The Gantlet

  The Memories

  Book 1

  The Gantlet

  By Linda L. Dunlap

  Cover by : Carrie at Cheeky Covers

  Edited by: Arran.editing 720@gmail.com

  Copyright October, 2016 by Linda L. Dunlap

  All rights reserved

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, sold, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  The Memories, Book 1, The Gantlet, is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously, or are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  Dedicated with love to:

  Ruby A. Corbett

  My inspiration for this story.

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  1.

  On a warm summer night, long, long ago and far away, Ely and Bertil Vingus’ front door groaned and squeaked as the man of the house sneaked outside. He waited for the telltale signs of lighted windows and blaring horns to warn he’d been caught, but when there were none; he moved swiftly to meet his friend at the cottage, three doors down.

  “Let’s go,” he said, hurrying his neighbor, calming his own nerve.

  “Where are we going, Ely? Is it far?” Tam Teeple, not his usual cheery self, was jittery with fear.

  “No, down the valley a ways, be back by half-light, breakfast with the family.” Vingus was the leader, but later, when the evil influence departed the inner workings of his brain, he would deny any part in the crime, and have no memory of his own terrible betrayal.

  “Why are we doing this?” Tam said. “Must it be done?”

  Yes, quiet, fools, get her now or I will take off your heads. Ely stared at Tam with fear—not my words, his eyes said.

  A single window in the girl’s room was open, allowing a draught of cool, night air inside. Vingus eased his long, lean frame through the small rectangle cut into the wall, cautious of the horn framework near his thighs. Smoothly, with the lightness of a hunter stalking game, Ely glided through the rooms toward his quarry. The child was lying with her arms outspread upon the bed, her mouth slightly open in a sleep-smile, and he placed the small square upon her tongue, as he had been told. He watched it melt and slide down her throat. She licked her lips after, tasting the fruity deep-sleep potion.

  “Like berries,” her mother would remember. “The room smelled of longberries.”

  Wrap her in the sleep cover. Cover it with blood and bring her to me. Bring her now. Hurry, you worthless bags of flesh!

  The rough voice scratched the insides of Ely and Tam’s throats as they obeyed its commands.

  “Here, Tam, take her,” Ely whispered as he tossed the bundled girl through the window. “She weighs nothing at all. Nothing at all.”

  When it was finished, the two returned to their cottages before breakfast and washed pig’s blood from shaking fingers. They had no memory of what they’d done, for both had been spelled by a mighty witch, one whose name neither would dare speak. But later, when the day was done, all thoughts of safety left them, for a demonic bird with giant talons visited their nightfathoms to peck at eyes and faces until each awoke screaming. The girl had been carried away in the dark sky by a Phoebus, a giant bird of prey with enormous wings and great, grasping claws, and both had seen it. They would see it in their dreams forevermore.

  The Phoebus, like them, had no will of its own, and stared into eyes neither Ely nor Tam could see. Lowering its head obediently, the giant bird listened to instructions, and grasped the limp body with large talons. Hunching its broad back into the wind, the bird drew the child under a wing and folded its blue-gray feathers around her small frame. Lifting into the night, it soared high, and then even higher, carrying the red-haired girl to another land, where none knew of the Qay tribe, or of Nore Mountain, or of a village built inside a hollow tree.

  Later, in the light of dawn, searchers found the bedcover and the girl’s long, bloodied sleepwear lying beside the grassy path near the Orbel caves, and they mourned for the loss of the village’s only child.

  Mathena, her mother, recalled the smallest details of the evening: the yawn from her daughter as small arms went out for a last goodnight hug, the points of her ears, fair-skinned with tiny blue lines running through, and thick red curls crisscrossed into a long braid fastened with scarlet vine.

  Deep blue eyes had fluttered open as she whispered, “I love you, Mam.” Mathena would remember the softness of her child’s goodnight kiss forever.

  By the light of morning, the villagers searched frantically for their only child, but she was gone, into a different land, two hundred leagues from Nore Mountain and its lush green valley.

  Breanna Ascroft awakened to cold and darkness. Her eyes burned and her ears were filled with the sounds of whirring and wing-flapping. A foul smell assaulted her nostrils, and the wind chafed her face. The bird’s heavy feathers bound her tightly, forcing her to lie still, even as the desire for freedom moved her to shift and struggle against her bonds.

  Move. Fall. End. The guttural words faded in and out of screaming air currents.

  “What are you?” Breanna asked hesitantly.

  Phoebus. Quiet. Fall. End. The words were squawks. Breanna knew then what had her, and believed her death imminent. The giant bird was taking her away to its nest in a faraway aerie to be food for the young ones. She shivered and began to weep and speak.

  “Are you going to eat me?”

  No. Want. Want. Want. It was her good fortune the huge scavenger bird dared not defy its mistress.

  “I understand your words, but you are a creature. Are you enchanted?” Breanna asked, trembling in the chilled air. She was afraid, but she was also young and naturally curious, and hoped for answers that might explain how she had gone to bed at night, only to later awaken in the grasp of a giant carrion eater whose language she understood.

  The bird glared, and in its red eyes the captured girl could see a triumphant smile on an unknown face.

  “Who…are you?” The child spoke the words softly, murmuring into the cold wind even as her head drooped and sleep overcame her.

  The witch’s reply went unheard. When the girl awoke later, the bird was gone, and the place she laid was in a farmer’s wagon, surrounded by open fields and hay mows. Sunlight played on the faces of two stout men wearing straw caps, ragged clothing, and mud- and horse-dung-smeared boots. Another man sat apart and gave orders to the first two. He glanced at the girl and smiled, but the richness of his clothing and his false manners did nothing to disguise the cruelty lines in his face, and the hard look in his eyes.

  She heard their speech and tried to communicate, but the three men only laughed wickedly at her garble. They were foreigners who spoke another tongue, and though the words were unintelligible at the time, their meaning was clear. She was a prisoner for however long they decided necessary. The little girl’s instincts told her she had been saved from the bird by men who were more dangerous than the huge Phoebus.

  Surprisingly, the leader gave her bread, meat, and ale without untying her hands to hold the food. She felt no hunger, only a great thirst. Grabbing the ale, she swallowed some then spat out the rest. T
he men laughed as they took the flagon from her, and replaced it with a skin of water. Breanna drank deeply, noticing from the corner of her eye the small container the leader held in his hands. One of the others grabbed and held her as jeweled fingers forced her mouth open and poured a bad-tasting liquid down her throat.

  The leader waited until she had swallowed the potion before untying her hands. He pointed toward the side of the wagon, and she went there to release her night’s water in semi-privacy. Brenna believed without the rich man’s presence, the other two might have hurt her, a thought that kept her from running away, for she was afraid her recapture might result in harsh punishment. Quickly, one of the three secured her hands and feet, and threw her back into the wagon.

  The girl’s tears only made the men laugh and poke her shoulders. She lay on the floor of the wagon, bound, gagged, and frightened, sniffling for home and safety until the potion had its way, and she fell into deep sleep that lasted for hours. Sometime, much later, her body was jarred into wakefulness by a burning thirst.

  The small space was crowded with layers of bags and items wrapped in animal skins. This cart was smaller than the one before, and the scary men were gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, Breanna tried to turn over, but found she was tied and unable to move. She felt the bouncing of the cart, and knew it was traveling over very rough ground each time her head rose and hit the floor. She looked around and saw things her mother would have purchased from tradesmen visiting Nore Mountain each summer. The thought brought back memories of cart-men who had been kind to her and shared a small bit of figs or other sweets. She hoped whoever held her captive was as mild as those men had been.

  Lying on the hard floor of the cart, Breanna realized her need for water had become too great to ignore, and she kicked her feet several times against the cart wall. When no response came, she lay still and wondered about her home and would she ever see it again. A little later, the remainder of the potion forced her back into the world of sleep.

  2.

  The wagon wheels seemed intent on hitting every rock as they rolled across the deserted plain called the Emptiness. Nothing shone in the distance except more rocks and treeless land, and across its barren spaces, the Witches’ Wind blew a constant gale. Tom Simpkin had never seen weed, nor grass, or any color of life on his journeys across the dreaded roadway. A dark sky blotted most of the sun, and made for dim light upon the vacant desert, as the voices of old evil intermingled with shrieking air currents and whispered terrible words of despair and loathing to unsuspecting travelers. Even the strongest heart couldn’t resist the black wind’s message.

  Tom, by trade, was a jester and tinker, not a brave man, he often said of himself, but he knew the land, and was prepared for the wind’s insidious voice. From the moment his oxen stepped onto the dead soil, his ears had been stuffed with fluff from a lady’s old petticoat. He smiled at his cleverness, and kicked his heels together as he drove the oxen in the low light of the deserted land.

  “Yes, my friends, Tom Simpkin at your service: tinker, tailor, fixer of furniture, and entertainer of a king, if you please.” He often spoke to himself, for the road was too lonely without conversation, a thing he had learned as a boy riding with his father. Besides, there was always something interesting for a man to hear—no matter if it was wisdom from his own head.

  That morning, as he flicked the leads of his oxen, Tom’s good humor left him and his thoughts traveled to the rear of the cart, where the girl lay confined as he had been instructed to leave her. He didn’t normally transport people, but the coin was good, and he’d needed the supplies the brigands offered. Aye, and brigands they were, Tom thought.

  He heard muffled sounds of kicking and knew his wagon would be sorely damaged if he didn’t get it stopped soon. Pulling his oxen to a stop, Tom jumped down and quickly walked to the back door of his home. He opened the door and stared into the wide blue eyes of the bound child.

  “You should stop the kicking. Won’t help you; will only bruise your feet. Can you hear me, girl?” She was frightened, he could see—probably whatever demon lived in her had abused her some.

  “Would you like some water? Aye, I’ll give you water. I’m not a monster,” he said, filling a cup from the precious barrel. The silken gag over her mouth was chewed, ruining it for anything in the future, but he took the time to untie the knot and save what was there. Placing the cup against the girl’s mouth, he lifted it and watched as she greedily swallowed, her pleading eyes asking for more at the end.

  “No more now,” he told her. “You’ll just spit it back, you will. We’ll wait a bit then you can have more.”

  “Where am I?” She spoke foreign gibberish he didn’t understand. It occurred to him the girl had no idea what he had just said to her about the kicking and the water.

  “Well now, this is a problem. How will you get along if you don’t speak and understand decent speech?”

  The man who’d hired him to carry the girl across the Emptiness had neglected to tell him about the language problem. Or perhaps he didn’t think it important. All he’d said was an evil spirit possessed the child, and there were healers in Thrum who would rid her mind of the filthy thing.

  Tom Simpkin didn’t believe himself to be a bad man. He was a landlocked sailor whose home was his wagon, and his oxen the sails that pulled him across beaten paths and cart roads. He wasn’t about to scare the girl any more than she was already. He leaned over and looked into her eyes, wondering why a demon wanted the mind of a pretty little girl. Happens, aye, it happens, but not usually to one so young.

  Looking around, Tom knew there was naught but dimness and barren land. He considered the girl might escape, but knew the long, empty stretches of thin, dark road held nothing for a youngster with no shoes and little clothing. She could go nowhere, a solid truth. He reached toward her and untied the knots of her confinement ropes, content she would benefit from the freedom, if nothing else.

  She’s a wee one, he thought, not over ten summers, and barely that. A shame, it is, the mind gone. He hoped she wouldn’t start screaming; it would be a bad thing along with the wind. He wondered if it was already talking to her, maybe in her own language.

  “Where am I?” the child asked again, still unwilling to consider home was a place far away. “Can you at least tell me where we are? And thank you, thank you for untying me.”

  The girl moved her arms, getting rid of the aches from being jammed into a small place, jabbering all the while in a language Tom didn’t understand. Perhaps ’tis the demon talking, and old Tom would be better off not knowing.

  “Let’s move along now, if you think you can behave. I know you’re a child, but I expect you to be a credit to your mam, wherever she is. Like as not, though, you were raised in a shelter for small ones, with no home of your own. Poor child.”

  “What are you saying? What words are those? I come from Nore Mountain, and I want to go home. I don’t belong here.”

  Breanna was scared, she couldn’t understand the driver, and he didn’t appear to hear a word she said. She remembered the giant bird, and wondered how she had understood its language, while the man in the green hat spoke a garbled tongue that was foreign to her. She had been told to be careful of witches, and wondered if the woman controlling the bird had been one.

  Climbing from the inside of the wagon to the seat where the strange man had pointed, Breanna moved quickly before he changed his mind. Warily, she looked the cart man over in the poor light, and noticed he wasn’t as tall as her poppa, but he was bigger around. A little squatty, the man had dark hair and big, round ears sticking out from under his hat. His nose, which was too big for his thin face, gave him a clownish appearance. But he had kind, dark eyes, not wild and scary ones like the man who’d tied her up and thrown her in the wagon, She had heard him singing earlier in a croaky voice, the sound akin to frogs back home on Everdeep Lake, and his out-of-tune voice made her feel less afraid.

  Breanna sat down stiffly, keeping as
much distance from the driver as possible without falling onto the rocky road. She rubbed a sore spot above her temple and wondered how it had come about. Looking off to the left and right, a far as she could see there was nothing but darkness, rocks, and the terrible wind whispering awful noises into her ears.

  These are witches’ rocks and witches’ voices, made from the tears of their victims, hardened by a spell, and thrown into the dark emptiness.

  Miralda’s words, Breanna thought, the memory a cool mist from the past.

  When a Qay soul hears and feels the wind of black whispers, she must spit three times into the darkness and think on Miralda. The witches’ voices will diminish into the void.

  Breanna obeyed and turned her head away. She leaned off the wagon and spat three times before Tom could haul her back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked loudly, hoping she would understand if he raised his voice. “Do you want to fall off and get run over by them big cart wheels? And what’s all the nasty spitting about?”

  The driver spoke more garble, and even though loneliness and fear had Breanna ready to bawl like a grass-eating Farqell baby, she wanted to understand him, to have him explain her situation, about what had happened to her family. He didn’t seem mean, as though he wanted to hurt her, but he was a talker, as her poppa would have said. The thought of her father sent her into tears again.

  She held on to the wagon seat as it bucked side to side, realizing as she sobbed that the wind had ceased its terrible noise. She looked at the driver and noticed the fluff in his ears. If she hadn’t been so sad, the sight would have made her laugh. She wiped her tears with the dirty sleeve of her shirt then motioned that he could get rid of the fluff. Couldn’t hear me, even if I was speaking his words, she thought.

  Tom had crossed the terrible land many times in his life, going from one village to another looking for a day’s work in exchange for food and a soft bed. On all those trips he carried the fluff in his bag, always ready for poking into his ears. Men had been run to terrible deeds by listening to the black wind, and ’twas nothing to see an empty cart lying on its side, the driver close, bones stripped by ravens and blackened by the darkness around him.