Chapter Twelve: Nathye

It was noon by the time Nathye and his remaining retinue trotted to the trailhead. They had found an inn a few hours’ ride away, made camp, and cleaned up. While the men had slept with the horses, Ser Dafeld and Nathye each had a room. They were all well rested and well fed, horses and men alike.

Nathye had caught eyes darting to him. He knew losing their friend the day before was a blow, but they would come to understand that sacrifices were important and would value his leadership. For now, he tried to convey the calm that Ser Dafeld always projected. He had been right to question the acolyte and the guard. Leaders make hard choices.

As they approached, he saw a few people at the base of the trail. They were talking to someone who was sitting by a tree, eyes red as if he’d been crying. The man was dressed as a pilgrim. Another was coming from around the tree with a waterskin when Nathye’s column rode up. The others stopped their conversation at that, looking at Nathye.

The two soldiers Nathye had left behind were not present. Nathye wondered where they had wandered off to since he had their horses.

“Good day, my lord,” said one of the people who was standing, an older woman wearing a faded old dress and a shawl.

“Good day,” said Nathye.

“Are you planning on going up to the monastery, my lord?” she continued.

“Oh, Ryala preserve us, my lord, I would not climb up there,” said the sitting man. “The dead have begun protecting their own.”

“The dead do not attack,” said the woman.

Nathye dismounted, leaving his horse to one of the guards.

“Tell me what has happened,” said Nathye.

“My Lord—”

“I am the Duke of Bewic,” Nathye interrupted. “Call me Your Grace.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, rising to his feet.

The woman gave an awkward bob of her head. The people standing followed suit.

“Tell me,” Nathye instructed the man.

“My L—Your Grace, I gone climbed up to the monastery early in the morning. Me and Narder”—he pointed at the man who was bringing the waterskin—“carried my mother up there. I wanted to”—a sigh escaped him—“get a last talking-to from her if you know my meaning—”

“Get on with it,” said Nathye.

“Yes, My L—Your Grace. Anyway, when we got there, the gate was wide open. I never been up there, but Narder”—again he pointed at the man who ducked his head—“said ’tis typical of them, but there should be someone welcoming us. We called but no one except a couple of dallens came out to greet us.”

Nathye felt a shiver at the mention of that dreadful animal. He didn’t think he could ever eat another dallen if his life depended on it.

“Dallens?” asked Ser Dafeld, who had come up to listen.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said to Ser Dafeld.

“He’s not the Duke,” said Nathye.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Oh, just call the other My Lord,” said the woman, rolling her eyes at him.

“Oh. Yes, My Lord Your Grace.” No one dared correct the list of honorifics, probably fearing they’d grow like weeds. “So the dallens came out and sniffed us, but we called and called, and no one else did. So Narder”—again the affirmation of who Narder was, as if anyone had forgotten—“and me, we carried my mother into the monastery and dropped her, my poor, dead mother.”

He paused there as if waiting for the crowd’s raptured demand for an encore or for someone to buy him a beer as if he were at the local pub.

“Tell His Grace what you saw, you dolt!” the woman, again.

“His Grace? I thought It was Your Grace, My Lord.”

“Just tell us what you saw!” Nathye’s hand was on his sword, his mind conjuring ways to get this man to hurry up.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Well, His Grace, there were dallens everywhere milling about, and in the center of the courtyard, a big courtyard with some buildings, were the bodies. Little children with knives in their hands, just lying there all peaceful and bloody.”

“Knives?”

“Yes, His Grace, they had knives. And there was an empty robe in the middle between the children, and it had a sword.”

“The robe had a sword?”

“Yes, His Grace, as Zelat is my witness, it held a sword in its hand.”

Nathye looked to the thrice-named Narder, who solemnly nodded his head, then back to the speaker.

“And in front of them, His Grace, in front of them”—he was riling himself up now, getting into the swing of things, hands waving in the air, sadness about his dead mother forgotten—“were two people bowing in supplication, both dead.”

The sun was shining, the day warm, but Nathye’s whole body went cold. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his skin prickle. A wave passed over his body, head to toe, washing him to alertness.

“How do you know they were dead?” asked Ser Dafeld.

“We tried to move them, His Lord. “ The man had applied the lessons he had learned from the crowd, conjugating the title as a child would in school. “They just toppled over, both bloody,” the man said. “After that, Narder and I just ran down, leaving my poor mom with the other dead. Now, who will she give that last admonition to? She will haunt me, and when I pass on, she will forever remind me I had not come to talk to her when I was yet alive.”

Nathye turned away, Ser Dafeld in his wake.

“We need to get up there, see with our own eyes,” said Ser Dafeld.

Once more, they began the climb, leaving a man behind with the horses.

----------------------------------------

Rested, the daylight climb was simpler. Nathye was fueled by anger and resentment. Had the dead taken revenge on his guards? Had Roge? He led the way, Ser Dafeld dogging his steps, the rest of the men not far behind. Towards the top of the trail, they began encountering dallens chittering to themselves along the trail, sniffing around the rocks and pawing at the barren ground.

They arrived at the gates of the monastery to find them open, as the chatty idiot below had described. Walking inside the monastery, they beheld the clumps of dallens in every corner of the courtyard. At the center, exposed to the sun, with dallens running around and sometimes on top of them, were the welcomers.

The four children, each with a knife in his hand, were all arrayed with their heads towards the building at the top of the hill, legs toward the gates. The empty robe, lying between them, was set up the same way. Dallens were running over it, but they could easily see the blood covering it and the sword in its hand.

The two bodies before the group were on their side, one covered in blood from the throat down, the other with a bloody stomach.

Nathye felt the content of his stomach rise and, unable to stop himself, bent over and threw up. He heard a few of the men do the same. This was not natural. Their friends, his people, were brutally murdered. Were ghosts responsible for this?

Ser Dafeld was by him in an instant. “Your Grace, are you alright?”

Nate straightened up, taking a waterskin from one of the men and drinking to clean the taste from his mouth.

“Did the dead do this?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace. We are missing one of the acolytes.”

“Roge. I know,” Nathye’s mind was anxiously trying to reverse time to a glass of wine he had served his father.

“No. The one who was with the children.” Sar Dafeld turned to the men, “Search the dormitories, the kitchens, and every other area. Come back here when you are done.”

“We need to question these men,” said Nathye. “Help me carry them.”

Together, they grabbed one by the shoulders and started carrying him towards the building at the top of the hill.

----------------------------------------

The men found a dead body in their search, the young acolyte. Roge was nowhere to be found. They helped carry the two men to the top of the hill and into the central building.

“Let me speak to them, Your Grace. It is my responsibility as their commander.”

“Very well,” Nathye was tired, and had no desire to speak to any more dead.

Ser Dafeld took first one, then the other, into a room and closed the door. Both conversations were short. When he returned, his face was white, eyes compressed in thought.

“Well?” asked Nathye.

“I don’t know, Your Grace. One was killed by a dead man who was with the children. They all had knives. When he checked to see if Roge was there, the man woke and stabbed him.”

“It could have been Roge.”

“Maybe. The second saw an apparition drenched in blood standing over him. He doesn’t remember anything except pain after that.”

“So, he probably escaped. We need to find him.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I suggest we dispose of all the bodies, Your Grace. People know we were up here. We shouldn’t leave things like this.”

Nathye now cursed telling the pilgrims below who he was, but there was no helping it. “Do it. Throw them over the side.”

----------------------------------------

They descended back in silence. The only positive thing Nathye could say about this expedition so far was that they hadn’t lost any horses.

The pilgrims, curious, were all waiting below, along with a few more who had since arrived.

“Your Grace, Your Grace, what have you found?” the loquacious man approached, having been studiously tutored on formal etiquette while Nathye was gone.

“Neither the dead nor the gods have done this. It was done by the sword. There is a murderer or murderers loose. We have disposed of the bodies, though there are no acolytes left to cater to pilgrims.”

The mix of disappointed expressions warred with those curious about the news from the top.

“Has anyone else come or gone from the mountain since you arrived?” Nathye asked the crowd.

They all shook their heads, mutterings of “No, My Lord” and “None” coming from them.

“What of my mom, Your Grace?” the newly minted courtier spoke.

“She is still deceased. My men are bringing her down with them so that you may bury her with dignity. Now, we need to conduct a search.”

With that, Nathye went to the horses, leaving them staring after him.

“A search is a good idea, Your Grace,” said Ser Dafeld. “I recommend sending two men in each direction from here, a day’s ride at most. He did not have a horse and won’t get far.”

“Do it,” said Nathye, weariness washing over him once more. “We will ride back home and see what doom awaits us without that accursed word.”