staring at Alfred and Brent. The black stallion’s coat shone in the growing moonlight; vapor streamed whitely from his nostrils. Alfred couldn’t see the rider’s face. Grasping Brent’s shoulders, Alfred spun him around.
“We’re leaving!” he said quickly. “Grab up your pole!”
A questioning look crossed Brent’s face, but he did as he was told. Alfred snatched up the bait box and quiver, then literally started pulling his son off the bridge. At the same time the intruder spurred his horse into the still river and started coming upstream. Reaching the end of the bridge, the father and son stepped to the ground.
As Alfred turned to look, his face fell. It would be useless to try to outrun the stranger. Charningham was a quarter of a league away, and there was no one about to help. All he could do was wait, and pray that the rider meant them no harm.
As if reading his mind, the lone rider slowed his mount to a walk. The intruder quietly exited the river. As he watched him approach, Alfred’s mouth fell open.
With every step the being’s horse took, the surrounding grass and wildflowers withered and died.
The rider prodded his horse closer. A battle axe hung at his left hip, and a war shield was tied to his saddle. Even now the river refused to flow, the night creatures remained silent, and the breeze had not returned.
Alfred looked into the rider’s face. A shock went through his system; he took a step back and put an arm around his son.
Alfred tried to find his voice. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Call me Xanthus,” the leader answered. “I come from another world-a world you couldn’t possibly imagine. The answers to your questions will do you no good, for I can tell that your blood is unendowed. So inquire no more.”
“What do you want?” Alfred whispered.
Xanthus smiled. “I want you,” he answered. The voice possessed a strangely macabre, hollow timbre. If a dead man could speak, it seemed that this was what he would sound like.
“Why?” Alfred asked.
“For no other reason than you are the first Eutracians I have encountered,” Xanthus answered. “My orders are specific.” He turned in his saddle and looked east.
“Charningham?” he asked.
Nervously, Alfred nodded.
Xanthus leaned forward in his saddle. “How many souls live there?” he asked.
Alfred’s dread grew. “About one thousand.”
“A sizable enough audience with which to start,” Xanthus replied cryptically.
“What do you mean?” Alfred asked.
“You will learn that soon enough. You are coming with me.”
At once Alfred felt his body rise into the air. Struggle as he might he couldn’t overcome the invisible grip that tossed him onto the stallion’s back behind Xanthus. Speaking and moving had become impossible. He could only watch as Brent, screaming, was hauled into the air and deposited on the horse’s back just behind him. And then the scream was cut off as Brent, too, was frozen in place.
Xanthus turned his horse toward Charningham. The grass and flowers in their path died quickly, turning brown. The sun, its golden rays slowly reddening, slowly slipped behind the Tolenka Mountains.
Hoping he and his son might somehow survive the night, Alfred closed his eyes. There was no one around to observe as the horse and its riders vanished.
With the Darkling gone, the Sippora River slowly started flowing again. The breeze returned. The tree frogs and cicadas sang. Inside the abandoned fishing quiver, the most recently caught trout finally gave in to the inevitable, and died.
“Are you resting comfortably?” the voice asked.
It was an absurd inquiry. The false concern, born only of malice, was taunting; its tone was completely devoid of compassion.
Night had fallen in Charningham. The only light came from the flickering torches Xanthus had lit-no doubt for dramatic effect. The town square was a mass of people; it seemed to Brent that every person he knew was there with him. All those who had resisted the Darkling’s demand to attend him in the town square were dead, killed outright, their bodies left lying in pools of blood. Brent was mute with horror. Tears filling his eyes, he clung unashamedly to his mother’s skirts. He could feel her legs trembling.
Shuddering, Brent looked down at his father.
Alfred lay in the square’s center with his back against one of the large stones forming the plaza floor. Two men and two women lay at even intervals beside him. The Darkling sat on horseback, glowering over them. No one spoke; no one moved.
Iron shoes clip-clopped on the stones as Xanthus spurred his horse to stand before Alfred. A hush descended over the crowd.
“I asked you a question,” Xanthus said. “Are you resting comfortably?”
Despite his partial paralysis, Alfred did his best to look up at his captor. “What do you want?” he asked. “We have little money to give you! We know nothing about the craft! Please-leave us in peace!”
“By the time I leave here, you will have found everlasting peace, I assure you,” Xanthus answered.
Xanthus’ ominous words made Alfred’s skin crawl. He tried again to move, but it was no use.
“At least let the two women go!” he begged.
“No,” Xanthus answered simply.
“But we have done you no wrong!” one of the other men screamed. “What in the name of the Afterlife do you want?”
“Ah, yes,” Xanthus said. “The Afterlife-a concept you humans refer to often, but know so little about.” Raising his dark head, he looked around the crowd.
“Despite your frequent references to it, who among you mindless sheep can explain it, eh?” he added. The silent crowd simply stared at him in dread.
“Just as I thought.” He looked back down at Alfred. “Don’t worry. You will become fully acquainted with the Afterlife’s workings soon enough. In some ways, I envy you.”
“What do you want?”Alfred demanded again. Fearing the worst, he strained to find Annabelle and Brent in the crowd.
“The answer is simple,” Xanthus said. “I want you five to die. It is going to take a long time, and your fellow citizens shall provide the audience. It is no more complicated than that.”
Saying nothing more, the Darkling raised one arm.
Alfred started to hear a grinding sound. When he finally realized what was happening, his eyes bulged and his breath caught.
One of the massive stones of the plaza floor was lifting into the air. Dropping loose soil from its dark underside, it came to float directly above him. Even in the uncertain light of the torches, he could make out the worms, maggots, and other crawling creatures still attached to it, milling about on the stone’s slick underside. Expecting the stone to come crashing down on him, Alfred closed his eyes.
But the stone did not fall. Instead it lowered slowly, its crushing weight starving his lungs bit by bit. His face was spared. But as the excruciating pain rose, he felt his sternum and several ribs snap. The pressure sent the wriggling creatures crawling free from the stone and onto his face.
Shaking his head wildly from side to side, Alfred screamed. Gasping for breath, he looked up at Xanthus.
“What-what do you want from us?” he whispered. He was barely able to get the words out.
Under the stone’s overpowering weight, his veins began hemorrhaging; blood rivulets trickled from his nose, eyes, and ears. Unable to watch, Brent turned away, retreating farther into his mother’s skirt folds. His entire body was shaking. Like his father, he could barely breathe.
“I have already told you,” Xanthus said. “Be still, for my ears hear no begging. My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.”
Another large stone came floating into the air. The other captives started begging. But they soon learned that the stone was not meant for one of them. Some in the crowd spoke up, pleading that the torture be stopped. But Xanthus ignored them.
As the second stone’s weight added to the first, the remaining air was pushed from Alfred’s lungs. Several
