choking my mouth—
Worms in my eyes—
Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—
I was back in my body in the cottage bedchamber, again tied to the chair and with the knotted cord bound painfully around my head. A burst of agony around my eyes as I returned, and a moment to clear my blood-soaked vision. So much blood . And then I saw that it was not all mine. Only a small portion of it was mine.
The two savage soldiers, the singer-warrior and his lieutenant, lay on the floor. I could see the lieutenant clearly, but the singer-that-was lay mostly behind the bed, where he must have fallen. On the quilted bedcover the pattern of wildflowers was spattered with sprays of blood. The lieutenant's throat had been torn out in fleshy gobbets of meat and blood. His hands were flung helplessly above his head and one arm lay at a grotesque angle to his still body. Beside him sat Shadow, wagging his tail.
It was a moment before I could speak. When I did, my voice came out thick and high. ‘Shadow ... did you ... ?'
Of course he had. The huge dog gazed at me expectantly, eager for praise. His green eyes shone. Blood matted his grey coat. In the dim light from the single tallow candle on the dresser, the blood looked almost black, oily and viscous as tar.
I felt sickened, and relieved, and grateful. Mostly, however, I felt scared. Where were the other two savages, the ones who had brought me here? At any moment they could come pounding up the stairs, guns drawn, and I didn't think even Shadow would be a match for guns. Why hadn't they come up already? They must have heard some noise – a dog cannot kill two men without noise.
Someone was climbing the stairs.
‘Shadow, go! Kill!'
The dog wagged his tail harder.
A figure filled the doorway. All I could see was his outline, and then he came carefully into the room.
Not a savage. It was a youth of about my own age, at least six and a half feet tall, his considerable bulk made even larger by a pack strapped to his shoulders. Yellow-haired and stubble-bearded, he was dressed like the son of a prosperous farmer in wool tunic and leggings, with thick leather boots. In one enormous hand he carried a pig-butchering knife. We stared at each other for a moment, he looming huge above me, before he loosened the knotted cord from my head. I gasped with relief. The boy's knife slashed through the ropes that bound me to the chair.
Finally he spoke. ‘Who are you?'
How to answer that? I gave the simplest answer. ‘Peter Forest.'
‘I heard a ... I was bringing the sheep back from high pasture and ... Your dog ain't never done that ?' He waved at the dead soldiers.
Shadow bounded over and licked his hand. The dog's short tail wagged. I said, ‘Help me up – please.'
He hesitated, but evidently decided I was harmless. To someone of his bulk and strength, armed with a butchering knife, I most certainly was. With one hand he pulled me to my feet, but I could not stand. I collapsed upon the bed. The reek of fresh blood filled the room.
I said urgently, ‘There are two more savages—'
‘Dead in the kitchen. More of their soldiers hold the roads. Are you the reason they have taken Almsbury?'
‘No.' Was I? It seemed possible, but I didn't want to tell that to this stranger who looked at me with such frank, fearless curiosity. Yes, fearless. He stood absently patting Shadow's blood-spattered head with no trace of alarm about the four murdered men, the dog that had killed them or the Young Chieftain's soldiers occupying his village.
‘If you ain't the reason they came here, then why were they torturing you?' He stared at my head, where the bloody wounds left by the knotted cord still burned like fire.
‘I don't know,' I lied. ‘How many more savages are in ... in Almsbury?'
‘Dunno. I been several days at high pasture
Darkness—
Cold—
Dirt choking my mouth—
Worms in my eyes—
Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—
I was back in my body in the cottage bedchamber, again tied to the chair and with the knotted cord bound painfully around my head. A burst of agony around my eyes as I returned, and a moment to clear my blood-soaked vision. So much blood . And then I saw that it was not all mine. Only a small portion of it was mine.
The two savage soldiers, the singer-warrior and his lieutenant, lay on the floor. I could see the lieutenant clearly, but the singer-that-was lay mostly behind the bed, where he must have fallen. On the quilted bedcover the pattern of wildflowers was spattered with sprays of blood. The lieutenant's throat had been torn out in fleshy gobbets of meat and blood. His hands were flung helplessly above his head and one arm lay at a grotesque angle to his still body. Beside him sat Shadow, wagging his tail.
It was a moment before I could speak. When I did, my voice came out thick and high. ‘Shadow ... did you ... ?'
Of course he had. The huge dog gazed at me expectantly, eager for praise. His green eyes shone. Blood matted his grey coat. In the dim light from the single tallow candle on the dresser, the blood looked almost black, oily and viscous as tar.
I felt sickened, and relieved, and grateful. Mostly, however, I felt scared. Where were the other two savages, the ones who had brought me here? At any moment they could come pounding up the stairs, guns drawn, and I didn't think even Shadow would be a match for guns. Why hadn't they come up already? They must have heard some noise – a dog cannot kill two men without noise.
Someone was climbing the stairs.
‘Shadow, go! Kill!'
The dog wagged his tail harder.
A figure filled the doorway. All I could see was his outline, and then he came carefully into the room.
Not a savage. It was a youth of about my own age, at least six and a half feet tall, his considerable bulk made even larger by a pack strapped to his shoulders. Yellow-haired and stubble-bearded, he was dressed like the son of a prosperous farmer in wool tunic and leggings, with thick leather boots. In one enormous hand he carried a pig-butchering knife. We stared at each other for a moment, he looming huge above me, before he loosened the knotted cord from my head. I gasped with relief. The boy's knife slashed through the ropes that bound me to the chair.
Finally he spoke. ‘Who are you?'
How to answer that? I gave the simplest answer. ‘Peter Forest.'
‘I heard a ... I was bringing the sheep back from high pasture and ... Your dog ain't never done that ?' He waved at the dead soldiers.
Shadow bounded over and licked his hand. The dog's short tail wagged. I said, ‘Help me up – please.'
He hesitated, but evidently decided I was harmless. To someone of his bulk and strength, armed with a butchering knife, I most certainly was. With one hand he pulled me to my feet, but I could not stand. I collapsed upon the bed. The reek of fresh blood filled the room.
I said urgently, ‘There are two more savages—'
‘Dead in the kitchen. More of their soldiers hold the roads. Are you the reason they have taken Almsbury?'
‘No.' Was I? It seemed possible, but I didn't want to tell that to this stranger who looked at me with such frank, fearless curiosity. Yes, fearless. He stood absently patting Shadow's blood-spattered head with no trace of alarm about the four murdered men, the dog that had killed them or the Young Chieftain's soldiers occupying his village.
‘If you ain't the reason they came here, then why were they torturing you?' He stared at my head, where the bloody wounds left by the knotted cord still burned like fire.
‘I don't know,' I lied. ‘How many more savages are in ... in Almsbury?'
‘Dunno. I been several days at high pasture
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