The Strangeling

The Prophecy

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. The two armies will fight for the land known as 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. If they are allowed to rise, they will become invincible. With the blood of the underworld running in their veins, their power would become immense, they would be indestructible.

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. She carries the spirit of summer in her every footstep, and she has the power to undo the curse of The Strangeling. She will hold the key to its rebirth. The elder who is born to be at her side will know her. He will lead her and bed her, unleashing her fertile magic. For she is the heart of The Strangeling.

Chapter One

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 summer's 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—footsteps, a twig snapping. Russet's head snapped up and her eyes rounded. She 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. 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 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 a dark sense of foreboding 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. 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 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 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. Maerose had felt a new sense of awareness, as if she recognized that the fundamental nature of her life was changing. She was a woman now, a woman with secret needs and desires. Her body responded to her own inquisitive touches, and she craved a man to fill her and make good use of her.

No such man had yet presented himself amongst the villagers, and yet she felt as if she were waiting for him. That alone troubled her, but she had settled upon it being the nature of adulthood. 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 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. Don't linger long.

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. It was 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 reality 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.

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. Good day, sire. Have you lost your way?

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.

He cursed, and then winced.

She pulled free, screaming for help as she hitched her dress up and broke into a run. A shout issued from behind her, followed by a whooshing sound. Her legs were hit. Her knees buckled. The rope. She keeled over.

The shock of the fall stunned her. Pain wheeled through her body. Scrabbling across the grass on her hands and knees, she felt the sting of nettles on her palms but didn't care, tasted grass in her mouth but didn't pause to spit. Grass, earth, and blood. Her tongue was sore and bleeding. She screamed again.

A hand at the back of her neck snatched at her dress, hauled her backwards and onto her feet. The fabric tore as she was twisted back into the man's arms. His hand slapped over her mouth. His hood had dropped. Flaxen hair fell to his shoulders. He broke into a wide, insinuating smile, looking down at her torn dress and bare flesh with a leer.

I admire your spirit, but I should warn you that it fires my lust all the more.

Her heart lurched in her chest.

He gestured to the nearby man. Cale, silence her.

The other man, the one he had called Cale, strode over and gagged her with a length of torn sacking.

That's better, said the man with flaxen hair. With one hand, he held her wrists behind her back. With his other hand, he held her still by the throat. When he had her full attention, he stroked her chin with his thumb. His eyes were silver gray—like the birches they stood amongst—cold and calculating in their expression.

He groped her breasts, as if measuring her, and his expression was possessive. Instinctively, she pulled back from his grasp.

He laughed. Enough. There will be time for more of this play later, when we reach our destination.

Play? What did they want with her? She didn't have long to consider the question for he turned to the man he called Cale and instructed him to use the rope. While he bound her hands and then her legs together, the gray-eyed man glanced around and hurried him along.

Perhaps someone had heard her call. Russet hadn't been gone long. She would bring help. Surely, they would be here soon? She glanced toward the path toward the village, worn by their footsteps—the familiar path to her home and family. A moment later, her eyes were blinded to the sight when a second length of cloth was tied across her face.

She was lifted and doubled over across a man's shoulder. He moved with haste. She gritted her teeth, resting uneasily, pain coursing through her shoulders and back where her hands were tied fast. Moments later, her body landed on wood. The cart. They were truly taking her away. The thud of men clambering onto the cart rose around her. A shout was issued and the cart lurched off.

She prayed to the gods, repeating familiar words. Requesting a good harvest, safety for her family. Words that she used every day. In her inner eye, she pictured Russet coming back with help, looking for her. The image made her braver.

Her body tumbled against the rough wooden slats of the cart as it jolted along, her limbs cramped by her tethers. When she struggled to get free, she was tapped with a stick. She grew still, but her thoughts raged on. They had taken her, as if she were a ripe fruit to be plucked from its tree. The raw realization knifed through her. No one had been taken from Riversbend in her lifetime, but they said that it had happened, long ago. As children they were warned of bad people who might one day return, men who came from the east and the north and had no respect for life, taking what they wanted, killing and stealing without guilt.

She'd wondered if these tales were told to frighten the youngsters, making them stay near the safety of the village. But now she recognized the truth of those words. Those evil men had killed and looted. Women had been abducted, taken from their homes and never seen again, many years before. And now, it seemed that she was to suffer that same fate.

Fear was replaced with anger. Then despair. These men surely could not be elders. Although they wore the mantle of Western Tor Elders, the men and women who led the mystic life on the far hill, this was not what the elders were about, surely? What did they want from her? She was only Maerose, daughter of the blacksmith from the village of Riversbend, and no worthy prize to be taken. Even so, the gray-eyed man clearly meant to defile her. Perhaps all of them meant to