Like far too many people (and cheeses) in life, I am riddled with holes that for many years I have been trying to fill with the liberal application of food. I thought I’d got a handle on my emotional eating at the start of the year, yet here I sit, once more on the verge of tears with a huge desire to shove an entire chocolate cake in my mouth and follow it up with copious amounts of red wine.

I don’t know what to do. I’m fighting, I’m fighting hard, but the more I fight the more I want to cry, and I HATE crying.

My husband is off out the country in a few days for over a week. This in itself is normally stressful for me, but I always cope and in recent months have managed to cope without going mad with that whole cake issue, but this time is different. While he is away I will be celebrating our 12 anniversary and my 43rd birthday without him. I hate birthdays at the best of times, even more so now that I’m on the wrong side of 40, so a birthday without him is just an unbearable thought. The anniversary is even harder. He work sent him away from me while we were on honeymoon and has continued to do so many times a year over many years. I try not to resent it as he’s paid fairly well, but I do.

And now I’ve lost all desire to type too, sorry…

The infants’ cries rose above the chorus of bird song, rudely breaking their morning concert. Feathers ruffling, the singers looked down upon the blanket wrapped bundle that dared to disturb their work. The child gazed up at them with large wet eyes, cries replaced with gentle sobs, and finally a small hiccup.

“Here it is,” cried a voice from nearby, the birds flew away and resumed their song elsewhere, “it’s a babe alright.” The child was lifted from her nest, positioned perfectly in the centre of a ring of flowers, and held close as a strange woman pulled back the blanket and looked her over. Blue grey eyes watched the woman closely and a slow small smile spread across the babes face. The woman’s heart warmed as she looked into those eyes, “Let’s get her back to the Vatra, she must be starving.”

The campsite was just on the other side of the clearing, a circle of brightly coloured caravans and in the centre a morning fire burned. Large horses were picketed off to one side and at the other were some dogs, tethered, with enough lead that they could prowl freely outside the circle.

A large man and a woman walked up to the child’s rescuer to see what had been found. “So, Talaitha, what has the morning brought us?” asked the Rom Baro as he eyed the wriggling bundle.

Talaitha smiled as she dropped a small bow to the camp leader, “A girl child, Yishwan, barely six months old.” She handed the baby to the Rom Baro’s wife, who stood with her arms wide and an anxious smile on her round face.

Tshaya took the child in her arms and examined her from head to toe, eyes soft with unshed tears, “She’s perfect,” she turned her gaze to her husband, “please?”

Yishwan looked deeply into his wife’s eyes, looked beyond the pain of endless babes, lost before reaching term, and into her heart and the small spark of hope that burned there. “Yes romni, you can keep her, we shall name her Anis and in one week we shall adopt her and give her our family name, Saray.”

Tears fell freely from Tshaya’s love filled eyes, so long since he had seen her smile it almost filled his heart to bursting. He looked at the baby and silently swore to protect her from all evils, anything or anyone that could make his beloved romni smile once more, deserved that, and more. “Come Tshaya, take young Anis, wash and clothe her, then we can introduce her to her new family.

-

I was still very young when I first heard that story, the old Chovexani would tell me it as we collected herbs or as we sat by her fire while she made potions and unguents. It was she who took me under her wing when Tshaya died, three years after I was found. She was lost to us during the labour of the first of her natural children to reach term. Neither she, nor the babe, survived. Yishwan retired soon after and a younger man became Rom Baro of our Vatra.

I did as much as a three year old child can, to help Yishwan deal with his loss, though I barely understood it myself at the time. He took some comfort in my presence, so I would sit with him, quietly, when ever I could. I would occasionally ask questions about our world which seemed to bring him out of himself, just a little, and sometimes he would grace me with his warm and gentle smile.

Rhiannah shivered. The dark of the night seemed to seep into every bone, tears glistened in the moonlight. One full day ago she thought she had died, now she wished she had. Naked and hungry she continued crawling into the night, every muscle in her body, screaming its agony. She had covered this patch of ground many times, yet still she hoped for some sign that her love and companion was still alive, even his body would be better than this… nothing.
She huddled in on herself as the winds picked up, then continued searching. Soon, even crawling became impossible, the winds grew stonger and stonger until it felt as if she were trying to break through a solid stone wall. It was time to give in. She lay down on the cold wet grass and let the storm take her.

Oblivion.

She awoke with a start, back in the old, abandoned hut, she and Pliskyn had used for shelter when they first arrived. She stood up and looked around, the sun shone brightly through the broken door. A new feeling began to seep into her soul. Resolution. It was time to move on, she would not die today.

She made her way to the town of Freeport, a busy place full of corruption and greed, she felt drawn to the chaos of it, in a way she could not understand. That night she slept in the eastern part of the town, under on old wrecked caravan. She dreamt of storms, of a great vortex reaching down to her from the black sky.

It didn’t take long to esatablish herself in her new home, she took a room at an inn and made money from hunting. She began to meet new people and make new friends, oddly, all of which set off a resonace in her that reminded her of her continuing dreams of the storm.

Inspired by these dreams, she called her friends together and told them her visions, of a great storm, sweeping the lands and casting all into chaos, how she felt that this was how things were meant to be, how all of them had a place in this maelstrom of events…

Dark Spiral was born.

Chapter One

Maran tickled Fale as they sat by the warmth of the fire sharing warm bread and milk. His childish giggling never failed to delight her. “I must be the luckiest mother in the world.” She smiled, holding him tight.
He grinned up at her, a circle of jam around his mouth, “Will Daddy be home soon?” he asked with a pleading look in his eyes.
“The day after tomorrow, Fale.” She ruffled his hair and smiled down at him.
“Where is he?”
She laughed, “I told you already, he’s gone to the quarterly market to sell seed and stock.”
“Oh.” He nodded – deep in thought, “Why he not takes us with him?” he stumbled slightly over the words.
“You’re still a little too young, my boy, maybe next year. Would you like some more milk before you go to bed?” The child smiled happily and nodded his head.

Maran got up from the fire and went to the cooking area. She picked up the large blue jug that her mother had given her on her wedding day, three years ago, and poured them both some fresh creamy milk. As she picked up the mugs, she heard an odd whispering noise outside. She twitched back the curtains to see if one of the cows had gotten loose.

She frowned as she tried make out the figures in the moonlight. They seemed very tall and wore long dark robes. A pale face caught in the moonlight as it turned towards her, huge eyes ate into her soul. Her stomach lurched and the mugs fell from her hand, smashing on the old stone floor.

She ran across the room, oblivious to the smashed china that ate into her naked feet. She swept Fale off the floor and into her arms, tearing up the stairs and dropping him into his room. He looked up, eyes full of fear and confusion. “Don’t be scared, just some unwanted visitors.” Her heart pounded in her ears as she tried to appear calm. “You stay up here and I’ll come and get you when they’re gone. Not a peep now, nice and quiet until I come to get you.” She smiled at him as she closed and locked his door.

Taking slow deep breaths, she tried to pull herself together and crept back down the stairs. She listened at the front door, her face blanched almost as white as the face in the night. The noises continued outside. “How many?” She wondered. She’d heard that the Elders came in their hundreds. They would steal anything that could be moved and then kill all of the inhabitants. Her shaking grew worse, coherent thought fighting, and losing, against blind panic.

She found herself staring into the fire, hand clasped tightly around an old poker. Hysterical laughter threatened to overwhelm her. “Yes, I’ll see them off with a poker.” Tears rolled un-noticed down her cheeks.

She felt as if she were in a glass bubble and that none of the things she had taken for granted had ever really existed. It was as if the here and now were all she had ever known and the rest was just some vague dream. Her mind froze, unable to comprehend the situation, unable to come up with a way to escape, a way to save her son.

Instinct took over. No thought went into her actions – no reasoning or sense. Her conscious mind had fled her and left a mother whose only thought was to protect her child.

…

A figure crouched in the darkness, watching the council buildings with sharp eyes. The time was almost on him, one more passing of the Guards and he would make his move. He grinned. It would be an interesting challenge.

Now!

He darted over the outer wall and into the shadows of the trees on the other side. Slowly, quietly, he crouched and dashed from tree to tree until the great building loomed before him. Now the part he didn’t like – into the midden heap outside the kitchens and wait once more as the guards completed one circuit and began the next.

The smell was awful, he fought back the urge to retch, now was not the time for that. He watched and waited, trying to avoid breathing through his nose. One guard passed. Holding his breath, he crouched as low as he could as he waited for the next guard to come from the opposite direction. There, safe again – for now. He jumped up onto the roof of the midden and grasped the window ledge above. Quickly and easily he hoisted himself up. Hugging the wall, he peered in and found that the room beyond was blessedly dark. A knife appeared in his hand. It didn’t take long for him to slide open the window. With practised ease he slipped through the tiny gap and jumped down silently. Carefully he pulled the window shut, slipped into the shadows, slowed his breathing and waited. The smells of herbs and fruits were strong, and beneath it, the sickly stench of food gone to waste. The storeroom was dark and quiet, except for the odd scuffling and squeaking of rats. He shook his head and grimaced, dirty creatures, drawn to filth and spreading disease. The council should know better than to allow the conditions that would entice these creatures within its walls. Once satisfied that he was alone, he slipped out of the shadows and over to the door.

As he had expected, the door was barred. He listened for any sounds in the passage beyond. Silence. The blade of his slim knife eased through the tiny space between door and frame, he began to push it up against the latch. He heard the almost inaudible click only a moment later. Quickly, he retreated once more into the shadows, breathing slowly and waiting for any sign that he may have been discovered. A minute passed and he smiled, no one had heard. Returning to the door, he pressed his ear up against it and listened once more, for any sounds of life beyond.

His breathe caught as he heard footsteps moving towards him. Crouching down, he prepared to run if they so much as slowed. He breathed more easily as they continued past. Counting slowly in his head to thirty, he then grabbed the handle and eased opened the door. Peering out into the lit corridor he grinned. He slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him, deftly using his knife to lock it once more.

Clinging to the wall like a shadow, he moved rapidly to the stairs at the end of the hall. His luck was holding good so far, now the fun bit. Silently he dashed up the stairs, watching and listening at each curve, until he reached the top. Picturing the floor plans in his mind, he quickly got his bearings. The main Council chamber should be on the right, and the Chairman’s office on the left.

He crept forward, delighted to hear the sound of raised voices coming from the meeting room. “We must not let this continue!” That sounded like the chairman’s voice. “Something has to be done to eradicate this menace. This is our land and it will remain our land, but only if we …” The voice faded to a mumble as the figure opened, and slipped through, the door to the Chairman’s office.

Shutting the door quietly behind him, he closed his eyes, allowing them enough time to adjust to the dark. His glance took in the whole room and automatically tagged anything of value, but tonight was not about profit, tonight was just for fun. He walked up to the large oak desk and picked up a heavy wooden seal. It was the Chairman’s seal of office. Grinning, he popped it into his pocket and looked around once more. “Hmm, perhaps just one little trinket…” He thought to himself as he eyed a golden statue about the size of his hand. That went in his other pocket. Satisfied, he went back to the door and listened closely. The mumbles were just audible from across the hall, and no other sound could be heard. He slipped out, shut the door and darted back down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to peer into the corridor. Fortunately, it was still empty. He grinned and made his way back to the storeroom door, confident that he was now on his way. Testing the door, he was relieved to find it was still locked. With a flick of his knife, while he watched the corridor behind him, he sprung the lock and darted through… into the brightly lit room.

His heart caught in his throat as he turned slowly, expecting to feel a knife at his neck. A young woman huddled on the ground, eyes wide with fear. Tear tracks ran down her cheeks. He sighed. She opened her mouth to scream, but before a sound could escape her lips, her body lay lifeless on the floor, her long neck twisted at an ugly angle.

“I’m sorry child, but I can’t have you telling anyone you saw me here.” The regret in his voice sounded strangely genuine. Hastily, he doused the lights and throwing the girl’s still body over his shoulder, peered out of the window to the kitchen yard. First one guard, then the other, he lowered the body carefully to the roof below and following, swung himself down to the ground. He buried the girl deep in the midden heap.

With sharp, well trained eyes, he look about and, sure that his retreat was clear, dashed into the trees and back to the outer wall. As a shadow, he climbed up with ease and lay flat on the top, waiting for the outer guard to finish their circuit.

Back in his rooftop den, high above the town, he inspected his prizes. The Seal was of no real use to him, except as proof of his expertise, but the gold figure was maybe worth a bit. It had been a long time since he had needed money – he was probably one of the most successful thieves in the business. His work was now done only for pleasure and challenge, though having more money was hardly a problem. Such a shame tonight had been spoiled. He shook the memory of the girl’s face from his head and studied the figure in his hand, tall and slender – enshrouded in a large cloak, and with extremely large eyes staring out at him from its deep hood. Female, he thought, though it was hard to tell. He liked it and decided to keep it.

Shaking off his regrets, he stripped out of his clothes. The stench was appalling. A bucket of tepid water was emptied over his head and he grimaced as he scrubbed hard with a brush and soap to remove the dreadful smell. Finally convinced he would pass as clean, at least until he was able to bathe properly, he towelled himself dry and dressed from a neat pile of clothing that had been secured under an old crate. Discarding the black of his trade, he gladly replaced it with rich blue velvet. His long chestnut hair fell in damp tangles, past his shoulders. Once he had scrubbed it as dry as he could and wrenched a comb through it, he fastened the silky mass neatly with a gold clasp at the nape of his neck. Elegant leather boots replaced those worn with age, and use, while white lace usurped the black cotton at his neck. He threw his stinking work clothes into an old sack and hid it under a loose floor board – he would replace them on his next outing. His tools went into a carved-out hollow in one of the roof beams, high above prying eyes. Finally, his new acquisitions were put into a fine leather bag, which he slung over his shoulder, followed by a long black hooded cloak.

Three rooftops later, he lifted a hatch and dropped down into the attic of a large house. It was a sumptuous dwelling, obviously belonged to a wealthy merchant. He confidently made his way out of the roof space and down the stairs.

A servant met him at the bottom with a relieved smile. “Sir, Master Brendal has just arrived. He arranged a meeting with you to discuss the new trade route you have been planning. I left him in the lounge.”

Tran Grath smiled at the man, “Thank you. Please bring a bottle of Brandy and something to eat.” Handing over his cloak, he dismissed him with nod and entered the study with a broad smile on his face. “Brendal my man, glad you could make it, hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long?” He placed a leather bag in the top drawer of a finely carved desk and sat down opposite his guest, ready to discuss business.

…

Chairman Tharn left the meeting room, angry and frustrated. No-one seemed to realise what a threat these so called Elders were. Stories of death and theft were coming in quicker with each passing season. The farmers were working themselves into a panic. The land could not afford for them to cease their trade and move to the safety of the cities. If something was not done soon, the food supplies would start to dwindle and chaos would soon follow. He’d already received reports that some families were moving out of the country, to escape the menace from underground.

He sat at the desk in his office, worry creasing his face. He picked up a sheet of paper and began to write.

Salim,

We must meet with The Guardians and discuss the threat from the Elders. A fighting force is needed to protect our people in the outlying areas. Please arrange this immediately.

Chairman Tharn.

He folded the paper neatly and reached for his wax and seal. He looked up, confused, when he found his seal missing from its usual place. “Damned incompetent servants,” he muttered darkly. Rooting in a drawer he found his spare one.

Once satisfied, he rang a bell and waited for his man-servant to appear.

Moments later, an elderly figure entered and bowed deeply before him. “Sir?”

“Have this letter delivered to General Salim immediately. Once done, find out who last cleaned this room and ask them what has become of my seal! I will not tolerate incompetence.” He glared around the room, eyes stopping at the mantel and turning to steel. He turned back to the man. “It appears we have a thief. Report the theft of my Elder statue to Master Threl and have him conduct an investigation. NOW!”

Containing his anger, he gestured for the man to leave.

…

Two days later, an old cart and horse trudged along a dirt road. The driver looked weary but happy. The cart was empty and the animals that had been with him at the start of his journey were gone.

He could just see his farm in the distance, “I hope Maran has some food cooking.” He smiled as his stomach grumbled.

As he got nearer, he noticed the barn doors standing open, “She must be feeding the young ‘uns.” He picked up the pace, eager to see his family – he hated being away from them.

His heart lurched us he noticed a figure lying in the dirt beside the barn. He leapt off the cart and ran forward, heart hammering in his throat as he saw the pool of dried blood surrounding it.

“MARAN!” the scream tore his throat as he bent down to her still figure. Tears ran unchecked down his dusty cheeks. He felt for a pulse and found nothing. Gently, he lifted her head, his fingers sinking into soft wetness filled with sharp fragments. Bile rising, he lowered her back to the ground and stood up, face grey with shock. He looked into the barn, desperately trying to find some explanation for this horror. The barn was empty, all the stock gone. “Elders.” He cursed through the tears.

He crumpled to the ground and lay there shaking and sobbing with the pain of his loss. Images of what must have happened chased themselves around his head. He retched violently, only bile issuing from his empty stomach.

Unsure of time, he became aware of a strange sobbing sound coming from the house. He jumped up, worry and relief written on his face. “Fale!” He ran to the house and followed the sounds to the boy’s room. The door was locked. He kicked out hard, the door splintering under his foot.

The boy was huddled on the ground, pale and drawn, the dried salt of tears, encrusting his face. The room stank of urine and faeces. He crouched down before the small child and took his hands. The grubby face looked up at him. “Daddy. Where’s Mummy?”

Fendle pulled his son into his arms and held him close.

Spelling Fail

Thank you Failblog for the morning lols!