DAIN RUTTERKIN

Chapter 3

I am sprawled facedown on my bed when the lights wake me. Through every window in the house comes the glare of burning orange torches. Someone is banging on the door. I stagger out to the kitchen. Somehow, I had thought to drop the stout bar across the portal before going to sleep. I can hear loud and angry rumblings outside.

"Dain!" It is Bowen's voice. "Open the door! I have the luminar with me."

"Bowen, what is happening out there?" I say.

"The townsfolk are frightened, Dain. They wish to be present when we examine you and your parents."

"Examine me? What are you talking about?"

"I am sorry, Dain. If you were attacked, you may be sick. We must be sure that the rest of the townsfolk are safe."

Then another voice floats through the barred portal: "Dain? It is Luminar Emlyn. I think you may be very ill. Please open the door so I may examine you."

I surreptitiously pull at a corner of the wispy curtain draping the kitchen window and learn the truth. Bowen and the luminar are indeed standing outside my door waiting, but hidden on their peripheries are a pair of local farmers I recognize from the Bull Craw. One holds a scythe high to strike, the other raises a hatchet.

I reflexively drop to my haunches, where I find myself crouched over the parchment missive with the strange sigil. I stuff the scroll into my belt. Then I crawl on all fours back to the bedroom.

"Dain, open the door! We wish only to help you!" The rapping of the luminar's fist is insistent.

I heave open the warped wooden chest at the foot of Father's bed. Father was never a militia man, but I seem to remember him keeping something on hand to deal with the occasional hog thief.

In the midst of my rummaging, I hear a crash of iron on oak. That hatchet I saw has been put to use. I fumble hurriedly among the contents of the chest, tossing the winter woolens and other incidentals onto the floor. At the very bottom is a great hunting knife in a sheath of plain leather. I draw out the weapon. It is dull and spotted with rust, but the large straight blade is nearly the length of a small sword.

In my desperation, I think to hurl the now-empty trunk through one of the bedroom windows, then follow it outside, bull my way through the throng, and run for the woods north of the farm. All I need do is panic them. None among the townsfolk would try to take me singly without support; there is nobody who can match my size and strength. Their only hope is to overbear me with numbers.

I slam the chest shut and lift it easily over my head. The oak trunk is dense and banded with rusted iron at the edges. Outside the kitchen door, the hacking has grown more frenzied. From the sound of it, more axes have joined the effort. I can hear the portal creaking as the boards begin to split.

I take two great strides and hurl the chest through the large back window. The thick clouded glass shatters and the trunk tumbles end over end into the tomato patch. The villagers lurking outside shout and scatter before the missile. I clutch the hunting knife and am on the verge of leaping out myself when I hear the kitchen door splinter and break. The bar clatters to the floor and in moments the mob is on the bedroom threshold, Bowen and Luminar Emlyn at their head. The other villagers cluster behind, brandishing torches and hatchets and farm implements.

"Dain, it is all right, lad," says Bowen. "The luminar only wants to examine you, to be sure."

I snap back that he would be welcome to, had he not brought a raging mob into my home. I brandish my poniard before me to hold them at bay. But now others have crowded in behind me through the broken bedroom window. They are crudely armed as well, and raise their weapons menacingly to ward off any attempt at escape.

Emlyn steps forward. In spite of the incipient chaos brimming around him, the luminar's expression is calm, his words measured. "Dain, please. The folk are only scared."

I ask him earnestly what they are afraid of.

"This thing you met, this beast. They fear that the plague it brought with it may spread your walls. They worry for their lives, just as you worry for yours."

"It killed my parents, not theirs!"

"And you wish your revenge. And we all wish you to have it. But the only way you may live to exact it is to give over that knife. Hand it over, and we will all take our revenge together!" Emlyn reaches forth with his limp pale appendage.

My own hand trembling, I lower the weapon slightly, the blade is still bared before me.

"Give it to me." Emlyn's tone holds a note of caustic command.

I hesitate. An icy twinge ripples down my spine. I know something is wrong. But I have no choice. The villagers bear madness in their black eyes; they only wait to hack me into pieces.

I finally proffer the blade hilt-first and the luminar takes it from me. His thin lips turn upward in the slightest trace of a grin. As he backs away.

"Bind him," says Emlyn.

"What?" I roar. As two villagers come forward with thick rope, grabbling at my hands. I shove them away, knocking one to the floor.

"If he resists, subdue him." I hear the luminar's voice. But he has retreated behind the mob now. As they all rush me as one, bearing me to the floor and pummeling me with kicks, punches, and weapon hafts. I think I hear Bowen shouting for them to stop before the butt of a plowshare crunches into my skull.

As always, look forward to hearing your thoughts!

Thanks for reading!

Much Love,

Dave