The Strangling

The older man stared at Bron in the faltering dawn light, measuring him carefully. He gripped Bron's hand fiercely, holding his attention, demanding it. “I just want my girl safe."

Bron nodded. The work-hardened hand of a blacksmith grips like no other, but Bron could not offer more positive words, because her safety was not something he could promise. Even with him by her side instead of Veldor, she was in mortal danger. They all were.

* * * *

She had not screamed at all, Veldor noted with some disappointment, while he reflected on her capture and the proud resistance she had shown over the course of the following night and day. He thought she might scream. Or beg, preferably. Even when he put her back into chains she just stared at him with reprehension in her eyes. He was hoping that fear, and anticipation of his more intimate touches, might have undone her, but no. She had heeded his words and conserved her energies, perhaps. It had deprived him of some entertainment value, though, and he was restless.

Tonight though, tonight she would be his. Then he would hear her moan and beg. He smiled to himself, savoring the thought of her soft, virginal body and what possession of it would open up for him—the path to power. He would take her maidenhood; he would be the one to lead her to her destiny. And he would sacrifice her, to gain everything he wanted, and more. When would he tell her about his intentions? While he rode her? Afterwards? Her innocence of the greater matters afoot was truly amusing. He tapped his chin with one finger and watched the fading beams of light that struggled through carved chinks in the old stone walls.

Dusk was close upon them. The light broke the gloom inside in wavering slats, moving over the table that groaned with dirty platters and remnants of food. The room smelt of ale and mead. Of rank meat. Of whores and the weary men who had relieved themselves of their lust and responsibility in this wretched place. He lifted his cup of ale and shook his head.

The inn was well hidden and suited his purposes, but it was far from comfortable. He watched Cale picking at a chicken bone across the table. In the background, two more of their small league of men still nursed their heads. They had drunk their fill and more the night before, celebrating the capture of the woman.

Cale's shirt was dirty and torn, his hair unkempt. His appearance bore the evidence of their time on the road, away from the comforts they had once known, seeking out this place and laying down their plans. Cale yawned. He had picked the bone clean and lifted another. Cale was always hungry for food. Veldor was hungry for something else. Power. He wanted more than this paltry mortal existence.

He stood and paced the worn flagstones in front of the struggling flames in the hearth. His mind worked through the plans once more, furtively alive with the possibilities ahead. Four nights. Four more nights until Samhain. The Strangeling hordes would be rising soon. He could sense the dark forms of the underworld shifting, making ready to break free of the spirit world to inflict their might and their dark will—strengthened by their vow and their union in darkness—on the living souls of Edren and beyond.

Bron, too, would be readying himself for what was to come; as sure as the sun was setting on the day. Bron. The name made him smile wryly. Bron the just, his teachers called him. Bron the deluded, more likely. They had been as brothers once, not so long ago. They had learned the order of the world, side by side. They had learned to become visiors, and to project. They had learned how to harness the invisible power sources at play in their world, summoning them through elder meditation and incantation, using them to create magic. The elder leaders had encouraged their closeness. They were both young men of singular talent and obvious destiny. But the two of them had disagreed on so much, and they were so different. The quiet, meditative life of an elder in service to the gods and their fellow man was not enough for Veldor. When Veldor and Cale had split from their elder teachers, Bron, weakling that he was, had stayed behind. This conflict would be Bron's undoing, Veldor was sure of it. Besides, Bron was as much driven by desire for the May-born woman as he was. Veldor wasn't about to let her go to Bron, though. No, she would be his and his alone.

He stopped in front of the meager hearth and rested his hands on the narrow mantel. What was Bron planning to do, he wondered? Some mystic parade of elders through the forsaken land, he supposed, with the May-born woman in tow. They thought they knew so much, but it was he alone who had fathomed the true nature of the dark underworld. The spirits that resided there understood basic acts, not the fanciful gestures of a bunch of old mystics. He couldn't take any risks, though. That's why he had secured the woman, the chosen one, ahead of time. And now he could feel their rising concern. He felt it closing on him all the while, and he relished the thought of the confrontation.

Behind him, Cale coughed to draw his attention.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the serving woman was hovering in the doorway, wiping her hands on her stained apron.

Veldor gestured with his hand. “Go on, speak."

She straightened her mobcap. “There's a visitor, sire, waiting to see you."

He smiled and turned back to Cale, who set down the picked bone.

Cale wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Who knows we are here?"

Veldor nodded. “Exactly. Bron's been close to my mind, however. I sensed him closing on us.” He looked at the woman, his anticipation building. “Did this visitor give a name?"

"He said you would know who it was."

Veldor broke into a laugh. “Bron it is then."

Cale rose from his seat, his expression concerned. “Does he know that she is here?"

"It is likely.” Veldor shrugged.

Cale looked uncomfortable. “Shall I send him on his way?"

Veldor shook his head. No doubt Bron had refined his visioning talents, just as he himself had. “No, he will know everything soon enough, if he doesn't already. Show him in."

Veldor would enjoy seeing the look on Bron's face when he refused to hand over Maerose and obey the word of the elders at Western Tor. He intended to enjoy it all, particularly possessing the pretty young wench. He signaled the other men in the room to leave, watching as they drew themselves up, slovenly and far too slow for his liking. He glanced back at Cale. “This might prove to be amusing.” He was certainly amused. He would savor the encounter, reveling in the upper hand he had in the situation.

Cale gave a nervous, unconvincing smile.

Veldor lifted his eyebrows in a sign of disapproval. Cale really had to overcome his meekness if he was to move forward. It was a deadly flaw.

Cale turned away, watching the door. Moments later, the woman led Bron in.

"Well, well, Bron, and what can we do for you?” Veldor eyed him up and down, his glance taking in the staff Bron held in his right hand and the knapsack on his back. His old adversary was traveling. His soul was cloaked in stoic humility, but that didn't fool Veldor for a moment.

Bron rested his knapsack on the floor by his feet. “Samhain is close at hand. Edren is in danger. I came so that we might share discussion on the matter."