The Boy With Purple Eyes

The Boy With Purple Eyes
By
Richard H. Eagle

Chapter One – Just A Walk In The Woods

Danark Wood, a name that made grown men tremble with fear, its strange inhabitants making wary travellers stay on its well-worn paths. Today was just an ordinary day for some, for others, a journey into legend!

*****

The ancient, moss-covered trees of Danark Wood surrounded Anwin as he sat with his back against the gnarled oak tree. As he brushed back his raven hair, he screwed up his eyes as the rays of the early morning sun beamed down and warmed his young body.

Anwin had only rested for a moment, but something had disturbed the atmosphere of the wood, charging it with an unknown presence. His blue eyes scouring the trees and bushes around him as unseen eyes peered at him from the shadows. The birds that had been singing in the top branches a moment ago were suddenly silent.

“Pull yourself together Anwin. There's no such things as monsters,” he said, but an overwhelming feeling of dread filled his body.

Reaching amongst the musty leaves, he grasped his walking staff. But the beast was upon him, it's tongue blinding him with savage licks and it's horrible meaty breath filling his nostrils.

“There you are Pup,” he laughed, “I wondered where you'd been. Found any traps boy?”

The small, brown dog bounced up and down, yapping at his master's side and as Anwin looked down, he remembered back to when he had first found Pup, caught in a wire noose. The poor thing gnawing through part of his back leg, trying to release the trap's unyielding grasp. Gently, Anwin had carried him back to Barath Village, where the festering leg had been removed.

They had both spent many a sleepless night in his rickety old hut where Anwin slowly nurtured the nervous dog back to health. Carefully, he had removed the soiled bandages and cleaned the pus-ridden wounds in the late hours of the morning. He'd even made a small willow basket for the injured dog, with one of his old patched up shirts for a blanket.

Some of the older boys in the village thought it was silly to have a three-legged dog and called after him.

“How can you go hunting with that thing?”

“Stumpy dog, stumpy dog!”

But Anwin didn't care. So now they walked deep in Danark Wood, removing as many wire traps as they could find. Here they were free from the taunts. Here they could help the animals of the wood, keeping them free from harm.

“Shh boy,” he said putting his finger to his mouth. “How can we see our friends if you scare them away?” He rose to his feet, the damp earth sticking to his fingers, leaving trails of grime as he brushed them down his worn breaches. “Never mind Pup. A bit of dirt won't hurt.”

After a short walk down the twisting path, Pup started yapping. He must have found another wire trap. Anwin hated these things, especially those who used them. People had to eat, but this was a horrible way to catch animals.

Why couldn't they use a bow? All the hunters of the village were expert shots from a young age, but the other forest dwellers still set their cruel traps. Recently, strange tracks had appeared around the vicious wire traps, horrible clawed ones that worried him.

“Idiots,” he said, bending down and ripping out the trap. “That's one more that won't cause any harm.” Quickly he wound up the crude device and placed it in his pocket. “I'll get rid of this later.”

From his jerkin Anwin pulled a small piece of meat and threw it towards Pup. A treat that was swiftly gulped down as Pup scampered off down the track.

*****

The afternoon sun shone through the branches of the trees, illuminating a path few had travelled. Broken branches lay across it, mingling with old leaves and fallen trees covered in red fungi. This was an area that Anwin had never explored before and he shivered as the air turned cooler within the dappled shadows. Summer would soon be gone; the vibrant green leaves of the trees a distant memory as they changed to scarlet and gold hues.

Close by a stag called to its heavily pregnant mate. Anwin could see the brown, speckled doe was nervously watching him from the cover of a weeping willow. Her mate appearing at her side as if by magic. His magnificent antlers turned towards Anwin, protective of his mate and her unborn offspring.

“No need to worry. Your fawn is safe,” Anwin said. “I'm only hunting for traps.”

The doe gracefully bowed her head as if she understood and Anwin smiled as they both trotted away, their speckled coats blending into the dark wood.

Turning his head, he saw a wagging tail disappear into a grove of bushes.

“Hey, wait for me!” he shouted, racing after the three legged scamp. Fighting through the bushes, he found himself in a dark glade, surrounded by old gorse bushes, from behind which Anwin heard deep voices.

“Look what I've found Drankle!”

“What yer got? Summat nice and juicy I hope?”

Anwin crept under the nearest bush, its thorns drawing blood as they ripped his fingers. Peeking out from beneath the gorse, he saw the old stories were true. There before him stood two huge creatures.

Grey, cracked skin covered their bloated bodies and both wore tatty, loincloths, with a rough cord belt about their waists, from which hung a crude knife.

Various ears dangled from the belt of the larger beast, and an assortment of fingers seemed to wave from the other creature's belt. Both held their cruel, spiked clubs, at the ready.

He placed a hand over his mouth, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. The beasts were discussing the lifeless body of Pup.

“I got a snack. I just gave it a bop on the 'ed when it weren't looking,” the thing laughed.

“Give us a bit Snagrot. I've not 'ad owt fer days. I'm starved, I am,” whined the other creature.

Snagrot bent down, pulling the limp dog up by its ears. “Nah! It's got bits missing. Look, it's only got three legs,” it said, tossing Pup to the ground.

Anwin gasped as he saw the thing's vile face. A cruel one, covered in red jagged scars that ran down to a twisted mouth, full of sharp green teeth, two of which protruded upwards from it's lower jaw.

“It don't matter much to me. You 'ave the 'ed 'arf. I'll 'ave the tail 'arf. I just luvs to suck all the juices out of the tail, nice an chewy after that.”

“Shame it's not alive. We could 'ave 'ad bets on how long it would have lasted against Gnor. He don't care if it's alive or dead. He just luvs killing an' eating.”

“Yer telling me, remember that hooge spider he found. Twice as big as him! He ripped the legs straight off it an' stomped it to death.” Drankle jumped up and down, recreating the horrible scene.

“You go 'an get some wood fer a fire, this three legged lump will make up fer the traps. Some little sod's been pulling 'em up again. If I get me claws on 'em I'll rip 'em to shreds. Better still, I'll give 'em to Gnor.”

“You get on wiv cutting it up. I won't be long.”

“One fer the fire, one fer the pot, another to make the fire nice 'an hot,” sang Drankle as he disappeared into the wood.

From a short distance came cracking sounds as if branches were being ripped straight from their trees.

“Now to get you prepared,” said Snagrot, taking out a small knife and licking it with his foul tongue. “Nice ears, I'm going to 'ave them fer me collection.”

“No, your not,” thought Anwin as he forced himself from the thorny grasp of the gorse and stealthily crept up behind the monster. Its foul odour made him want to vomit, but he had to rescue Pup.

The thing cruelly grabbed an ear and raised its knife as Anwin sprang into action. He raised his staff and with a tremendous crack, he brought it down on the creature's head. The monster dropped to his knees, then as it collapsed onto its face, the dry leaves on the ground flew into the air for an instant, only to return and settle on the unmoving creature.

With tears in his eyes, Anwin picked up the lifeless dog and felt a faint heart beat. Pup was still alive! Thank the Gods!

Hey Snagrot, I got the wood. Time fer grub.”

With Pup in his arms, Anwin ran for the safety of the bushes, forcing his way past them, he bent down to hide as the second beast returned, carrying a large bundle of branches.

“Snagrot, what are yer messin' about at?” snarled Drankle, giving his comrade a swift kick in the side.

Snagrot groaned and sat up, raising his clawed hands to his sore head to rub a massive lump.

“What you bop me on the 'ed fer?” he snapped.

“I didn't bop you. I wuz getting wood fer the fire.”

“Well someone did. Werz the meat gone! You better not 'ave eaten it yer 'orrible stinking lump.” Snagrot rose, hitting Drankle straight in the nose with his huge fist, sending him crashing to the ground and scattering the tree branches around him.

In an instant, Snagrot was astride him, his clawed hands crushing the air from his throat. “You ate it, didn't you!” he screamed, wrenching Drankle's head from side to side. “You wanted it all didn't you. You greedy guts.”

“Not... me...I...didn't,” he gasped as Snagrot released his deathly grip.

For a few moments he lay on the ground, coughing and spluttering, filling his lungs with sweet air before rising to his feet. Rubbing his bloody nose, he stared at the ground near the discarded branches. “Snagrot, look. Footprints, little footprints.”

Snagrot turned around, wondering what his companion was mumbling on about. Bending down, he sniffed the prints with his large nose.

“A boy, a young boy,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Lifting his huge head, he searched for the owner of the prints. All he could see was the trees and bushes around him, then a slight movement caused him to stare straight into Anwin's eyes.

“THERE HE IS!” he bellowed, pointing his large clawed hand towards the gorse bush.

Anwin turned and ran for his life. Behind him he could hear the monsters crashing through the wood, branches cracking and snapping as they chased after him.

“I want his ears,” yelled Snagrot.

“Come back 'ere you little brat,” shouted Drankle.

There was no chance of that Anwin thought. On and on he ran, twisting and turning as he jumped over fallen trees. Beneath his jerkin he felt his heart pounding away. He had to find somewhere to hide from his pursuers as their roars became louder. They were getting close now, he could smell their vile odour.

Sweat poured down his forehead, nearly blinding him. Then behind him there was a crack and Anwin turned his head over his shoulder, only for an instant and recoiled in horror. There, reaching out for him was Snagrot, a huge grin on his monstrous face.

“GOT YER NOW BOY!” he roared, spitting vile drool over Anwin.

Anwin could almost feel the creature's sharp claws upon him and ran as if all the demons in the world were after him.

Wiping the foul drool from his face he stumbled blindly onwards through bush after bush. Again he glanced back and saw both of the beasts were closing in on him, their horrible spiked clubs raised above their heads, ready for the kill.

“SUPPER TIME!” screamed Snagrot.

Anwin offered up a silent prayer and suddenly the rocky ground beneath him fell away.

Down he tumbled into the unknown, his right hand trying to grasp anything to stop his fall. Roots and twigs ripped at his aching body, trying to claw Pup away from him as they crashed from rock to rock. Then, Anwin came to a bone-crunching halt as he smashed his head against a jagged boulder.

“DAMN 'N' DRAT!” bellowed Snagrot, throwing his club to the ground. “He's fallen down Dagon's Mouth, and nowt gets out of there alive.”

Drankle slumped to the ground, exhausted from the chase. “You... mean... I... don't get me... grub after all... that running,” he gasped.

“I'm not going down there Drankle, no way! Not even his Lordship could force me down there. Not even if he threatened me 'wiv the finger snippers,”

He looked over the crumbling cliff edge, staring down into the abyss below. “STOOPID BOY!” he yelled into the darkness. “Nowt gets out of there, you 'ear me boy, NOWT!” Snagrot cupped an ear, listening for any sound from below. A groan, a scream, but all he heard was the echo of his own voice.

“He's got to be dead Drankle, come on, we still 'av time to catch summat fer supper,” he snarled as he turned and dragged the still puffing Drankle to his feet.

“If we do... I get... the tail,” said Drankle.

“'An I get the ears!” laughed Snagrot.

*****

Anwin awoke. The sun had long since set. The cool velvet darkness of night now surrounded him.

He winced as he touched the painful lump on his forehead, his battered body and the throbbing in his head making him vomit as he tried to stand.

How long had he been unconscious? Where was Pup?

Pulling himself to his knees, he stared in horror! Bones, scattered around him were hundreds of bones. What kind of monster lived down here?

Reaching out into the darkness, he felt the rough outline of something carved into the cliff face.

The moon appeared from behind its refuge in the clouds and beamed down it's soft light to reveal an intricately carved stone door. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light Anwin saw a large symbol of a full moon along with an imprint of a hand had been cut deep into it.

A rustling from above startled him. There, descending the cliff was a gigantic spider. This must be the fiend that had fed on all those who'd fallen from the towering cliff and discarded their bones on the ground.

Anwin tried to stand but stumbled and fell back to the ground, his hand slipping into the imprint of the hand in the door. A faint blue glow emanated through the mysterious symbols of the door and he could hear deep within the cliff the sound of turning gears.

The stone door opened to reveal a dark, dank tunnel. He stared at the ground and saw the three unmistakable paw prints of Pup leading up to the door and into the mysterious tunnel.

He peered into its dark depth. In the distance a dim light called to him, enticing him into the murky darkness. He had two deadly choices. To face the giant spider or to take his chance with the tunnel. With no weapons to fight, he reluctantly chose the tunnel.

Above him, the spider was getting closer. Anwin could see the venom dripping from the it's quivering fangs and it's multiple eyes stared down at him. Under its monstrous weight the cliff started to crumble and then it lost it's tenuous grip, crashing to the ground on it's back, legs flailing in the night air.

This was Anwin's chance. Pain coursed through his body with every movement as he crawled forward into the darkness as behind him the stone door swiftly closed with a hollow boom.

Outside the spider let out a terrible, high pitched roar as it righted itself, throwing itself at the door, whose light now faded as the door merged with the cliff face into one solid mass. Again the spider roared but this time it was in desperation.

Inside the tunnel, Anwin crawled towards the light that called to him, It was getting brighter now and as he reached the end of the tunnel he saw it shone out from the carved face of a massive, horned gargoyle. Teeth bared and purple eyes wide open, it glowed menacingly.

Using the wall as support, he rose to his feet, feeling the face. Finding it smooth, not rough as he expected.

“By the Gods you're ugly,” he smiled, but only for an instant as from the mouth of the gargoyle billowed a cloud of red dust that engulfed him.

Falling to his knees, he rubbed his stinging eyes and grasped his throat as he struggled to breathe. Desperately he forced his eyes open. There above him, the evil gargoyle stared down, it's eyes glowing brighter with each second. Anwin fought for one final breath as the world around him turned to black.

*****

The wall to the left of the gargoyle silently slid open. From the darkness stepped a figure dressed in a blue robe; it stared down through the red mist at the unconscious boy.

From behind the figure nervously crept the small form of Pup, trying to revive his master by licking his clammy face.

Two more figures also dressed in the same style of blue robes appeared from the gloom. They pulled Anwin into the side chamber as Pup followed close behind them. He snapped at their ankles but they took no notice of him as the wall slid back into place, leaving no trace of its existence.

Alone, the gargoyle stared as large cracks appeared on its horrible face. Cracks that grew until with a mighty crash the huge face shattered into a cloud of dust. Now only a pair of purple gemstones lay on the ground, their light fading into darkness within the tunnel.

On the other side of the wall, the hooded figure removed his cowl. Smiling, he watched as his two servants carried the boy up a marble staircase towards the sacred temple of Dagon.

“Just as the Ancients predicted.”

Chapter Two – The Storm

Piama had watched the rain for hours now as lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the rain rivulets as they raced down the grimy windows of The Dry Bottle Inn.

"Will it ever stop, Father?" she sighed.

"I hope so," said Tarelin, turning from stoking the fire and rubbing his sooty hands on his worn brown breeches.

The old inn had seen better days. It was tired and shabby now, dust lingered on the cracked tables and the old benches jabbed unsuspecting visitors with their splinters. Before the death of her mother, the inn had shone like a newly forged sword. Its brass lanterns shining through the night, welcoming those in need of shelter, but that was fourteen-years ago.

Trade had fallen during the last few months, travellers to the inn talking in hushed tones of shadowy beings in the nearby forest, making her father wonder if the lonely inn was a suitable place for Piama. With no family, there was little choice of anything else. It was a hard life for both of them and it was becoming harder with every day.

Today there had been just one customer who had arrived before the storm had started to rage. He was an old man enveloped in a green velvet cloak with a matching hat, from which a few tufts of grey hair poked out. In his right hand he held a twisted wooden staff and over his broad shoulders he carried a small leather satchel.

“Hello there,” he said in a gentle voice. “I require a room. Preferably at the back, somewhere nice and quiet.”

“That should be no problem” Piama said. “Would you like some of my meat pie for supper? I'm just preparing it.”

“It smells wonderful, but I need to rest my old bones before the storm.”

“Storm?” she wondered, looking through the window at the clear azure sky. “There won't be a storm, there's too much blue in the sky,” Silly man she thought.

The old man touched his finger to his nose in a knowing fashion.

“Just you wait and see,” he chuckled to himself. “Now where's that room?”

Past the kitchen with its bubbling pots and wonderful smells, she helped the old man to his room. Opening the door, she lit the brass lantern on the small table by the bed as the back rooms were always dark at this time of day, the suns rays forgetful of them.

“Sorry about the mess. I haven't had time to get this one ready yet. “

“There's no need to worry, I'm not scared of a bit of dust.” he replied, bouncing on the bed. “This will do for tonight, very comfortable. Now I need to rest, so...” He seemed to be searching for her name.

“Piama.”

“What a lovely name for such a beautiful young girl. So Piama, I need my sleep now.”

She blushed at his compliment and turned to the door.

“If you need anything just let me know.”

Closing the door behind her she again looked through the window. Outside the blue sky was turning to a threatening grey as the storm clouds gathered.

Piama returned to the kitchen and turned the meat on the old spit, making sure it didn't burn. By her side, she rotated her left hand. Over on the stove, a large spoon stirred the simmering vegetable soup in a cauldron with an unknown hand. Her father didn't like her using her powers while visitors were around, but here she was safe.

The vegetables in the soup were picked from her own garden at the back of the inn. Prices were getting a bit high these days, so she had started her own vegetable plot to save a little money. Carrots, potatoes, cabbages, all ready for the pot. Piama had even managed to grow some flowers from the seed the merchants had left behind. She didn't know their names, but they took pride of place on the tables in the inn. Here they brought colour and aromatic smells to the dark, sombre atmosphere.

Tarelin, her father was more of a hunter than a gardener and would go a little way into the woods for a rabbit or two, sometimes a deer, but never into its dark depths.

“Another couple of carrots,” she said to herself, turning towards the back door. Opening it she saw that it was pouring with rain and thought better of it. Perhaps she'd do some more potatoes instead and swiftly peeled them. Then with a flick of the wrist, they slowly floated over to the pot where they dropped into the spicy depth of the soup as the spoon continued to stir.

But that had been hours ago. Now it looked like it was going to be another quiet night, apart from the crash of the thunder and the rain rapping against the windows.

Piama returned to her high stool by the window, brushing down her blue dress. She normally dressed in her usual tomboy attire during the day, but at night she liked to make an effort for the customers. Her curly, blonde hair rested upon the white, lace collar of the dress, and a delicate flower embroidery decorated the hem. She loved the dress as it had once been her mother’s. Tonight it seemed that the only ones to admire it would be her father and the quiet old man.

"Come away from the window and close the shutters Piama, it's time you were in bed."

"Oh Father, I'm fourteen you know, I'm not a baby," she said, pretending to sulk.

"I know. Put the lamps out when you're ready to turn in," he said lovingly.

She turned back to the window, just one more look. Through the blur of the rain, she could see someone struggling against the storm. "There's someone coming up the track."

The dark figure stumbled and suddenly collapsed into the mud.

"Father!"

Tarelin ran over to her and peered through the window, there he saw a small unmoving heap and swiftly picked up his cloak, throwing it over his head as he ran out into the storm.

Piama watched as Tarelin struggled down the muddy trail; gently he lifted the small body in his arms and turned back towards the safety of the inn. Slowly he trudged through the deep mud, his strength sapped by the weight of the stranger and the rage of the storm, until finally, he returned to the inn, closing the door with his back. In his arms he held a limp, drenched body.

"Quick Piama, help me!"

She ran over to her father as he lifted the body into a chair by the roaring fire. Tarelin removed his sodden cloak, placing it on a peg near the fire, where it began to steam as it dried.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"I don't know. He's not from these parts, look."

Tarelin uncovered a waterlogged hood to reveal a boy of about thirteen with hair the deepest shade of red. His face was streaked with mud, eyes closed and lips moving in silent speech. The boy shivered, turning his head to reveal a large sickly yellow bruise on his forehead. Looking down Tarelin saw both of the boy's hands were wrapped in filthy rags. Gently, he unwrapped them and saw beneath the wet rags that deep burns covered the strange child's hands. Within the burns wild patterns, unknown writing glowed with an unearthly light.

Tarelin turned and threw the wrappings into the fire where they hissed and spluttered as they burned.

Suddenly the boy's head lurched back, his eyes opening wide in wild panic for only a few seconds as they searched for something in the shadows of the inn.

Piama raised her hand to her mouth and gasped. By the Great Goddess, purple eyes, the boy had purple reptilian eyes!

She watched as the boy tried to scream, but nothing came forth, just odd gasping noises. Then as suddenly as he awoke, he fell limply back into the black world of unconsciousness.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Tarelin turned back from the fire.

“I don’t know? Maybe Helena, the wise woman down at Helroth Village could help, but the weather's too bad to go down there tonight,” he said anxiously.

Helena had taught Piama some of her basic healing skills last summer. Yes, she could cure colds and such, but nothing like this. Even the powers she had inherited from her mother couldn't help this bedraggled child. She knew her father didn't like her gifts, but they came so naturally to her.

“We’ve got to do something, this is beyond my skills.”

“One day those gifts will get you into trouble, you mark my words.” he said, a chill in his voice.

The boy stirred again, his eyelids fluttering open. There staring back at her were blue piercing eyes, not the vile purple ones she had seen before. Had they been a trick of her imagination?

“Can you hear me boy?” Tarelin asked, gently tapping the boy's face. “What's your name? Where are you from? No replies, just the sound of teeth chattering.

He turned his face towards her. “Piama, bring me a towel so I can clean off some of this mud.”

She turned and ran to the kitchen, pushing past the worried looking old man who was standing in the doorway..

“Can I help you?” he asked as he bent down next to Tarelin. “My name is Bronwell and I'm a herb master. ”

Tarelin had never heard of a herb master and wondered if the grey haired man was just one of those simple minded travellers who wandered from village to village, offering fake cures and charms. He distrusted all healers; their useless potions had killed his wife. Now he was wary of them all, with the exception of Helena, who had helped at the birth of Piama. She had almost died with her mother and only the wise woman's skills had brought breath into her tiny lungs.

Bronwell gently placed his hand over the boy's bruised forehead.

“He's got a bad fever that we need to break. Take him to my room.”

Tarelin grudgingly picked up the boy and followed Bronwell back to his room. Who was this stranger to tell him what to do?

On the way they passed Piama who was returning with a large blue towel.

“Bring as much cold water as you can carry and leave it outside the door with the towel,” said Tarelin.

Piama watched her father, he looked nervous, never taking his eyes from the old man.

She saw him removing the child's wet clothes, and that the boy's body was covered in bruises as Bronwell closed the door. Then the memory of those terrible eyes returned. She was sure it wasn't her imagination; his eyes had definitely been purple!

*****

Beyond the door Tarelin undressed the boy, dropping the sodden clothes onto the floor where the water within seeped out to form a puddle.

“What do you think he has? It's nothing that Piama can catch is it?” said a worried Tarelin.

“No, it's just a fever, but it's his hands that worry me. I've never seen anything like them before. It looks like they've been burnt for a purpose.”

“But why would anyone want to do that? There's no reason for it.”

“I don't know. Maybe some religious ceremony?”

Tarelin stared down at all the various injuries, disgusted at what he saw.

“He must have taken a severe beating with all those bruises.”

“More like a fall,” said Bronwell.

Tarelin watched the old man with suspicion, there was something about him that made him feel uneasy in his presence.

Piama's muffled voice could be heard from behind the wooden door. “Father, I've left the towel and three jugs of water for you. If you need any more let me know, I'll be in the kitchen getting tonight's meal ready.”

Tarelin opened the door and gave her the drenched clothes.

“Put these to dry by the fire Piama.”

“Can you cure him?” she asked, feeling the wetness of the clothes on her outstretched arms.

“Bronwell says it's just a fever.”

“Right,” she said “these should be dry by morning.”

Tarelin bent down, collected the supplies and as he closed the door saw the old man take something out of his pocket.

“What's that?” Again the feeling of distrust rose in him. Damn their potions and secret ways.

“Gringe root, it will help with the fever,” Bronwell said, cutting off a piece with a small silver knife. He placed it in a small cup of water were it bubbled and turned a vivid orange colour.

“It looks foul and tastes worse, but it will break the fever. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.”

“Trust you,” Tarelin thought to himself, “About as far as I can throw the moon!”

The water cooled the child's skin as Tarelin sponged him down, but he still looked close to death. His teeth still chattering as if he had been plunged in the village stream in mid winter, but the flames of the fever still burned within his head. Drying him with the large towel, Tarelin desperately tried to warm him before placing him on the old bed.

“We need to get this into him.” said Bronwell as he lifted the boy's limp head and poured the orange mixture into the child's mouth. He had only taken a small sip when he started coughing, and then choking.

“What have you done?” Tarelin said anxiously, wondering if he had done the right thing in allowing the stranger to use the root. What if he had just poisoned the child?

“I told you it tasted foul. Don't worry this is a good sign.”

The coughing suddenly ceased as the boy's face began to show a healthier glow.

“He needs to sleep now,” the old man said as he tucked in and smoothed down the bed sheets.

“Tomorrow I'll see what I can do about those bruises, especially that head wound.”

As Bronwell left, Tarelin turned to the sleeping boy. Who was he? Where had he come from? And what had made those marks burnt into his hands?

*****

“Your Lordship, the boy has... escaped,” whimpered the shaking, prostrate guard.

“WHAT?” boomed the voice, echoing through the empty hall.

“I don't know how he did it. He was chained up and I was giving him some water, and then... he was gone.”

“I don't want excuses, you useless pile of filth! I WANT THAT BOY!”

A skeletal hand rose from the gloom, from its fleshless fingers a thin beam of green light erupted, spreading over the trembling form of the guard. His agonised screams filling the air as he burst into flames, with one last terrifying scream he was gone, leaving only a burnt shadow on the stone floor.

“Bring me the Master of the Red Blood Brotherhood. BRING HIM TO ME NOW!”

*****

A dirty-gloved hand felt inside the footprint. He had been here and not long ago. The torrential rain had nearly robbed him of this vital clue, but now the dark hooded figure was back on his trail.

“Thought you had been clever keeping to the stream hadn't you,” he muttered to himself. “But now there's no escape, the mud has become your betrayer.”

He thought back to when the Master Of The Red Blood Brotherhood had called for him for this special mission. One he could only entrust to no one except his main assassin.

“You must take this child alive. For this you will be well rewarded. Remember, this is a no kill mission. If the boy dies, you die. Everything else is expendable, do you understand?”

“Yes Master.”

The Red Blood Brotherhood was exceptional. If you required a killing, a kidnapping, or anything else you didn't want to soil your hands with, you employed them. Commoner or a king, it didn't matter, as long as the fee was paid in gold.

“The boy is in his teens, with deep red hair. He was in his Lordship's dungeon, but some fool allowed him to escape, for which he has been punished”

He shuddered; just the thought of his Lordship's presence filled the assassin with terror. He had seen the dungeons and what lay within them, their dark memories forever etched in his mind

“Here's a drawing of him, take note as you won't be taking this with you,” said the Master, thrusting a piece of parchment into his hands.

He stared at the drawing, burning the image of the young boy into his memory. This was a mission he couldn't turn down, he had no choice, the last brother who had refused was nothing more than a small pile of ash that his Lordship kept in his enormous hourglass. Now the Brotherhood members always obeyed his Lordship's commands, no matter what they were. Those who refused or failed, would forever mark time in that terrible hourglass, their burnt remains tumbling from chamber to chamber.

The Master had taken him to the Gateway, a huge stone arch that allowed the Brotherhood to quickly move vast distances via ancient magic. This was their deepest secret. No one but the Brotherhood could exit from the guild by it and they could only return on the completion of their mission or on the point of death. Only then would the magic words appear in their minds that allowed them to return, magic words that changed from assassin to assassin.

“Our greatest mages have located where the child appeared after he escaped. This will be your starting point. Do not fail us, otherwise his Lordship's hourglass awaits you”. The Master turned, raised his hand and pointed at the Gateway. “Denar Grath Xeran!”

Within the Gateway's entrance a grey mist swirled, through which the assassin entered without hesitation. Around him he felt a burning heat , but only for an instant and then he reappeared within a white, stone circle, surrounded by a huge wood. In the distance he heard the sound of thunder and pulled his hood over his head. He sniffed the air, a storm was coming and the hunt was on.

For hours he had tracked the boy. A broken twig here, some crumpled grass there, was all he required until the storm had hit. Then with the rain and the boy walking up a stream he had lost the trail, but only for an instant. Now his thoughts returned to the present. Up ahead he saw a dim light shining through the rain. Shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand, he saw the blurred outline of an inn.

“Yes, that's where he would be,” he said, smiling to himself as he thought of his reward.

Cautiously he moved forward, eyes constantly checking for any movement as he approached the inn. Slower now, he crept over to the window, raising his head over the cracked sill and peered inside. There by the light of the fire two men were talking, while a young girl watched them. He could see no sign of the boy; perhaps he was somewhere else inside the inn. The girl suddenly turned towards the window and he flinched back into the shadows. Had she seen him? Damn his curiosity.

*****

Tarelin and Bronwell sat at the long table, talking in whispers.

“Is he any better Father?”

“Bronwell says he should be fine now, there's nothing to worry about.”

His voice had a turn of sarcasm about it.

The old man just smiled. “My herbs and roots have never failed me yet.”

“There's always a first time,” Tarelin muttered to himself.

Piama was about to mention her own skills, but thought better. She had known Bronwell only a short time and didn't know if she could trust him yet. No, she thought, better to keep her secrets safe for now.

“It sounds like the storm is starting to blow itself out.”

She turned towards the window as something caught her eye. Piama was sure there had been something there. A shadow that had suddenly pulled back into the darkness. What had it been? Was it one of the foul beasts from the wood? She trembled at the thought. The travellers' tales now filling her head with monsters. Their long teeth snapping at her legs, their sharp claws reaching for her face. Closer and closer they came.

“Piama.”

She became aware her father was talking to her, taking her concentration away from the window and her imagination.

“Piama... what's worrying you?”

“Nothing, I just thought I saw something at the window.”

Tarelin rose, walked over to the window and rubbed some of the grime away with his sleeve.

The rain was still pouring, but he couldn't see anything else.

“Well whatever it was, it's not there now. You must have been seeing things.”

Piama noticed that Bronwell looked anxious as he drummed his fingers on the table.

“Maybe, but we should be on our guard. There's something about that boy that makes me nervous. The sooner we find out who he is and what he was doing out in the storm the better.”

Chapter Three – An Unwelcome Visitor

Holding his hood closer the assassin crept to the back of the inn. The stone chilled his fingers as he pressed his body against the wall, his soaking clothes clinging to his body like a second skin.

A lone light from a window shone out into the darkness. Peeking inside he saw a boy asleep and remembered the description his Master had given him. This was going to be easy, straight in and straight out. The window wasn't even locked, just jammed a bit, so trusting these country folk. Inserting a small crowbar between the sill and the frame he gently pressed down. There was a small crack and the window lifted.

Had the boy heard the sound? No, he hadn't moved. The Gods were still on his side, the Dark Gods he thought to himself and quietly chuckled.

Silently he climbed into the room, a dark shadow that moved closer to the sleeping figure. Reaching inside his cloak he removed a special cloth, soaked in sleep balm. Better to be safe than sorry. The assassin looked down as the sleeping boy twisted and turned as he slept. Dreaming, and from the look of it, not a pleasant one. He had seen many unusual things, but never hair like this, the colour of deepest Claret. What was so special about him that his Lordship would want? Soon he would have his reward. Just put the boy in to a deeper sleep with his special balm, wrap him up and out the window. There was nothing to stop him as he reached out with his cloth to close it over the boy's face.

*****

Anwin's dream had become more vivid. Unknown shapes and figures danced before his eyes. Colours of such brilliance filled his mind, only to fade into darkness. Above him, a gargoyle's face floated, shimmering in a red mist, its eyes glowing with a fearsome purple light, so powerful that it blinded him. Then it was gone, nothing but an empty landscape stretched before him. No colours now, only shades of grey.

Beneath him the ground shook as two huge slender rocks burst forth. On and on they rose, forever upwards. As old as time and covered with ancient symbols that glowed in the darkness, they called to Anwin. He couldn't stop himself; something was forcing him towards them. Suddenly, his arms flung themselves out from his sides, his hands brushing the stones' rough surfaces. No, not again. The dream was now turning into a nightmare, his hands burning with an intense cold. No, not again. Please not again! Take the pain away, please take the pain away and let the nightmare end!

Through the mist rose a gigantic hooded figure, its skeletal hands reaching for him. To his horror he could see that from its wrist, on a chain, hung Pup, his small body writhing in agony.

“Let him go, LET HIM GO!” Anwin screamed, but all he could hear was the terrified yelping of Pup.

Suddenly the chain pulled sharply upwards and the little figure moved no more. Lifeless, he hung at the end of the chain. Then the deafening laughter began, a hollow laughter that came from the very bowels of the earth.

Anwin tried to turn away from the terrible scene, but his eyes were transfixed as the shadow raised the chain to its unseen mouth and in one swift movement Pup was gone. Swallowed by the beast. No! Not this time. Stretching out his arm, the rage within Anwin burst forth. From his hand streaked a massive fireball, straight at the hooded creature, where it exploded in a mass of flames.

*****

Horrible high-pitched screams filled Anwin's head. Startled from his nightmare, he realised his nightmare had turned into reality. There before him, a figure engulfed in flame crashed around him. Where was this? How did he get here?

The figure frantically tried to extinguish the flames, throwing water from some jugs over its head as the flames burned on. Nothing else burned in the room, only the screaming figure. Then with a leap he saw the figure crash through the window and out into the howling storm. Anwin grabbed his bed sheet and wrapped it around himself as he ran towards the broken window. Outside he saw the screaming figure rolling in the mud, desperately trying to put out the flames that grew more and more intense, until they engulfed his writhing body in a brilliant white light.

From the figure came one scream.

“Caraloth et Deron!”

In a golden flash, the figure was gone, leaving behind the indentations of its tortured writhing; indentations now filling with rain.

*****

Piama was the first to the door, throwing it open. There, across the room, was the boy looking through the broken window, wrapped only in a bed sheet. The upturned room looked as if a tornado had hit it, but there was something else, an odd smell in the air, a sweet sickly smell she had never smelt before.

“What the...”

The boy swiftly turned towards her, his purple reptilian eyes glowed in the dark room. All the
colour drained from his face as the air in the room crackled with an unknown force as the mysterious patterns in his hands shone out with a mysterious purple glow. He raised an arm, pointing at her head with outstretched fingers.

“No!” she screamed, diving behind the bed.

Her scream shocked the boy from whatever force held him. His eyes dimmed to blue, the expression on his face turning to one of bewilderment as he stared down at his dimly glowing hands. Suddenly, he collapsed amongst the splinters of glass on the floor.

Tarelin rushed through the open doorway with a wooden club in his hand, expecting to find the room full of robbers, instead he saw Piama cradling the boy in her arms. The room was a mess, everything upturned, water all over the floor, the rain pouring through the smashed window.

She saw the anger flash in his face as he raised the club and threw herself over the boy, shielding him with her body.

“Put it down Father, he couldn't help it. Something was controlling him, look.”

She turned the boy's pitiful, tear stained face towards Tarelin. The sobbing child held out his burnt hands towards him and said one word.

“Pup.”

Note from author:- More to come later Just the first 3 chapters for now. All feedback welcome..