Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn (49 page)

“Whose? Falyn’s?” Dayn asked.

“No.”

“Then whose?”

“A person whose name my father said you gave
him,” Sheireadan said.

Dayn was taken aback. “I didn’t give your
father any names. How could I? There aren’t any names to give.”

Sheireadan nodded. “I figured you didn’t, but
I wanted to hear it from you anyway.”

“Well, you’ve heard it. Now what?”

“Now nothing.”

“Well thank you very much,” Dayn said. “I’m
sure your sister will thank you too when she’s watching me burn
alive in the town square!”

“I won’t let that happen,” Sheireadan
said.

“What, the sister part, or the burning
part?”

“The sister part.”

Dayn felt relieved, at least for that. “Thank
you,” he said.

Sheireadan stared at the floor for a long
awkward moment, then stepped toward the door. “I’d better go. I’m
not supposed to be here.”

“Wait,” Dayn said. “Why did you really
come?”

Sheireadan shrugged, but did not turn to face
him. “To clear my conscience, I guess. But it’s probably too late
for that.”

“The only one who has to worry about “too
lates” is me,” Dayn said.

“No,” Sheireadan replied. “Not just you.” He
picked up the lantern and placed a hand on the latch. “Don’t lose
faith, Dayn,” he said quietly. “It’s all you’ve got left.” Then he
exited the room, leaving Dayn in darkness again.

Dayn stepped toward the plate of food
Sheireadan had left, realizing he might as well take one last meal,
though he had no appetite for it. But the floorboards beneath his
feet suddenly lifted and fell, sending a wave of nausea to his gut.
He dropped to his knees, gripping the floor as swirls of light
flickered behind his eyelids.

A vision formed in his brain, sending new
dread to his heart. The mountain was awakening, and judging by the
looks of it, he wasn’t the only one who would be meeting their fate
this day.

****

Reiv rode like a madman, dodging piles of
forest debris, soaring over trees that had crashed to the road. The
ground rumbled, opening steamy chasms through the tangle of woods
on either side of him. But he refused to turn back. No matter the
risk, he had to reach Dayn before it was too late.

He cursed his own stupidity. Why had he not
paid heed to the visions Agneis had given him? They were roadmaps
of events, he now realized, each one leading to a different future.
He had possessed the ability to study them all along, but instead
of recognizing them for what they were, he had suppressed them. The
goddess had told him he had to understand his own destiny before he
could inspire a brighter future for others. If only he had
listened! But he hadn’t. Instead he had jumped from one path to
another, never choosing, always going where others willed him to
go. And it was because of this that Dayn was in the predicament he
was now.

Reiv spurred the horse on faster, but then he
spotted a wide chasm straddling the road ahead. Common sense told
him to stop, but the urgency of his mission refused to consider it.
Reiv leaned into the horse and screamed it onward. He closed his
eyes.
Please, dear gods, give us wings.

The horse took a sudden leap, and for a
moment Reiv thought they truly had sprouted wings. The air whistled
past his ears, the pounding of hooves momentarily silenced. Reiv
kept his head down, waiting for the landing that seemed to take
forever. At last the horse’s hooves hit the dirt, nearly jarring
him from her back, but she galloped on, barely breaking stride.
Reiv pressed his cheek to her neck, whispering a prayer of
gratitude.

****

Dayn was yanked from the floor and shoved
toward the door. He hadn’t heard anyone enter the room; he had been
too ill to think of anything but his roiling stomach and spinning
head. He was thrust into daylight. The pain of it sent his senses
reeling. Rough hands grabbed him as if to steady him, but he
quickly found himself shoved to the ground instead.

Dayn struggled to his knees, but he could not
gain his balance. He dry-heaved into the dirt.

Laughter sounded around him. “Scared as a
rabbit,” an amused voice said.

Dayn spat the foul taste of bile from his
mouth and again attempted to rise. A hand jerked him up. “Get on
with ye,” its owner said.

Dayn glanced at the group of ruffians that
surrounded him, then at the alleyway just ahead. He knew it would
lead him directly to the town square, and from there, the stake. A
drone funneled down the passageway toward him, the voices of a
thousand people waiting for his death.

With a gruff command Dayn was ordered to
walk. He shuffled his feet forward, but his legs felt as if they
had turned to liquid. He drew a calming breath, trying to muster
his strength, then lifted his head and straightened his spine. His
legs may have felt like jelly, but he would meet his accusers
walking like a man.

The alleyway was long and narrow. As Dayn
neared the end of it, the noise from the square became almost
deafening. Spectators turned in Dayn’s direction, then let out a
whoop. A wave of cheers echoed through the crowd. Over the sea of
heads looming before him, Dayn could just make out the tip of the
stake where he would soon be tied. For a moment he thought to turn
and bolt, but he knew such an attempt would be futile. With walls
at his side and goons at his back, there was no place to run.

As he stepped into the square, spectators
heckled him and shuffled aside, opening a narrow pathway to the
pyre. Dayn made his way slowly down it, keeping his eyes ahead of
him rather than on the hostile faces lining the walkway. But as he
stared forward, a far worse sight met his eyes: the stake. The
horrid thing was tall and dark and surrounded by a massive pile of
split wood and dried kindling.
Don’t look at it
, he told
himself.
Anywhere but there
. He forced his gaze past the
stake, but found himself staring into the faces of those who had
ordered him there instead. On a viewing platform, close enough to
enjoy the show, but a safe distance from the impending flames, sat
the brown-robed members of the Vestry. At their sides and behind
them, an assortment of religious elders and upper-class dignitaries
could be seen. Lorcan was there, of course, his dark eyes
glistening with anticipation. Sheireadan sat next to him, but
clearly he did not share his father’s sentiment; his face was as
gray and motionless as a statue. Dayn scanned the rest of the
spectators on the platform. To his profound relief, there was no
sign of Falyn.

The crowd jostling on either side of him
sneered and spat as he continued toward the pyre, but from within
the confusion he detected a familiar voice raised in his
defense.

“Let the boy go, ye fools!” it shouted. “He’s
committed no sin. It’s the rest of ye that will have Daghadar to
answer to!”

Dayn turned his eyes in time to see Jorge,
the blacksmith, shouldering his way through the crowd. The smith
broke through the line and hurried to Dayn’s side.

“Jorge,” Dayn said. “Oh, Jorge.” Tears welled
in Dayn’s eyes. Over the years, Jorge had been his one true friend
in Kiradyn. The man had offered Dayn sanctuary in his blacksmith
shop on more than one occasion, and had never failed to offer Dayn
kindness and advice when no one else would.

Jorge grabbed Dayn’s shoulder and gave it a
squeeze. “I’m here for ye boy,” he said. “I’m here for ye.”

The men at Dayn’s back tried to move Jorge
aside, but the tough old smith would have nothing of it. “Get your
stinkin’ hands off me,” he growled, “or ye’ll find your head across
my anvil and your horses lame for want o’ shoes.”

The guards relented, but whether it was fear
of the anvil, or the fact that the only smith in town was
threatening to deny them future services, was not clear.

Dayn glanced at Jorge from the corner of his
eye. “What am I going to do, Jorge? What am I going to do?”

“Don’t know there’s much ye can do,” Jorge
said grimly. “They’re fools, all of ‘em.”

A rotted piece of fruit sailed from the
crowd, pelting Dayn on the side of the head. He raised his hand to
the sting, but kept his eyes forward, pretending not to care.
Jorge, however, was incensed. “What 'er ye doin!’” he hollered at
the assailant, but the only response he received was increased
agitation from the mob around them. More and more vegetation flew
in Dayn’s direction, but when rocks started being hurled, Dayn
became more concerned for Jorge’s welfare than his own.

“Jorge. Go,” he insisted. “It’s not safe for
you here.”

Jorge started to protest, but Dayn stopped in
his tracks and gave him a shove. “I said go! I don’t want you
here!”

Jorge looked hurt, but then he seemed to
understand. “I’ll not let Kiradyn forget the terrible injustice
they did to ye today, boy. I swear it.”

Dayn felt a lump in his throat. “Go, Jorge.
Please”

Jorge nodded, then turned and was swallowed
by the crowd.

Back to ToC

Chapter 41: Fire and
Brimstone

T
he clansmen tore
down the hillside, the silhouette of the city at last in their
sights. No hint of smoke was rising over the rooftops, but the sun
was high, and there was still much ground to cover before they
reached the square.

The roadblocks the rescue party had met
during their frenzied journey had cost them valuable time. The
chasm that straddled the road had proved to be too long to go
around, and so they had been forced to abandon the road and go
cross-country instead. It had slowed their pace considerably; the
forest was thick and tangled and difficult to navigate. But still
they had pressed on. At last they broke through the trees and into
an open meadow, and that was where they were now, careening down
its slope toward Kiradyn.

Alicine peeked around her uncle’s back toward
the city looming before her, and could not help but recall the last
time she had seen it. It had been on their way to the Summer Fires
Festival, and she and her family had stopped on the hillside to
take in the view. That was to have been a happy day, she realized,
but fate had dealt them a blow instead. But before she could ponder
the fates further, the mountain range at their backs sent up a
deafening roar. As one, she and the clansmen swiveled their heads
to see a billow of smoke rising from the tallest peak.

“The mountain’s erupting!” Alicine cried.
“We’ll never reach him in time!”

“The hell we won’t,” Haskel said, and
screamed the horse onward.

****

Shrieks of shock and terror ricocheted
throughout the town square as all eyes shot toward the mountains.
Smoke could be seen mushrooming from the tallest summit, expanding
in every direction as it billowed into the atmosphere. Lighting
crackled within dark, roiling clouds; thunder split the air then
rumbled across the land.

Dayn turned with the rest of the crowd to
gawk at the terrible sight. Though his illness had given him
warning, seeing it with his eyes was so much worse than seeing it
with his mind. People began to panic, shoving him this way and that
as they scrambled past him. For a moment he thought the pandemonium
might offer him an escape from the pyre, but a voice suddenly
boomed, stopping everyone in their tracks.

“Be still!” the voice commanded. “Be still I
say!”

Dayn’s hopes fell as he, along with everyone
else, turned to the face behind the voice: Lorcan. The man was
standing like a god on the viewing platform, his hands raised.

“My friends. Hear me,” he shouted.

The hysteria of the crowd began to subside,
but waves of anxious voices still rolled throughout.

“Do you not see?” he said. “It is but a scare
tactic, a last-minute attempt by the demon to escape his fate!”

Attentions shot from Lorcan to Dayn, who was
now standing, unprotected, in their midst. Voices rose around him.
“Yes, he’s the cause of this! Quick! Get him to the fire!”

Dayn felt himself being grabbed from all
sides and shoved toward the pyre, but this time he had no intention
of going without a fight. He kicked his feet and swung his fists.
He cursed and dug in his heels. But it did no good. A sudden blow
to his gut sent him doubled over and plummeting to the ground.
Before he could think, what felt like a hundred arms lifted him up
and passed him over the heads of the crowd toward the pyre.

“Burn him…burn him…burn him!” people chanted.
“Destroy the demon!” others cried.

Dayn was dragged up a scaffold of steps and
down a short boardwalk leading to the pyre. He tried to twist away,
but his back was quickly slammed against the stake. Ropes were tied
to his wrists and bound behind him. He jerked and yanked, but more
ropes were brought, binding him at the ankles, waist, and neck.
Before long, he could barely move at all.

Dayn’s eyes darted toward the wood piled
beneath his feet, then at the mountain smoking in the distance. “I
haven’t done anything!” he screamed. “Listen to me! The mountain is
going to erupt whether I’m dead or not.” But no one was of a mind
to listen; they were too busy chanting his death.

“Executioner, bring the torch,” Lorcan
commanded above the roar.

Dayn strained in an attempt to see Lorcan,
but the ropes at his neck made it impossible.

The executioner, cloaked and hooded in black,
stepped between the pyre and the crowd. A flaming torch was in his
hand. He held it high for all to see. But then the earth rumbled
again, sending chunks of buildings tumbling to the cobbled streets
below. Screams resonated throughout the square. A few people
grabbed their children and began shoving their way toward the
exits, but the majority pressed closer in a heightened state of
hysteria.

“Do it now!” Lorcan shouted at the
executioner. “Before it’s too late!”