ACT OF SACRIFICE
by Paul Lewis
This eBook edition published 2010 by Ghostwriter Publications, Dorchester, Dorset, England.
SMASHWORDS EDITION
This eChap is available as a hardcopy chapbook at:
www.thepennydreadfulcompany.com
© Paul Lewis 2010
Cover Design by Neil Jackson
eBook Creation by Stephen James Price
Dodinal, a knight who had been welcomed by King Arthur, himself, to become on of the Fellowship of Round Table, now finds himself in a strange village having rescued a boy, Owain, from a pack of wolves.
A violent storm continues to rage through the season. Crops unable to grow, livestock butchered and now personal survival occupies every waking thought of the starving villagers...and the beautiful Angharad.
ACT OF SACRIFICE
The forest was dead. Winter had stolen life or driven it into hiding, and coated the land with its deadly white breath. By now a new season should have started to reclaim the world, but a blizzard was raging and the wind tore the heat from Dodinal's bones.
He forced his way through the silent wood. Deep snow concealed path, root and bramble, yet not once did he lose his footing, for such was his nature.
The knight paused when he reached a clearing. He felt no fatigue; Dodinal was most at home in the wild. The storm was more ferocious than any he could remember in his thirty-some years, yet was a hindrance rather than a barrier. If the icy air made breathing both painful and difficult, if the blizzard obscured his vision and slowed his progress, he had no need of shelter.
When he closed his eyes and cast his mind outwards he sensed he was alone. Had there been life nearby Dodinal would have known. He tried to convince himself that such isolation was propitious; it meant there were no dangers ahead.
Trees stretched on until distance robbed them of definition and the forest became a dark maw, waiting to devour him. Although it was only late morning slate-grey clouds cloaked the sun, making Dodinal feel as though he were trapped in perpetual twilight. Perhaps it would be wiser to find shelter and wait until the blizzard had passed. Last night the sky had been clear. A small fire had sufficed to fend off the cold. Dodinal had slept beneath the stars and for the first time in years had felt rested when he opened his eyes. Returning to nature had revived a strength he had forgotten he had ever possessed, and powers that civilisation had caused to lie dormant. He had been away too long. Enduring the storm which had blown up from nowhere an hour after dawn was more a matter of pride than a question of survival.
Dodinal tightened the hood around his face, and moved on. Snow danced before his eyes, whipped into a chaotic swirling by the wind. Patterns began to form. Dodinal blinked them away, before they reminded him of something, his father's face, his childhood home, that he would rather forget. Long gone now, his father and the village where Dodinal was raised; one brought down by a Saxon's axe, the other burnt to the ground. Pain and memory. All that remained.
For hours he staggered through the forest of the borderlands, until his legs began to cramp and the sky became so dark that he was rendered blind. The frigid air had breached his defences, seeping through the cloak and layers of clothing, worming through his skin, turning his marrow to ice. Dodinal became aware that he could no longer feel the exposed skin on his face. The cold had assaulted his flesh with such stealth that he had not noticed. Time conspired against him. No room for pride now. Unless he found somewhere warm for the night, he would be dead come daybreak.
A sudden burst of white pain in his head obliterated all conscious thought. His mind exploded into a whirling tapestry of images: snow, fur, blood. Emotions, hunger and terror, immersed him. A choked-off scream wrenched Dodinal from his fugue. By then he was already running, sword in hand. The ground rose before him then fell away sharply. Looking down, he could make out little more than four elongated shapes darting in turn at an upright figure, retreating as cold metal flashed. Wolves.
He reached out for them and was instantly and violently repelled. They had been driven insane by hunger. One of the beasts lunged at its prey. It was forced back but immediately surged forward as if daring the blade to strike. Another wolf stalked off to the left and crouched, waiting for an opening. Its companions circled. They were working as a pack despite their madness.
Again they attacked, once more they were driven back. This time, however, the defensive swing of the sword seemed less controlled, as if desperation alone sustained the man wielding it. Little wonder, given the relentless ferocity of the assault. Exhaustion and, judging by the dark stains flowering in the snow around him, blood loss, would work to bring him down. Dodinal could not stand by while the man was torn apart. None deserved to die in such a lowly manner.
He held his blade aloft and charged down the bank, feet effortlessly finding purchase as he ran. One of the wolves broke away from the pack and came at him, snarling. Dodinal did not break his stride. The moment the beast drew close enough for him to smell its fetid breath, he lashed out with the sword, feeling metal slice deep into its throat. The wolf yelped and collapsed to the ground, paws thrashing furiously as its vital fluids reduced the snow to slush. Dodinal pulled the blade free and spun it around as a second wolf began to attack. By now the world had turned crimson. Dodinal's movements were dictated by a force he could not comprehend. He was conscious of rapid motion, of the satisfying shock of contact as hard iron bit into soft flesh, over and over. His breathing was loud in his ears. His heart hammered out a tattoo of exaltation. He lived only for the fight, for those moments of glory when a man could look death in the face and emerge from the encounter unscathed.
He had no idea how long it lasted.
The red cloud of rage that fogged his mind rendered time meaningless. Only when it had passed did he become aware of the carnage around him. Blood ran from what remained of the wolves. In their midst, the stranger lay face down and unmoving, his body dusted with snow. His right arm was outstretched as though reaching for the sword which had fallen a short distance away. Dodinal was overcome by remorse. One whose bravery was beyond doubt did not deserve such a savage and empty death. Valiant lives should end on the battlefield, honour intact.
He knelt beside the body and gently rolled it over. The stranger was little more than a boy, yet with the lined and haggard face of an old man. His skin was stretched over his bones; years of hardship had taken their toll.
The man's eyes flicked open. His bloodstained lips began to move. Dodinal leant closer, straining to hear the whispered words above the roaring of the wind.
"Viz...Est. Viz...Est"
Dodinal shook his head. Whatever language this was, it was beyond his comprehension. He leant closer still, until his ear was almost brushing the man's lips. When the words came a third time, so faint they seemed little more than a soft exhalation, he finally grasped their meaning. "Village," the man was saying. "West."
Dodinal stood and considered his situation. He felt he could not leave the man here to die, yet had no way of moving him. When he had set out on this journey it had been on foot. A horse would have hindered his progress across such rough terrain. It would also have served as a constant reminder that he was no mere country boy but a man who had been welcomed by Arthur into the Fellowship of the Round Table itself, an elevation Dodinal had neither solicited nor desired.
He glanced around. The trees and the dark spaces between them were now indistinguishable, and veiled by falling snow. A howl pierced the air. More wolves, scenting the kill. They were too distant for Dodinal's mind to touch but they would not be less aggressive than the others. It was late in the fourth month, yet winter still held the land to ransom. Dodinal had lived on the dried meats he had carried from Camelot, supplemented by nuts and berries from the forest. There was nothing, save Man, for the wolves to hunt. They would be ravenous with hunger and he was not confident he had sufficient strength to fend off a second attack.
The stranger groaned in pain as Dodinal lifted him to his feet. His face was as white as bone and there were deep rents in his cloak, edged with blood. Unless his wounds were attended to he would be dead before sunrise. Dodinal was no healer. His hands dispensed death, not life. There was nothing he could to do help except to take this unfortunate with him and attempt to find his village, implausible as that seemed.
Another howl, closer this time, echoed round the forest. Dodinal hoisted the man over this shoulder, surprised at the lightness of the body, and began to stagger through the blizzard, in a direction he could only pray was west. The wolves fell silent. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing and the occasional agonised cry from the stranger. Dodinal cast his mind ahead. No life save that of the trees. Their auras were like candles in a vast room; faint, but sufficient warning for Dodinal to avoid stumbling into them. He needed to stay on his feet if he was to survive.
Through the long night he marched, until each step drove a spear into his spine and his shoulders shrieked a burning protest. Several times Dodinal was tempted to put the man down, to rest until he had recovered his strength, but he dared not, sensing the wolves close behind. Their hunger worried his senses like their jaws would snap into his flesh when they eventually overtook him. Had it not been for the weather and Dodinal's affinity with the wildwood, he would have been meat for the beasts long before. But now he was tiring. They must attack before sunrise, when he knew he would be too exhausted to defend himself.