The Vengeance of Mirickar Read online

  The Vengeance of Mirickar

  by

  Stuart J. Whitmore

  © 2018 by Stuart J. Whitmore

  Published by Crenel Books.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between any element of this story and any real person, place, event, or other nonfictional entity is purely a coincidence.

  To find out when new books are released by Stuart J. Whitmore, sign up for the author’s newsletter.

  ISBN-10: 0-9977780-0-8

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9977780-0-7

  UUMIN: E#2934d256-0265-11e8-b5ba-0800278e36e7

  For Tony

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Mirickar looked up in surprise. The low boom he heard from the direction of his home triggered his curiosity. He pushed back the stray strands of his long, dark hair and considered abandoning his chore. The urge to return home, to ensure that everything was in order, was offset by not wanting to face the ire of his mother. She would be disappointed if he returned with his basket only half filled, if there was no good reason for it. He was sure to hear about it if he did not return with a full basket of the greens and mushrooms that she used in cooking.

  “Perhaps father dropped something large and heavy,” he mused as he looked down again, seeking out the plants his mother liked most to add to their meals. Approaching his eighteenth summer, he looked forward to more challenging and exciting tasks than foraging.

  He had not collected much more when he heard his name being called urgently in the distance. He knew before he looked up that it was not his parents. As his gaze shifted upward again, he was not surprised to see Sraikura, but his curiosity was mildly fueled by the apparent urgency in her approach as she ran across the open field toward him, her wild red hair streaming behind her, flapping her hands in agitation as she ran.

  Sraikura was around his own age, but other than age and looks she was largely a mystery. The Kehnmark family, whose farm bordered his parents’, had found her hiding in the forest as a child. Despite their efforts in the years since, she never seemed to lose the feral nature she showed when she was first found, nor did she gain much ability to speak or to comply with normal manners.

  “Mirickar!” Sraikura yelled again as she drew near. “Mirickar!” The way she said his name, the last letter was almost entirely dropped.

  “What is it now, Sraikura?” he answered when she reached him. After growing up with her, he knew she could become agitated at seemingly simple things. One time, she had been in tears and clung to him for a reason he had never grasped, apparently having something to do with a leaf floating away on a stream.

  “Home! Home! Bad! Bad men! Home!” Sraikura cried out, grabbing one of his arms and pulling at him. “Home!”

  Curiosity gave way to alarm. Her speech was worse than usual, and despite the confusion that seemed to swirl around her, Mirickar had never known her to raise a false alarm. Thoughts of greens and mushrooms were gone in an instant. He following her at a run across the field toward their homes.

  When they reached the edge of the field, he pushed past her to take the lead. They ran along the narrow path that led through the small stand of trees to the edge of the tilled fields that were part of his family’s farm. He could hear her panting behind them as they ran, and at times she made a soft keening sound that made him worry even more. No amount of worries could prepare him for the scene that met his eyes when they burst out of the woods onto the field that had been planted with beets just a fortnight ago.

  Mirickar stopped suddenly and stared, instinctively holding out a hand to stop Sraikura from running past him. On the far side of the field, black smoke was billowing out of his family’s cottage, and flames were licking up the building through the windows. Dark shapes were moving between the cottage and the barn, but they seemed too small to be men. He glanced back at Sraikura. The panic he felt was written clearly on her face.

  “Stay!” he hissed, abruptly dropping his basket and holding up his hands to emphasize the command. “Stay here!”

  Without waiting to see if she would obey him, Mirickar turned and began to run across the field. He had only his fists for weapons, but he felt he had no choice but to try to help his family. The soft-tilled ground seemed intent on clinging to his feet but he pressed on, keeping his eyes on the scene ahead and the threats that awaited him.

  He slowed slightly as he realized that the attackers were not human. He wondered, could these be kurakvin? None had been seen in the kingdom since before he was born. He had little time to ponder the question. One of the short figures noticed his approach and set out toward him, raising its short sword and giving a war yell as it did.

  Mirickar remembered a trick that had been used against him when he got into a fight with another boy years ago. Before his attacker could reach him, he slowed and stooped to grab a handful of the sandy soil. He was barely upright again when his attacker, shorter than him but heavier with thick-looking skin, reached him and jabbed its blade toward Mirickar’s chest. He darted to one side and flung the dirt into his attacker’s face. The sudden pain in one arm let him know he hadn’t moved fast enough.

  Pushing awareness of the pain to the back of his mind, Mirickar swung his fist at his attacker’s head as it slowed to clear its vision. The jarring impact made his hand and arm hurt, but it also sent the creature to its knees. Mirickar was briefly glad that years of hard work on the farm had kept him from being too weak for a solid fight. He did not linger over the thought but instead pounced on his attacker, driving it to the ground.

  The struggle for control of the short sword seemed to last a long time, but he couldn’t know for sure. When he finally had it in his hand, he hesitated slightly. He had killed animals for food, but he had never killed something that looked like a man, nor killed in anger or fear. It was fear that pushed him on, and he drove the blade down into the creature’s chest where he hoped the heart might be.

  The look of shock and anger on his opponent’s face unsettled Mirickar as he got to his feet, pulling the blade free as he did. The creature did not rise, though, and he decided it was no longer a threat. Two more were running toward him from the direction of the barn. As he prepared to fight them, he saw a body on the ground between the two buildings. A moment later, he realized it was his mother.

  Rage flooded his mind as Mirickar rushed to meet the two that were already approaching him. In his youth he had little time for swordplay, and he had never experienced combat, but the fury that drove him forward gave him speed and strength that helped compensate for lack of skill. He promptly slew one of the attackers and parried the blade thrust at him by the other. Their weapons met three more times before Mirickar sent his opponent’s blade end over end through the air. He stabbed his own sword through the creature’s neck and yanked the blade back before the falling body could carry it down.

  “Mother!” Mirickar shouted as he left the dying creatures behind and sprinted toward where she lay. Before he reached her, he could tell she was dead, and he turned away in horror.

  His heart wrenched again when his attention was drawn to where his father was trying to fight off three of the attackers. He could see that the short creatures were trying to surround his father and wear him down. Judging by his father’s posture and slowed movements, the tactic was working.

  Mirickar howled in
anger as he ran toward them, but it surprised his father as much as the attackers. The one that had made the most progress getting behind Mirickar’s father recovered first and stabbed forward. The tall farmer stumbled to his knees just as his son reached them.

  “No!” Mirickar howled again, lashing out at the nearest creature as it was turning toward him. It was a lethal blow, but the falling corpse yanked the sword hilt from his hand.

  “Stupid boy!” the nearest standing creature grunted in a heavy accent as the other one stabbed Mirickar’s father again. “Now you die like your papa!”

  Mirickar said nothing as he intentionally left himself open to what could be a fatal blow, until his opponent’s blade was almost to him. At the last moment he side-stepped the thrust and rammed his shoulder into the creature. It wasn’t a damaging hit, but it threw his enemy off balance just long enough for him to retrieve the sword that had slipped from his grip.

  Weapon in hand, he lunged at the creature just as it was preparing to strike at him again. He could do nothing for his father but seek vengeance. Again and again, his sword clashed with the blade held by the creature that had mocked him, but he made no progress. In his peripheral vision, he saw the other one stand up, soaked in his father’s blood, and he knew his danger was increasing.

  “Die, human scum!” shouted the creature that had killed Mirickar’s father as it stepped around his body. “This is the Age of the Kurakvin!”

  Mirickar let his nearest opponent push him back, but even as he did so, he angled himself to put his father’s killer behind the other kurakvin. It would only be a temporary delay, but it was the best he could manage.

  This shift in position put his back toward the burning cottage. Toward the barn he noticed movement, but he could not look to see what it was. The realization that it was probably more kurakvin, and that he was probably about to die like his parents, made a chill run down his spine.

  “No matter what this age may be,” he grunted as he continued to fight, “you’re not going to live to see it!”

  Mirickar saw the kurakvin that was farthest from him moving forward, to give him a second opponent to face, but a glimpse of red hair in the background startled him. He still could not look away from the kurakvin he was fighting, but suddenly the other one cried out in pain and surprise.

  The kurakvin he was fighting glanced briefly at its comrade. It was enough of an opening for Mirickar. He plunged the short sword deep into the kurakvin’s chest, at the same time noticing that the second creature fell forward onto its face, a pitchfork embedded in its back. Sraikura stood behind it, wild-eyed and visibly shaking.

  “Sraikura!” Mirickar exclaimed as the kurakvin he had been fighting slumped to the dirt at his feet. He glanced around quickly, then looked back at her. “You saved me! I thought I would surely die today!”

  Sraikura shook her head violently. “More! More bad!” She gestured frantically toward the neighboring farm where she lived. “Bad men! Ma dead! Pa dead! Mirickar, run!”

  He opened his mouth to answer but closed it again promptly. He had no answer for her, or for himself. He looked back at his burning home, and risked quick glances at the bodies of his parents. Everything he owned, everything he had trusted to be there for him, everything he cared about was gone.

  Mirickar felt like a fog was descending on his thoughts, until the pain of the wounds he had received drew him out of it. Sraikura still stood staring at him, waiting for an answer, needing an answer.

  “If there are more kurakvin,” he said to her, his thoughts forming slowly, “then we must kill them. We must kill them all. For my parents, and for yours. We must avenge their deaths!”

  Sraikura shook her head violently again. “No, Mirickar! Run! Away! Bad men! Run!”

  “Run?” Mirickar said, as if the very word was foreign to him. “No, Sraikura, I will kill them all. You run. You can take care of yourself.” He looked down at the kurakvin that she had killed. “You should not fight more. You should run. But that is not my path, I will not run. I will have my revenge!”

  In the distance they heard coarse shouting, and they both looked toward the Kehnmark farm. Mirickar’s grip on his sword tightened as a band of kurakvin came into view, at least fifteen strong.

  “Mirickar!” Sraikura hissed, grabbing his arm. In her fear, her grip was like iron. “Bad men! We run. Me. You. Run!”

  She pulled him toward the far side of the burning cottage where they would not be seen by the approaching kurakvin. Mirickar wanted to argue, to break free from her and go seek his death in a bloody frenzy of vengeance, but she kept him moving back toward the trees. Finally, snarling curses under his breath, he stopped resisting and joined her in her flight toward the cover of the woods.

  “And now what?” he snapped angrily at her when they made it beyond the plowed field.

  She only slowed slightly to look at him, her eyes still wild in fear. “Run, Mirickar! Run more!” She darted away, forcing him to run to catch up. Deeper into the forest they went, and as they did, Sraikura angled toward the distant mountains that Mirickar had seen, but never visited.

  Chapter Two

  Mirickar insisted that they stop when they reached a small but fast-moving stream, swollen with snowmelt from the mountains that towered ahead of them. They were far into the forest at that point and had heard no sounds of pursuit. Sraikura watched silently as he knelt and tried to wash away the kurakvin blood. He was able to clean his hands and arms, and to freshen his face, but there was nothing he could do about the dark stain of blood on his clothes.

  “They are not chasing us,” he said as he stood up again, shaking water off of his hands. He met her gaze but could not read her emotions on her face. “We need to think, we need to plan. I want to go back–”

  “No, Mirickar!” she interrupted loudly. “No back. No fight. Run!” Now her expression looked like a mix of fear and anger.

  Mirickar shook his head. “Run to where? There is nothing for us in the mountains.”

  “You, me. Me, you,” she answered, pointing at him and herself in turn.

  Mirickar sighed in exasperation. “Yes, we would have each other, but we also need to eat. We need food, shelter, protection… We fled with no supplies, we have nothing to work with but our hands.”

  “Berries?” Sraikura asked, sounding like a child.

  Mirickar shrugged. “Some, maybe. It is early in the year, but we might find some. And yes, we can forage for food, but that is only one need that we might meet, and only to a limited amount.”

  “Hunt?”

  “With what?” he asked, showing her his empty hands. “I can try to snare small animals, like rabbits, but I don’t think I could make a weapon suitable for hunting. If we go back, we can find other people to help us.”

  She shook her head violently. “No back!”

  “There are other families we can turn to, and they might need our help,” Mirickar said angrily. “If we all run away, if we scatter in all directions, we just make it easier for the kurakvin to hunt us down individually. By standing together we can defeat them!”

  This time Sraikura shook her head slowly. “No,” she said gravely. “I not go back. You, me, stay safe, here.” She gestured at the forest around them. “We go. Go up,” she said, glancing toward the mountains.

  Mirickar sighed and fell silent. In truth he did not know what families he could turn to. The Kehnmarks had been the only neighbor that his own family had talked with much, and even that relationship was minimal. In the remote farmlands where he grew up, families held their own and kept to themselves, but that was with the assumption that the king’s soldiers would keep any significant threats far away at the kingdom’s borders.

  “I don’t know how to live here,” he finally admitted, looking down at the ground. “I only lived on the farm with my parents. I thought I would have my own farm soon. Father sent a letter to Riyahm to secure permission for me to begin clearing and tilling my own fields. I… I was supposed to… to take o
ver his fields when he grew too old.”

  The grief from losing his parents, pushed aside while they fled, flooded through him. He turned away from her, trying to fight back the tears. After a moment he felt her warm hand on one shoulder, but he did not turn to face her again.

  “Safe now,” Sraikura said softly. “No bad men. No cry.”

  Mirickar shook his head. “I don’t want to be safe,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I want to avenge my parents. I want to kill more kurakvin. I want to kill as many as I can before they kill me!”

  “No kill,” she said, her voice still soft. “No die. Safe, here. You, me.”

  He finally turned back to her. “I don’t know how to live here,” he said, gesturing with obvious frustration at their surroundings. “I know how to fight, well enough to kill, and I’m sure I can learn how to die.”

  Sraikura shook her head again. “No, Mirickar. No. I help you. Here, not die.”

  “You think you can live out here?” he asked skeptically. “I know you were living in the wild when the Kehnmark family brought you in, but that was a long time ago. I don’t know how you managed it as a little girl, but you can’t expect that to magically work again.”

  “Magic,” she nodded. “Not forgotten.”

  Mirickar scowled. “Magic? You’re telling me you can wield magic?”

  She smiled slightly. “No,” she answered, then glanced around her. “Here.”

  He looked around, now puzzled rather than annoyed. “What do you mean, here? The forest?”

  Sraikura nodded and smiled broadly. “Yes, Mirickar! The forest! Magic!”

  He shook his head slowly, letting out a soft sigh. “Sraikura,” he started, trying to keep his voice gentle, “I don’t know what you remember from years ago, but we cannot hope to rely on some mysterious magic of the forest to survive.”

  “Not years,” Sraikura said, looking down with apparent disappointment. “Forest magic. We find, we live, we safe. Mirickar… no back. With me. Go.” She gestured again toward the mountains. “With me.”