Scatha Rescues Kieron from the Red Robes

This isn't quite finished.....

The Dying Village

The Danann Warrior twitched the reigns of Dorchateine and he stopped in the centre of the village square, hooves chaffing the dust into little clouds. The cowled hood moved, hidden eyes scanning the quiet houses and shops. Nothing else moved in the street, but here and there a pale face peered from a window, or a curtain twitched almost convulsively. Not even a bird sang in the bent, brown leafed trees in the centre of the square. Wrongness hung heavy in the air.

As the Danann swung down from the saddle, a door at the northern end of the square creaked open slowly. Snatching up the reigns in a leather gloved fist, the Danann marched smartly across the square towards the opening door. A grey faced woman with lank hair and dull eyes peered round the door. Her face was almost expressionless in a hopeless way, as if the worst in her life had happened already and she was just waiting for an end to it all.

The Danann stopped short a few feet in front of her, but despite the distance the black swathed figure seemed to loom over the woman. The woman looked up as if trying to find the face inside the cowl of the cloak, but her demeanour was too slack for her to seem afraid. The Danann pushed back the hood to reveal her face. Long black ringlets tumbled around her heart-shaped face, accentuating the strong slant of her high cheek -bones. Her green eyes were too hard for her to appear ladylike in spite of the ringlets and the fine silk of the cloak, the eyes of a veteran soldier in fact. Her skin was lightly bronzed, but smooth and faultless after the manner of all Tuatha De Danann. She appeared to be very young still, perhaps little more than 20 summers, but the depth of her eyes told a different story.

"Greetings Mistress, I am Scatha Lachlasair. I require lodgings for the night at least, perhaps for some days," she said in a low, husky voice. She spoke softly and quietly, but her words carried easily on the stagnant air.

"Lugh bless you, My Lady. I offer you the hospitality of my husbands house, for as long as you wish to remain among us here," She inclined her head in what may have once been a gracious gesture, but now appeared tired.

"Dana bless you, Mistress. May it please the gods that I have your name?" Scatha asked.

"My name is Tala Mac Nee, My Lady. Tala Mac Nee," she sounded almost puzzled at the sound of her own name. Suddenly she clapped her hands, and Scatha gave the area a quick suspicious scan with her eyes. Outwardly she didn’t even seem to take note of the noise.

Two boys came running from around the side of the House, boys of about ten years who were ash blonde and pasty faced. Their eyes were slightly overlarge and wide, but they were as dull as Mistress Mac Nee's. They took Dorchateine by the reigns and walked toward the wide stable doors to the left of the Inn with their heads down and not a single glance in Scatha's direction.

As Scatha followed Mistress Mac Nee into the Inn, her skin felt a little cold from the strangeness of the town. Mistress Mac Nee walked on in front of her, leading her up a set of stairs after passing through a common room which was quiet as a grave, despite there being two or three people sat close to a small fire clutching ale. They stared into the bottom of their tankards and paid no heed to her passage through the room, even ignoring each other in much the same manner.

At the top of the stairs Mistress Mac Nee walked along a narrow corridor and stopped at the very end. She opened the door there and waited for Scatha to walk before her. It was obvious at first glance that this was the finest room in the house, it had a wide bed on a strong wooden frame, with engravings carved on the corner pieces of the short posts and on the head and foot board. The covers were embroidered and the curtains were heavy. There was also a dressing table with a large oval mirror and a tall wardrobe. But everything in the room was covered with a layer of fine dust, and the air was stale as if the windows had not been opened in some time.

"The boys will be up with your luggage just shortly, My Lady. I've no private dining room, but I'll have..."she hesitated a moment then and frowned slightly as if she had forgotten something, then her face became emotionless again and she continued, "I can bring up your supper for you, if you wish,"

"The common room seems quiet enough, I can eat in there," Scatha answered with a smile.

"Yes, it is quiet nowadays," the frown returned for a moment, then she looked at Scatha.

"Is there anything else you need My Lady?"

"Yes, Mistress Mac Nee," Scatha hesitated a moment as Mistress Mac Nee looked at her expectantly,” Is there a sickness in this town? I saw none of the normal signs, but it does seem to be quiet about here,"

Again the Innkeeper frowned, this time a little more deeply.

"No, My Lady," she began slowly as if she were unsure,” It’s just quieter round here these days, quieter than it once was," and with that she gave a nod of her head and left.

Scatha stood in the middle of the floor watching the woman's retreating back, lost in thought. Slowly she peeled her cloak from her shoulders, revealing the row of silver knives about her waist and the scabbard less sword hanging on her left hip. On her black silk shirt the sleeves were embroidered with silver thread in the shape of sworls and knots, as were the sides of her knee length black leather riding boots. Her black leather breeches and her sword belt were plain though. Not a dainty woman, she was taller than most men and muscled like an agile cat. She moved with the deadly grace of a blademaster. She threw her cloak over the back of the dressing table chair and threw herself onto the bed to think, her feet resting against on of the posts, her head on one hand.

She had felt the taint of the village from several miles out, following the lazy stride of Dhorn as he pursued the trail of the boy, which had brought them off it onto the thin track that wound down into the little river side valley where this village lay. She wasn't even entirely sure what the village was called, it was only a fairly recent settlement by her reckoning. The closer she got to it though, the less life and vibrance there was in the surrounding land. A mile out the birds had mostly stopped singing, and by the time she came to the first house, she heard nothing but the occasional caw from a crow. It had been late spring when she had entered the valley that morning, but now it seemed much more like autumn. A warm, muggy autumn.

She knew the dark taste of that taint, for it reeked of the Crone's Death magic, which meant her creatures had been working their Art from this place. It did not bode well for Kierons chances, and she feared that she may have come too late to save him.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Scatha snapped to her feet and crossed to open the door in a few, quick strides. One of the stable boys stood there mutely holding out her saddle bags. She took them from him but he ran off before she managed to thank him, his eyes on the floor in front of him the whole time. Suddenly an old anger welled up in her, and she tossed the saddle bags onto the bed and marched out of the room.

As she rushed down the stairs, not a single one of the patrons in the common room looked up. She stooped swiftly at the fireplace and plucked a burning brand of wood from the flames, then she strode out of the front door of the Inn. She found herself back at the centre of the square again, spinning round to look in every window for movement. She made a quick cut across her palm with her dirk and let it drip into the flame of the brand so the blood would boil and burn. Smoke rose in a wisp, so she coaxed it with a soft breath and sent it high into the air and let it drift. With her eyes she followed its movement, spiralling lazily as if tugged by a breeze, though the day was utterly still. It drifted slowly out of the square, so she walked after it, casually preparing herself for battle with the quickening powers of her Art. It wafted out towards the river, on the far side of the village to the side she came in on and as she watched it drifted over the rise of a small hill and was whipped into a spin near a small plume of smoke that was drifting up into the air. It quickly formed a small vortex and then funnelled out of sight beneath the rise. Hairs stood up all over her body and her spine went cold. She guessed what lay beyond the rise would be a small hut like house. Most villages had one on their borders in this country for quarantining the sick, and most were run by the Druids.

But she knew that whoever claimed to be the healers in this village were most definitely not. They would be Red Robed Cultists of the Crone, and at least four or five, judging by the strength of their Art.

Suddenly a crow flew shrieking from a tree to her left, making swiftly for the smoke over the hill. Crows are always the Crone's birds, always in league with her other minions, and she knew that it would warn the Cultists in the hut. After a moment’s hesitation, she sprung into a sprint after it, knowing full well that it would alert the occupants of the house over the hill to her presence. As she ran, her left hand was resting on the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it instantly. As she crested the hill she saw a man come out of the cottage at a run, dressed in the long white robes of a druid, with a sickle on his belt but he also carried a black bladed dagger marking his true following. She wrenched her sword free of its belt loop and began to weave her Art within her blood. As soon as he saw her, the dagger flashed from his hand and she threw herself forward down the slope to avoid it. She rolled and came to her feet. The Red Robe at the door stood at bay, chanting rapidly and leeching the life from the air around him . She stepped slowly towards him, sword held low in front of her. The quickening fires in her blood were taking hold and her focus was growing sharper with every breath. With a sudden snap of her wrist she brought the burning brand in front of her face and blew hard on it, as if she were one of the fire-eaters that were once popular in Roman courts, and a ball of fire exploded into the air. It was white hot, her Art lending it heat and strength and it poured towards the Cultist and spread out like water when it hit his chest. He let out a brief scream and pitched forward onto the ground, thrashing to put the bright flames out. A sudden flare of pain across her right shoulder made her slam up her shield again. The smell of singed flesh hit her nostrils, gritting her teeth but otherwise ignoring it she saw three more Red Robes slowly moving out from the doorway behind where the first one had fallen. One of them was using power to smother the flames on him, but the injured cultist was cursing loudly.

"Put down your sword, Danann, and we will make it mostly painless for you," the nearest of the three standing said, his voice raspy and mocking.

Scatha said nothing, but swung her blade in her grip and began to advance.

"Does the Glen’s power grow so weak already that Tuatha De Danann need to go armed?" another sneered. Scatha just smiled bitterly, hate sparkling her eyes, and came on.

As she drew level with the one she had already felled, he was struggling to his feet. Without missing a step, she drew a dagger with her right hand from her belt and threw it at the prone man. It thudded into his chest and once more he pitched forward. This time he fell with a heavy thud and stayed quiet. All three of the Cultists before her began drawing from their pendants, but as their fellow went down, as one they began to draw from him. Scatha forced the power she held through her muscles, and it flooded her, sharpening her senses, yet dislocating herself from her body so that sensation was numbed. She breathed, hearing her breath rasp loudly in her ears then her heart thudded with a great throb, and time slowed. As a thick fist of fire streaked towards her she pivoted sideways and spun on her heel letting her sword fly out in a wide low arc. One of the three staggered suddenly, as the other two jumped back, but they moved as if the air was treacle and Scatha was already pressing forward on the two as they struggled to keep their balance. With a darting thrust the point of her sword caught the chain of a pendant and with a twist of her wrist the chain sliced and the pendant began to fall away from the body of its owner. Slowly, to her senses, he moved to catch it so she flicked her blade again and sent the chain flying into the air.

But the one to her other side was by far the strongest of the three and was moving to the same beat of time as her. As she began to turn to face him she felt the bite of him drawing life force from her through the scorched, raw burn on her arm. Struggling against the current of that pull, she forced herself another beat faster in time. She began to draw from around her, as hard and as fast as she could. The air thickened around her and began to crackle with static. Her focus grew pin sharp, the rage of storms beat inside her, mingling with the subtler power of the Tuatha De Danan. The world seemed to grow around her, as light itself began to bend toward her. She stopped drawing, and let the air around her go almost rigid, and tense as a coiled spring flashing sparks sporadically around her. Then she let it loose, pushing it away from her with all the power she contained inside herself. It rippled outwards, a sudden gust of a hurricane with teeth of lightning. She collapsed to her knees as it rolled out from her, fighting with all she had left against the drain of the Cultist, her fingers clutched round the hilt of her sword as she leant heavily on it, her knuckles white with the strain.

The blast touched the first of the three surviving Cultists and his feet were swept from under him. Breath was punched out of his chest at the same time that a jolt of static wracked him, and when he hit the ground he was unconscious. Even before that the second was hit and began to go through the same painful process. The last one, still drawing greedily at Scatha's life force had a few moments notice, and hastily let go of Scatha and tried to throw up a shield to protect himself form the onrush of the Tempest. Even so the blow knocked him off his feet. Breathing hard, she dropped back into the normal stream of time. Growling behind her teeth, Scatha dragged herself to her feet and advanced on the prone figure of the last Cultist. Drawing again on her own power, finding it painful now after so much use and the attack by the Cultist, she threw a block at the Cultist, using the residues of his attack on her to find his drawing point and jamming it shut with a block of her own power. His eyes rolled up to the top of his head and he fainted with the shock of being so cut off.

She drove her sword point into the ground and leaned heavily on it, surveying the scene. Wincing as she drew, she reached out and probed the other two for drawing points, then slammed up shields on them too. Then she winced more as she saw the destruction the Tempest had wrought before it had run out of steam. The cottage had taken most of the brunt of that, and now there was a huge smoking hole in one side of it, but many of the trees in the vicinity had been buckled and blackened by it too. The ground too was singed where the blast had rolled over it, but the ring of destruction was relatively small, the smouldering grasses stopped about halfway up the small rise before the cottage. Smoke filled the air, acrid to her as she struggled to regain her breath.

She realized she should be satisfied. Three of the four she'd kept alive for trial at the temple, which was a much better ratio than the last such encounter she'd had. In fact she'd handled four Cultists alone, which was more than any other Tuatha De Danann in the recorded history of the temple, though the "Wild Years" before the temple had been established were not recorded at all. Even being still alive was something to be satisfied of, but the greater portent of their being as many, strong Cultists in this out of the way place, posing as the Brothers of a peaceable order was a portent that gnawed at her. Those words from long ago swam before her again, We return, and She will lead us to victory over all Tuatha De Danann. You will be our slaves.

Unwillingly, she found herself going back over the events of that day.

It was a stain on her memory, that day, the greatest horror among many horrors she had lived through. Two men she had loved in her life, and both had died by her hand, but to end their suffering. The evil that had swallowed Iolair’s life and the blood and rage that had taken her afterward, those were the greatest horrors.

The years in between then and now were pale years, every day spent tracking down Red Robes, who were becoming more common. But until today, they were always alone. The knowledge that a war was coming came over her with the sureness of foresight.

Over the crest of the hill now came a handful of men, clutching swords in a frightened manner. Villagers sent to investigate the noise at the Quarantine Hut.

“Your brothers here are Red Robes,” she told them, pulling her sword from the ground and wiping the blade on the dead monk’s body. That shock filled their faces gave her some relief from the bitterness boiling inside her. Already the life-force was flowing normally through the village. The villagers began to move towards her, put she put up a hand to them.

"Come no closer. These creatures kept my ward captive and I have not yet seen if he is inside," she told them.