When Sam's bored, he writes!
Wait, this is a prologue?! That means it's not a short story but something a bit bigger? Who knows. I don't like it but read on!
It might have been one of the coldest nights that Theldore had felt in his forty winters in the north. Why he would be out in the cold at this time of night is certainly a matter for much debate but there would be no one around to ask questions. Waterwell had never been the biggest of villages on the northern moors and probably had a mere sixty residents that called it home.
Sixty. That number might have seemed an age ago for Theldore. It started to feel like another villager met the gods with each passing day.
Word came many months ago that nearby villages had been hit. Carrowton had been the first to go on the moors and it was shortly followed by Tingersbrook and Rwens Hollow.
Lake Waterwell stood guard between the mainland and the island on which Winterwell stood but even this apparently wasn't enough to keep the cursed death away. Maybe it was a rodent or a bird that carried it into Waterwell, we'll never know, but it was here. The crown sent a raven to the village guard ordering it to close the bridge to Waterwell and ensure no one comes or leaves until further notice.
This wasn't a problem for Theldore. He arrived in Waterwell when he was still on his mothers teat and had no intention of leaving now. Theldore had starting working with the villages blacksmith when he was merely a boy of eight and had never known another life. It showed to anyone who looked at him. He stood over six feet tall and had arms the width of tree trunks.
There was a certain acceptance in his eyes tonight. An acceptance of his death, like he knew the cursed death would soon end his days. A midnight walk seemed the perfect way to see around his home one last time. A chance to be alone and remember summers gone by.
Theldore arrived outside the village chapel which stood tall in its centre. Images coloured in to the windows of the seven gods which seemed to watch over the village and ensure its safety. They had failed.
The old blacksmith had been somewhere deep in his mind when he noticed it. A shadow creeping out from behind the chapel tower that shouldn't have been there. He could barely see it but it was there. Something was blocking the moonlight from lighting that part of the ground up, and it was moving.
“Hello?” he said quietly to ensure he didn't wake any of the sick up. “Hello, who's there?”
“Water! Get the bucket and go get some water, woman!” Mariah shouted at a young looking girl. “Keep it together, Alicia. I think it's coming. Push!”
Alicia had arrived here mere months ago with her husband, Terlo. They saw Waterwell as a fresh start and a safe place for them to raise their first born. Alicia had been a woman of thirteen when she fell pregnant and always believed she carried a son inside of her. What life would their son have, though? What life would he have now they have brought him to this place. Alicia's home town in the southern wards of Forristers Gate hadn't been hit with the cursed death yet and she would have been safer there.
“Push!” Mariah shouted again and Alicia pushed, but only to rid her of child. Secretly she had hoped her child to be stillborn to spare it of the cursed death that would surely take it from her.
The cold outside felt a million miles away from her warm, sweaty skin. Mariah had delivered a baby in the village many years ago and from then on was considered the local expert on these matters. By the time her assistant had ran back in the house with the bucket of water, the head was already on it's way out. Mariah damped the cloth and began to clean and comfort Alicia's skin.
“The head's out! Come on, ma'am! Just one more big push and it'll all be over” Mariah encouraged.
Terlo would have liked to have been here to see his child born but the cursed death had claimed him as one of the first. He began coughing blood a week past and had seen the suffering of the people around him. He couldn't put his family through that. He couldn't put himself through that. Terlo walked into Lake Waterwell and never came back out. He was fourteen summers old and he would never witness the birth of his child.
“That's it, Alicia! One big push!”
Something put him off this night. He was usually the quickest in the village but tonight was different. Tonight he felt like something was holding him back. Perhaps he just wasn't in the right frame of mind, I mean the village was dying around him after all. Perhaps the sounds of mother and baby screaming from a nearby house put him off.
“Excuses,” Theldore thought to himself. Tonight he was simply unprepared and he was bested by this opponent. He approached the corner of the church as carefully as he could, readying himself for whatever awaited him. As he turned the corner, Theldore felt a warmth he hadn't felt since the summer. The warmth changed to pain as he realised he had been pierced by the dirk of the hooded stranger who now stood before him.
“Be at peace, old man,” the hooded man said. “Be at peace with yourself, the gods and the crown.”
The moonlight which shone above Theldore faded as he felt the life drain from his body. His mind continued to remember of summers which had past. Summers which were full of both hard work and fun. He remembered his wife who had met with the gods long ago. Soon he would be with her and they would laugh and dance together again for eternity.
He fell to the floor and his head fell to his side as he prepared to fully release his spirit from it's shell when he saw the hooded man again, but this time he wasn't alone. There must have been about five of them, all hooded with a dirk at their sides and a satchel at their backs. From the satchels came five torches which they began to light.
“Burn it.” The last words Theldore would hear before he saw the men light their torches and begin to set the straw topped houses ablaze.
The screams rang out around the town, soon drowning out the ones from mother and child. Mariah ran out of the house to see what was happening and was immediately confronted with the sight of the village burning. She had just witnessed life being brought into this world and wasn't prepared to see it being taken back by the gods again. She sprinted back into the house and grabbed the child. Just as Alicia had said all along, a baby boy was now being cradled in Mariah's arms.
She had to think fast. Alicia was still far too fragile to be moved and Mariah took it upon herself to get the boy to safety. Mariah had heard rumours of this happening before in Carrowton. The height of the cursed death and a number of strangers show up and start killing villagers quicker than the plague could. She knew her fate but the same didn't have to be for the boy.
Mariah grabbed the bucket which used to hold water and ran outside the house. Amidst the horror she saw around her, she was convinced she could make it to the edge of the island unnoticed and began to make her way to the closest waters.
Out of breath, she collapsed to the floor at the bank of Lake Waterwell and placed the boy in the bucket.
“Gods watch over you and keep you safe,” she whispered to the boy.
She had been lucky to make it this far without being spotted. The child had stopped crying almost instantly when the terrors unfolded in the village and Mariah did well to avoid anyone seeing them make their way to the bank. Deep down she knew the child's fate would almost certainly be the same as hers but she had no choice. She wasn't prepared to let the boy die here and had to try anything to get him out safely.
Mariah placed the bucket in the waters of the lake and gently pushed it away. The tide was in her favour tonight and the bucket got carried off in to the distance.
By the time the boy had disappeared out of sight, the hooded strangers had spotted Mariah and were making their way to her at speed. Mariah tried to run but they were too fast. They forced her to the ground and without saying a word, one of them ran his dirk across her throat and the breath left her body.
“Be at peace with yourself, the gods and the crown,” he said calmly before running back toward the centre of the village.
The hooded strangers seemed to congregate near the chapel in a way which looked like they knew exactly what they were doing. Like they had this all planned prior to coming.
“They're all dead. You know what we must do now,” one of them explained to the others. “Be at peace with yourselves, the gods and King George, owner of the crown.”
He said the words as the five of them raised their dirks to their own necks. The village burned around them and the plan they had in place seemed to be achieved.
Waterwell had never been the biggest of villages on the northern moors and probably had a mere sixty villagers that called it home. Sixty villagers that will call this place home for eternity and five men who will say they did this for the good of the people, their gods and the crown.
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