Chapter 4

She didn’t hear the howling of the winds or the hard tapping of the rain against the trees, so intent was Khamsin upon her incantations. She knelt before the ancient circle on the floor of Bronya’s cave. She couls sense a power in the stones beneath her. She could feel it in her blood. She was raised here and nurtured on it.

Nixa sat impassively on all four paws and watched the rain as cats often do. The twitching of her long tail was the only sign of her discomfort with the elements. Her large yellow eyes stared, now at the twirling wet leaves on the edge of the clearing, now back at her mistress, solemn and motionless as she had been since their arrival at the cave this afternoon. Finally, feigning boredom, she stretched out her front paws and yawned, letting her head come slowly down to rest against her own softness.

The storm died and the two moons rose full before Khamsin sat back with a sigh and ran her hands through her hair. It had been a lengthy preparation, an elaborate entry but she was there. She could feel it. The sword hung in midair before her as if suspended by invisible strings, as proof of her expertise. It was also a safe stopping place for she was tired. And tired minds could make mistakes.

She curled up onto her straw bed and felt the weight of Nixa against her as she found a comfortable place to share the night. Nixa never came to bed when Tavis was there.

Tavis. She left him in such turmoil. She hoped the short note tucked into his tobacco jar would suffice ’til she came home. He would have to understand that things such as these were things she had to do, just as he had to work with his anvil. A craftsman, he often called himself. A practitioner of an art. Well, she was a craftsman, too, and one whose skill only increased with knowledge.

She rose before the sun the next morning, disappointed to hear the light tapping of rain on the trees outside. She wished, only weeks before, for cooler weather. And now all they seemed to get was rain.

She let herself slip into a trance. She recited the incantations again, feeling her mind more in control that she ever felt it before. Her extra sessions in the kitchen pantry paid off. The ancient spells rolled off her tongue with an easy fluidity. The sword glowed with blue pulsations as the words were uttered, given life.

Then there was a bright flash of light and she was finished. The spell for her sword was complete.

She looked around the large room for Nixa, feeling guilty at perhaps startling the little feline with all her pyrotechnics. Nixa had no mystical talents herself, no more than any average feline. It took Khamsin several years before the small cat willingly accepted their shared mental contact. And only lately was she willing to sit quietly by as Khamsin worked her mage circle and runes stones.

Seeing no sign of her cat, Khamsin stood a bit shakily and walked towards the entrance of the cave. The light outside was dim for mid-afternoon, which her inner sense told her it must be. She listened to the sounds of a distant storm. Thunder rumbled, though she saw no lighting.

But she did see a something gray slink and pause, slink and pause through the underbrush. Nixa, stalking…Khamsin lightly touched the cat’s mind. A cricket.

She shook her head, a small smile on her face and went back inside the cave. There was still one more thing she had to do.

She dusted off the mage circle and drew a new one, this time with her sword at the center. Bronya had been insistent about the creation of the sword. Khamsin felt sure part of the reason was that it would become a source of magic she could draw on.

Closing her eyes, she reached mentally for her warding stones -

- and a bolt of light flashed painfully into her mind.

She cried out. And in that brief moment of intense pain, she knew she was too late. More than a week too late. The tampering of her cupboard had been the first warning, the first sign. Others had followed, but she had kept her promise to Tavis and not returned to the cave, nor the powerful mage circle etched in its floor.

While she contented herself with twirling crockery, unspeakable evil advanced towards the village.

She shot to her feet and ran for the entrance of the cave.

"Nixa!" she called, her voice filled with terror. The cat streaked from the underbrush, already deeply shadowed by the dark sky overhead.

But it wasn’t a sky darkened by any natural storm. And the sounds that met Khamsin’s ears were not the rumblings of thunder nor the howl of the winds. But the crackling of burning timber and the screams of people in terror.

She stood frozen at the entrance. The sky was black with smoke, the air acrid. Then she bolted and ran wildly through the forest towards the village. Thorns and brambles tore at her skirts and ankles, searing her flesh. Branches, still wet from the morning’s light shower, whipped at her back. She stumbled, once, twice over half-buried boulders slippery with moss but continued onwards, her hands out before her, a strangled cry in her throat.

She burst out of the woods into the clearing just before the village. She slowed in her steps as the horror of the scene lay before her. Everywhere things burned, smoldering. Thatched roofs caved in, timbers jutting awkwardly through broken walls. She passed by an upended cart, nets trailing from beneath its shattered boards. Dead fish, with white, bloated bellies lay in a pool of watery blood.

She saw no one, nothing alive.

She quickened her steps towards a familiar stone fence. Its wooden gate hung at a crooked angle. She thrust it aside as she entered, calling out Rina’s name and the names of the children.

She found Aric slumped over the large table in the main room, a spear in his back, his lifeless hands reaching out towards...

Shaken, she glanced at the end of the table. Nothing was there, at least, not anymore. By the hearth were the bodies of Cavell and Lissa, their throats slit, their dark eyes staring into eternity. A gasp of horror escaped her lips and Khamsin felt her knees buckle. She reached down to gently close the children’s unseeing eyes with a touch and her hand trembled uncontrollably. Her voice was strained as she whispered a departing prayer to Ixari.

Rina and Taric she found in the kitchen, huddled together in the corner. Taric’s throat, too, was slit. The shaft of a spear protruded from Rina’s chest. Her white apron, painstakingly embroidered only weeks before, was stained a deep red from the flow of thick blood that drained into her lap. Her left hand still held her son’s lifeless ones; her right, a long scrap of dark fabric, bordered in red. Colors worn by South Land Hill Raiders.

The new baby’s cradle lay nearby. It was empty, its quilted coverlet that Khamsin had made discarded on the floor. Hill Raiders often stole infants and raised them as their own.

Khamsin touched the edge of the cradle and suddenly sobbed in great gulps. She clasped her hands over her mouth, unable to contain the emotions within. She lunged for the back door, her only thought now that of her own home. And of Tavis.

The smithy burned fiercely as she approached her front door of her house. A sudden gust of heat almost sent her reeling backwards but she pushed against the heavy oak partition, crying out at the top of her lungs.

"Tav-is!" She ran to the kitchen. Her cupboards were stripped and emptied. She rushed back to the main room and into their bedroom. The bed linens were torn off and the mattress slashed with great, long strikes as someone looked for hidden gems. But other than that, the room was empty.

She raced down the short hall, stopping only when she reached her cupboard. The Book was with her, as well as the Divining Cloth and several of her potions. All she left behind were some minor amulets and charms. She was surprised to see that they were still there, the cupboard intact. The Hill Raiders, too, had their superstitions.

She heard the creaking and groaning of the burning timber outside as the forge began to crumble. There was a great crash just as she exited through her front door. She watched, dazed, as the entire back wall of the smithy caved in, sending a shower of flames and sparks high into the air. If Tavis was in there...

The thought was too horrible for her to even imagine. She leaned weakly against the low stone wall in front of the house. He couldn’t have been. He was strong, one of the strongest men in the village. Surely, he fought the Raiders successfully or found some way to escape. She forced herself to stand and head back to the center of the village.

She was only a few houses away from the buring smithy when a scuffling noise behind her caused her to stop and turn. She recognized Enar, one of the Covemen. His pale face was covered with soot and blood and in one hand he clutched a short dagger.

"Witch!" He limped towards her. "Have you come back, witch, to see if we all died? Where’s that cat of yours? Or was she one of the demons you sent to us?"

Khamsin stood, horrified. "Enar, it’s me, Khamsin, Tavis’ wife. Where is Tavis, Enar? Where is he?"

"Don’t you know?" He flashed the blade before her. She stepped backwards. "He’s dead, like all the rest you abandoned. Look!" And he flung his arm out to the left, pointing towards the large trees near the dockyard. A body dangled from a rope tied to a high branch.

Choking back a cry, Khamsin ran towards the docks, recognizing the dark blue trousers, leather apron and high leather boots of the Smith. But before she could reach him hands grappled out towards her, rough hands, smelling of salt and ashes and death. They clamped over her mouth and around her shoulders and waist. She was dragged downwards and she landed on her back, small stones grinding into her skin.

"Witch!"

She heard the cry, recognizing the faces of Gilby and Turpin and Enar, all Covemen. They tore roughly at her thin bodice and layered skirts.

She flailed at them, tried to push them away, then felt a presence burst into her mind: angry, frightened.

Very close...

Nixa.

She balled her hands into fists, pummeled them against arms slick with blood. Go! she commanded the cat. The witch’s demon cat. Run! Safety! Be safe!

A distorted view of herself, struggling on the ground flitted through her mind. Then greenery, scrub brush. Her contact with the cat faded.

Someone grabbed her by the hair and she cried out in pain and fright. There was the flash of a knife and the pain on her scalp was gone, as was most of her hair. Another dull flash of silver and the blade turned towards her throat. It was only then she came to her senses and fought for her life.

Swiftly, she raised her knee up into Turpin’s groin. He collapsed back against the stocky Enar. She rolled to one side as Enar reached over his groaning companion, but his grasp fell short. Her shorn hair no longer provided the hand hold it did before, when it fell almost to her waist.

In one movement, she was on her feet. She lashed out with her forearm at Gilby, fist closed, just as she had learned to many years ago in the mock battle-games she played as a child.

It was only the glare of Enar’s dagger that at last quelled her desperate efforts.

She held her hands out before her, her breathing ragged. "Enar, this is madness."

"No, this is revenge for what you’ve brought upon us." He took the rope Gilby held out to him. "What the Hill people did to Tavis, we’ll do to you."

"I’m not a witch, Enar!"

"No, even your husband knew that. Sorceress, he called you. Did you know that? He tried to warn us.

Said you’d run off. To practice your sorcery. Then the Hill Raiders came from the south. We know it’s Tarkir’s spawn, the infernal Lucial, you pray to now."

"That’s not true!"

A sound in the distance caused both men to hesitate and exchange glances. "Raiders. Coming back,"

Enar said in a hushed voice.

Gilby nodded. "For her."

"Then we’ll give her to ‘em."

Khamsin screamed as they grabbed her. She flung her arms wildly in an effort to break free of their hold, even if only for a short time. It was all she would need to summon an elemental, something she would never have done in the village before. But the village no longer existed. And the men who roughly held her small body had every intention of killing her.

Desperately she shoved against them. Gilby stumbled and her left hand was free. She cupped it against her chest quickly then flung it outwards, screaming the incantation at the top of her lungs. Flames like fireflies danced on the ground around Gilby’s boots. The thin Coveman tripped on his own feet as he scrambled backwards.

"You filthy bitch!" Enar slapped her hard across the face and this time it was Khamsin who stumbled, wrenching her arm as the stocky man still grasped her firmly. He threw her to the ground face down and clamped his boot hard against her back. He grabbed first one wrist, then another. She cried out as he forced her arms backwards, almost pulling them out of their sockets.

"Scream, witch!" he bellowed as he lashed her hands together. "Scream while you die!"

"Enar!" It was Gilby. He clawed at the older man’s trouser leg. "They’re almost here!"

The sound of hoof beats was getting closer.

The Coveman stood tensely for a moment, hatred glittering in his dark eyes. Then he spat on the ground.

"Come on!" he ordered gruffly, grabbing Turpin by the scruff of his neck. "Gilby, take his arms. Let’s get out of here." The men ran, dragging a limping Turpin between them.