The Strangling Read online

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  Juno Books

  www.juno-books.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Saskia Walker

  First published in 2007, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  The Strangeling

  For Storm Constantine,

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

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  The Strangeling

  Saskia Walker

  The Strangeling

  Copyright © 2007 by Saskia Walker

  Originally published in trade paperback

  ISNN: 978-0-8095-5793-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006937387

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  Cover art copyright © 2007 by Timothy Lantz

  www.stygiandarkness.com

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  Juno Books

  Rockville, MD

  www.juno-books.com

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  Publisher's Note:

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

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  For more information, contact Juno Books

  [email protected]

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  For Storm Constantine,

  friend, mentor and inspiration.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Prologue

  All across the land known as Edren, fear runs through the villages. Time is short, for the armies of Crondor and Yaxlan march upon us. The elders spend every moment communing with the gods, relaying their visions, making ready to face the evil forces that threaten our peaceful land.

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  Although it was late and his candle burned low, William's quill scratched on across the parchment. His back ached, and he hunched over the bench with effort, swallowing down his own fear in order to complete his task. As the elders’ scribe, his duty was to record what they knew and what they foresaw, for those that would follow.

  His hand shook and he paused a moment, looking into the candle's flame for strength. The two armies were close. They had traveled far, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. One hailed from the east, one from the north. Word had reached Edren that the surrounding lands, Gilest and Perigal, had already fallen; the bounty of Edren was likely to be their new goal. The danger that the people of Edren faced was even greater than that of Gilest and Perigal, though, because it was likely that the peaceful land of Edren would become the battleground of these two rival armies. Edren may not survive this. That much had already been foretold.

  Footsteps echoing through the settle distracted him. The door flung open and one of the female elders stood there, beckoning to him, her expression troubled. “William, come, hurry,” she called, her robes askew, the hem that swung around her ankles damp. “Amelia, she sees."

  He stood, gathering his quill and parchment. Amelia's visions were the most powerful amongst the elders, and he hurried to follow the woman down the corridors and out of the ancient settle, to where the elders had gathered outside, beside the trickling pool in the moonlight. The night was cold and damp. Winter was almost upon them and it chilled him quickly as he moved across the courtyard. The crowd of men and women parted to let him move between them, and he nodded as he closed on the frail, elderly figure in their midst.

  Amelia clutched her staff in one hand, the fingers of the other trailing in the water of the pool, holding her image until he arrived to make his notes. Her long, white hair hung loose around her pale face as she looked down at the surface of the pool, but her opaque blue eyes were glistening as they saw through the water, beyond, to another time. The moon goddess was surely with them, her light flooding down, reflecting off the visioning pool in a shimmering cascade.

  "I am here,” he whispered. “Tell us what your vision contains.” He sat at Amelia's side, his breath furling from his lungs, a white mist on the cold air of the night.

  She inclined her head, and breathed deep before commencing. After a moment, her head lifted and she stared into the pool again. “Crondor's mercenaries are close now. They will pass through Edren. Many will fall.” Her hand went to her heart, where she was visibly pained.

  The elders who stood behind her moved, and one of them rested comforting hands upon her shoulders.

  Her eyes closed for a moment, before she pressed on. “They will move on, as far as The Strangeling forest, where Yaxlan and his armies are taking hold at this very moment."

  A whisper of concern went around the assembled group of elders. The distant forest known as The Strangeling was a magical place; a place where winter never seemed to touch with such ferocity as it did the rest of Edren. The happy, fey folk who lived there were at one with the mystical forest and its bountiful gifts. To imagine destruction of such a strange and beautiful place was a terrible thing.

  Amelia sucked in her breath, her fingers recoiling from the surface of the pool. They knotted around the moonstone at the crux of her staff, gripping onto it for strength. “The two armies will fight for The Strangeling, and they will meet their death there, but from their death a bloody union and a curse will be born, a curse which will manifest in their rising from the dead, one hundred years hence. Stronger, mightier, a united and deadly army from the underworld."

  "An army of dead men?” someone whispered.

  She nodded. “If they are allowed to rise, they will become invincible.” Her eyes were glazed, her expression horrorstruck, her lips pale and bloodless as she saw into the future. “With the putrid blood of the underworld running in their veins, their evil power would become immense, they would be indestructible.” Her voice faltered.

  William made his notes, trying to stop his hands shaking. “Is there more?"

  She nodded, her fingers trailing the surface of the pool again. Moonlight spilled across the ripples, echoing into the depths of the water. “Yes, the vision has shown me that one woman alone will hold the power to undo the curse. She will be a daughter of Beltane, born in the village known as Riversbend, and she will come of age at the time when the curse will come to pass."

  Glancing up, William saw that Amelia's expression held a more familiar serenity. He breathed easier and hurried on, his notes barely legible.

  "She carries the spirit of summer in her every footstep,” Amelia continued, “and she has the power to undo the curse of The Strangeling. She will hold the key to its rebirth."

  "How?” a voice from the small crowd asked.

  She shook her head. “The elders here by Western Tor in her time will attempt to guide her, and they will decide the way, drawing on the powerful magic of our most hidden secrets.” She glanced at William, nodding and indicating that he should make a note of that. “But danger will lie in her path at every turn ... she must ultimately find the way for herself."

  As Amelia spoke, William's quill moved on, recording her wise visions, until she grew quiet and her eyes closed. Her thoughts and words became more disjointed, her vision fading.

  "Do you see the woman's name?” one of the elders asked, urgin
g her on.

  She shook her head. “No, but the elder who is born to be at her side will know her.” Her eyelids flickered and she frowned. “Elders, I think perhaps there are two men...” Her frown deepened. “I cannot see them clearly.” She stared into the depths of the water, and then grew frustrated, her fingers opening and closing as if reaching for the truth. She turned to the scribe. “Note this, scribe. She is the heart of The Strangeling,” she whispered. “The daughter of Beltane."

  As she spoke, thunder rolled across the horizon and a cold, unwelcome wind whistled in around the settle, lifting Amelia's hair and whipping it across her face, blinding her. Voices rose and fell with concern. Clouds skittered across the night sky and the moonlight faltered. As it did, lightning struck the distant hills. One of the women cried out. A ripple passed over the surface of the pool and Amelia's breath rasped into her lungs as the last bit of moonlight moved across its surface. She stared down at the water, her eyes filled with apprehension.

  William's heart sank to his boots. Even he, who had no vision and no magic, knew that their worst fears were coming to pass.

  Amelia stood and stared round at the elders, clutching her staff, the moonstone glowing brightly as she drew on its ancient power. “Go now, hurry to the villages, warn the people. Tell them to leave, to hide in the far hills. Crondor's army is almost upon us."

  Around them, the elders scattered. William stood, but Amelia reached out to halt his footsteps with her staff across his chest.

  "Run, William, yes. But take all of the scrolls with you and when you have left this place you must write my words down. Hide the scrolls well in the hills, for they will be needed. Our dark hour is upon us, but it is nothing to that which will come one hundred years hence, if we do not arm our descendents."

  Her body was frail, but her will and her magic were powerfully strong. The stone at the head of her staff glowed fiercely against his shirt, pulsing into his breastbone. He felt her ancient power travel through the staff and lodge in his chest, just as powerful as the lightning that had struck the far hills, but far more enduring. Her pale eyes bored into him, compelling him to give his word.

  His heart was heavy, but he was bound by duty, by faith and love. He nodded and bowed his head. “Mistress sage Amelia, it will be done."

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  CHAPTER ONE

  One hundred years later—

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  Winter lifted her veil and blew an icy breath along the riverbank. Stirring through the rushes, it sent a shadow across the waters of the slow-moving river.

  A shiver ran through Maerose. She rested back on her haunches, wrung out the last of her brother's shirts, and plopped it into the basket at her side. Her hands were red with cold and scrubbing. She flexed her fingers and pushed back her straggling hair, retying her ribbon. Resting her hands on her knees, she looked around the familiar spot, noting the changes that heralded summers end.

  The light season had closed fast this time around. The richly colored blanket of leaves on the path from the village to the riverbank had already turned to mulch. Only the hardiest plants clinging to the banks of the river still wore green. The spot where the fish took shade beneath the canopy of laurels during the heat of summer was now dank and cold. Brambles crowded the reed grass on the far bank, where thickets of buttercups had clustered in late spring. The bushes were bare. The birds had picked the last of the berries many days ago.

  She was just about to comment on it to her sister, Russet, who was washing by her side, when a sound caught both their attention. Footfalls. A twig snapping. Russet's head snapped up and her eyes rounded. She whimpered and glanced around quickly, one hand on her chest as if to quell her heart.

  "Hush.” Maerose reached out a hand to stroke her sister's arm and soothe her.

  "Ghosts,” Russet whispered, gathering her skirts up as if to take flight.

  Maerose shook her head. “Samhain is still five moons away, so none of these ghosts will have risen yet, if they ever do.” She gave a dismissive sigh, rolling her eyes. “Steady yourself. Don't let the turn in the weather make you afraid."

  Her sister was both easily flustered, and the victim of a wild imagination. She latched onto every ghost story she was told with a mixture of fear and fascination. Maerose was the practical one in the family, the oldest sibling, the one who had taken their mother's place in the household when she had died, four summers before. Maerose was sensible. She reasoned through things more so than her sister, who was already collecting tokens to ward off the demons and dark spirits that would come visiting on Samhain, the eve of winter.

  Maerose tried to calm her younger sibling, but at the same time she knew there was indeed something afoot; a dark sense of foreboding had surrounded them. Unlike her sister, though, she wished to understand it, rather than flee, and forever fear the unknown. She scanned the nearby woodland, her senses alert. After a moment she noticed that there was movement there. A tall, robed figure wove a path through the silver birches, leading a horse and cart. His hood was drawn low, casting his face in shadow. Beyond him another two similarly robed figures followed.

  Maerose breathed easier. She gestured at them, urging her sister to look. “Look yonder. It is only the elders from Western Tor passing through."

  Russet watched them weaving through the trees a while.

  "Maybe. I wonder where they are going."

  "Oh, some place far too special for the likes of us normal folk.” Maerose gave a wry laugh. The elders were a kind, reclusive lot, but they seemed a strange bunch to her, with their mystical ways and talk of communing with the gods. Her practical nature and her duty to her family kept her from musing on such things.

  "It still feels odd here,” Russet said, her expression perplexed as she glanced around. “This place ... since that time, when we were bathing in the summer, I've always felt as if we are being watched."

  Despite her better judgment, Maerose couldn't bring herself to disagree with that. One day, they had both felt it. A shadow had passed over them, but there was no person around and the sky was clear. At first she'd assumed it was one of the young men from the village, trying to catch sight of them undressing to bathe. But no, it was as if something strange was there; something that had never quite manifested, but made itself felt all the same. She'd felt a new sense of awareness, as if she recognized that the fundamental nature of her life was changing. How so, she did not know.

  It had troubled her for days after, but she had settled upon it being the nature of adulthood and responsibility. She'd been warned of it often enough by her mother, and the other women in the village, after her mother had died. It was part of becoming a full-grown woman and finding your place in life. And yet, it was as if a dark cloud gathered on her horizon all the while.

  She shrugged it off, although still uneasy. “It's just a feeling, that's all it is. It was the passing elders we heard. Don't let it upset you."

  Russet nodded, somewhat reassured by her older sister, but rose to her feet, rolling down her sleeves and rubbing her hands together for warmth. She unlatched the skirts of her dress where she had them hitched up to kneel upon and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “I'm homeward bound. You won't linger long, will you?"

  "Don't fret. I'll be right behind you."

  Russet bent and collected her basket of washing, stepping away from the riverbank.

  Maerose glanced after her. She picked up her shawl and then rose to her feet, wrapping the soft, woolen garment around her shoulders. The scent of the river was heavy with the smell of decaying plants—a heady scent, not entirely unpleasant. The clouds were rolling in across the sky. A storm was on its way, perhaps, or it could just be that the nights were closing in. Winter was surely on her way. She was a harsh mistress, never quite as you remembered her from the year before. There was a beauty to winter, nonetheless, and Maerose savored memories of the family hearth, the joy of yuletide, and the crispness of the snow in bright sunlight. The r
eality was often much worse; the shadow of death was never far from the village in the dark months.

  The outset of autumn was full of hope, a time to take stock and be with each other after the busy harvesting months. They had an abundance of food stores at that time, but by the deepest point of winter they would be struggling, pulling any remaining frozen root vegetables from the soil with sore hands. They lost their older brethren then, and the weak. For the villagers, Samhain marked the beginning of the dark season. They said the curtain between the dead and the living was drawn back, and death never strayed far after that night, until Beltane had her way and pushed the dark season aside.

  She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and bent to pick up her basket. When she rested it in the crook of her arm and turned, it was with a shock that she found the elders she had spotted earlier were standing silently behind her. She hadn't heard them approach, and yet one was a mere three steps away, blocking her path. The others stood in the background between the silver birches, as if waiting.

  "Good day, sire. Have you lost your way?” She felt uncomfortable. She couldn't see their faces, shrouded as they were in their hooded cloaks. Her heart beat hard and fast. Something was wrong here, very wrong.

  He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand. At first she thought it was in greeting, but without warning he reached out and grabbed her arm.

  Her basket fell, scattering its contents on the ground. He hauled her in, locking her against him with a solid arm around her waist. One hand clamped over her mouth, quelling the scream that had risen in her throat. She struggled. He gripped her tighter. Lifting her bodily from the ground, he grunted against her ear. He forced her on, his legs behind hers, solid as tree trunks. The man with the cart started to move, came closer. Nearby, the third man raised a length of rope in his hands. He lashed it from side to side, restlessly.

  Their intention was now all too clear.

  I will not let them take me. She jabbed her elbow into the wall of her captor's chest, kicked her heels into his shins.