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Authors: Brian Rathbone

Tags: #fantasy, #magic, #young adult, #young adult fantasy

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BOOK: Call of the Herald
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Unaware of where he was going, he let his
feet follow a path of their own choosing, permitting his
unconscious mind--rather than his conscious mind--to guide the way.
It was one of the few lessons his father had taught him: sometimes
the spirit knows things the mind cannot; never ignore the urgings
of your spirit.

When he reached the woods outside of town, he
barely recalled the walk. His feet continued to carry him into the
countryside, and he wondered--as he often did--if he was simply
fooling himself, assigning himself otherworldly powers rather than
admitting he shared his father's illness. In truth, that was the
crux of his life. Most seek answers to a myriad of questions, but
Nat was consumed by one question alone: Had his father been a true
prophet or a madman? As he found himself suddenly climbing over a
hedge of bramble, he was inclined to believe the latter, but then
the ground trembled and the air was split by a mighty thunderclap.
Leaping over the hedge, Nat moved with confidence and purpose,
suddenly trusting his instincts more than his senses. For the first
time in a very long time, he believed not only in his father, but
also in himself.

 

* * *

 

As the sun was sinking behind the mountains,
casting long shadows across the land, Catrin woke. She sat up
slowly, dizzy and disoriented, and put one hand out toward the
ground to steady herself; it found Osbourne's chest. He was
unconscious, his breathing shallow, but at least he looked no worse
than he had when she'd arrived. She hoped he was not seriously
injured. Her body ached as she moved, and she closed her eyes.
Drawing a deep breath, she tried to calm herself.

Moans broke the eerie silence, and Catrin
heard someone behind her gasp. She turned to see who it was, and
only then did she behold the devastation that surrounded her. The
clearing was a good bit larger than when she'd entered it; every
blade of grass, bush, and tree within a hundred paces had been
leveled. She stood, unsteadily, at the center of a nearly perfect
circle of destruction. All the debris pointed away from her, as if
she had felled it with a giant sickle.

Turning around slowly, she took in the awful
details. Supple stalks of grass had been so violently struck that
they were broken cleanly in half. In all her seventeen summers,
Catrin had never witnessed such a terrifying sight. Behind her
stood Nat Dersinger, a local fisherman who was thought to be
mentally unstable. He leaned on his ever-present staff, his jaw
slack, and made no move. The staff was taller than he was, half its
length shod in iron, which formed a sharp point. His wild, graying
hair stuck out in all directions, and his eyes were wide, making
him look every bit the madman some thought him to be. Though he was
of an age with Catrin's father, the lines on his face made him
appear much older.

Peten's horse lay, unmoving, in a tangle of
downed trees. Horrified, Catrin saw Peten's boots sticking out from
under the animal, and she feared him dead, but she could not make
herself move.

"Help, my leg is broken!" she heard Carter
shout, and she turned to see him struggling to get out from under
his own dead horse. Chad wandered aimlessly, followed by his
faithful mount, which limped badly.

"Gods have mercy. I bear witness to the
coming of the Herald. The prophecy has been fulfilled, and Istra
shall return to the world of men." The words poured out of Nat and
struck fear into those who heard them.

Townsfolk and farmers had begun to arrive,
having heard the blast and been guided by the shouting. They tended
the wounded, and word was sent to the Masters as well as the
parents of the students involved. People scrambled to help Peten
and the others, and many cast frightened glances at Catrin as they
passed. Osbourne regained consciousness, and a kindly old man
helped him to the edge of the clearing to await the Masters.

Few folk had the courage to speak to Catrin,
but those who did all asked the same question: "What happened?"

"I don't know," was the only honest answer
Catrin could give, but no one seemed to believe her. When her
father arrived, he ran to where she stood, tears filling his eyes.
Overwhelmed, she collapsed into his embrace. He hugged her and
tried to comfort her, but he seemed unable to find the right words.
Instead, he tied Salty to his saddle and pulled Catrin atop his
roan mare, and they rode home in cautious silence.

 

* * *

 

A pool of molten wax and a dwindling wick
were all that remained of Wendel Volker's candle, and he let it
burn. His eyes, swollen with tears, were focused beyond the blank
wall he faced. Raising Catrin alone had never been in his plans. He
had done the best he could without Elsa, but in Wendel's mind it
never seemed enough. If not for Benjin, he wasn't sure they would
have survived. All along, they had struggled, but now they faced a
danger far too great. The chill of fear crept up his neck--fear,
not for himself, but for his beloved daughter.

Remembering the damage in the clearing,
Wendel felt goose bumps rise on his skin. More disturbing than the
damage was the look in Catrin's eyes. She felt responsible and
guilty; that much was clear. Wendel tried to figure out what might
have happened, but he found no answers. Instead, he accepted the
fact that he might never know. What mattered was that people would
be angry, confused, and afraid; all of which put Catrin in danger.
Stronger and deeper than his greatest personal desire was the need
to protect his daughter. So powerful was this urge that he went to
where she slept and stood over her, watching her breathe.

"Help me be strong for her, my dearest Elsa,"
he said under his breath. He wept quietly. "If ever you've heard
me, hear me now. I can't do this alone. I need you. Catrin needs
you." Then he stiffened his jaw and firmed his resolve. "Watch over
her, my love, and keep her safe."

 

* * *

 

As darkness claimed the sky, Nat Dersinger
stood at the center of the clearing. All the others had long since
gone to their homes and were probably discussing the day's events
over their evening meals, but Nat tried to push that vision from
his mind. Such thoughts brought him only pain and misery, and this
was not a time he needed to be reminded of his loss. What he needed
was guidance on what to do next. The prophecies warned of
disastrous events, but they gave no indication of anything that
could be done to prevent the foretold dangers. There must be
something he could do, Nat thought, but he came to the same
realization he had come to in the past: It would take more than
just him. Somehow, he would have to convince those who had enough
power to make a difference. Given his past failures, he found it
difficult to be optimistic. Bending down, he pulled a blade of
grass from the ground and marveled at how cleanly it had been
broken. He let his mind wander for a time until something tugged at
his awareness and demanded his attention. A familiar yet
indefinable smell drifted on the breeze, and Nat's eyes were drawn
to the heavens. As a sailor, he knew the stars as friends and
followed their guidance, but on this night, they seemed almost
insignificant, as if their power were about to be usurped, their
beauty eclipsed. Nat had nothing more than his feelings to guide
him, and his thoughts ran in a familiar pattern. So many times his
instincts and gut feelings had caused him nothing but trouble. He
would spill his heart to save those who showed him only hostility.
"Why?" he asked himself for what seemed the thousandth time. But
then his familiar pattern changed, irrevocably, as he looked at the
blade of grass and the tangled mass of downed trees that lined the
clearing. It was proof. No one could argue it or claim that it was
a creation of his deranged mind. This was real and undeniable. For
the first time in more than a decade, he did not question
himself.

When he looked back to the sky, he believed
completely. His father had been right all along. There was little
consolation in this knowledge, for it foretold a difficult and
perilous future for all, but it was vindicating for Nat
nonetheless. As his thoughts wandered, he felt himself drifting
into a different state of awareness, his eyes fixed on the sky yet
focused on nothing. He felt himself being drawn upward, lifted to
the heavens. His eyes felt as if they would be pulled from their
sockets, so strongly did the sky seem to reach for them, longingly
and insistent. The vision began more as a feeling than images in
his mind; he felt small and afraid in the face of a coming storm.
Lightning flashed across his consciousness, and thunder rattled his
soul. From the skies came a rain of fire and blood, and the land
was rent beneath his feet. A single, silhouetted figure stood
between him and the approaching inferno. Nat reached out, his hands
clawing toward salvation, but his only hope faded along with the
vision.

Lying faceup at the center of the grove, just
as Catrin had found herself, Nat drew a ragged breath. Sweat ran
into his eyes, and his heart beat so fast and hard that he thought
it might burst. He realized then that it might be better if he were
truly mad.

Chapter 2

 

If peace cannot be made, then peace shall be
seized.

--Von of the Elsics

 

* * *

 

As daylight streamed in through the open
window, Catrin woke from a restless sleep, and she struggled to
bring herself fully awake. Nightmarish visions plagued her slumber.
Twisted dreams were so vivid that she had trouble distinguishing
which events were real and which were nightmares. She pulled
herself from her sweat-soaked linens, hoping the attack on Osbourne
had been nothing but a dream. Sleep still filled her eyes and
muddled her thoughts as she padded into the small common room she
shared with her father.

He had left water in the washbasin for her,
but that had been some time ago, and the water was no longer warm.
Catrin tried to wash away the sweat from her fevered dreams,
wishing that she could scrub away the horrors she felt closing
around her, waiting to strike. The cold water helped clear the haze
from her mind, allowing her to separate fantasy from reality. Her
aching body brought her to a chilling realization.

It was real. The attack, the explosion, the
strange way she was treated were all real!

On shaking legs, she dressed in her leathers
and homespun, tears welling in her eyes as she imagined the
consequences. Her life would be forever changed, and depression
overwhelmed her. In an effort to feel normal, she got ready to do
her chores. She donned her heavy boots and worn leather jacket,
which had been left by the fire to dry. The jacket was covered in
creosote stains and had a host of minor rips and tears, but she
insisted on wearing it until it fell apart completely. Like a
cherished companion, it had been with her on many an adventure, and
she was loath to abandon it.

After she strapped on her belt knife, she
gathered her laundry, a washboard, and some bits of soap. If she
wished to have something comfortable to sleep in, she would need to
get her things hung to dry. Not even raising her head as she
stepped from the cottage into the barnyard, she let her feet carry
her across the familiar distance. It was a short walk to the river,
and she had a well-worn path to follow.

Turbulent thoughts rattled her mind, and when
she reached the river's edge, she did not recall most of the walk.
Kneeling on the shore, she dipped her nightclothes into the clear,
frigid water, which numbed her fingers. She applied a bit of soap
to the garments and scrubbed them vigorously on the washboard, but
then she heard shouts coming from the barn. Throwing her garments
into the dirt, she sprinted to the barn, fearing someone was hurt.
The sound of several voices shouting carried across the distance,
which alarmed her even more since her father and Benjin were
normally the only ones about.

She stopped short when a familiar-looking man
backed out of the barn, waving his arms in front of him, and he
came close to falling over backward. Two more men followed, both in
similar states of retreat, and Catrin was shocked to the core of
her being when her father charged out next, looking like a man in a
murderous rage. Benjin swarmed out at his side, his pitchfork
leveled at the retreating men.

"You expect us to live with that abomination
in our midst?" one man shouted as he backpedaled. "That hussy damn
near killed m'boy. He might die yet from what she did to 'im."

"You've no proof of that, Petram, nor do you,
Burl, nor you, Rolph. You'll take yourselves off my property this
instant, or so help me . . ." he said through clenched teeth; then
he actually growled at them. A threatening step forward sent the
other men scrambling back. Benjin had not said a word, but the look
in his eyes made it clear he would not hesitate to stick them with
his pitchfork if they persisted, and it appeared as though the men
might leave before any blood was shed.

Massive waves of fear, embarrassment, and
guilt washed over Catrin, freezing her in place. She wanted to flee
or scream but could do neither. Instead she stood still as a stone
and watched the events unfold, hoping to remain unseen, but it was
not to be. The men spotted her and glared.

"What are you staring at, you boiling little
witch?" one man shouted, and Catrin recognized him as Peten's
father, Petram. She also recognized the fathers of the other boys.
As they scowled at her, she quailed; the hatred in their eyes made
her feel small and dirty.

"You will burn for this, Catrin Volker!" Burl
shouted over his shoulder, but his speech was cut short when Benjin
swung the pitchfork handle at his head, and the three men fled.

"The council will hear of this!" Petram
shouted.

BOOK: Call of the Herald
10.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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