The smoke thickened the closer he drew to the farm. Whether it was day or night he could not see, the grey mass blocked out all the telling. He made his way toward the cottage in a blind scramble. He could not imagine that this was anything more than an accidental fire. What he remembered of the places was hardly enough to support a family and nothing he would expect to attract a band of thieves except perhaps sport. The place had a quaint one-room cottage, serviceable barn and a few pens large enough to house only a handful of animals.
The air was heavy with the unmistakable smell of burning flesh and the choking fumes of some kind of burning naphtha. He reached the smoldering ruins of the barn first. The fire snapped and hissed just before igniting several explosions that expanded the flames to the tree line. It was impossible to know whether those who attacked them brought it with them or if the occupants were unfortunate enough to be storing the stuff. People who lived in the wetlands were usually doing so for a reason.
The wind shifted and cleared away some of the smoke. Engle made a wide circle of the barn and moved toward the cottage. Tongues of flame lapped at the roof. He prayed he was not too late. Trampled chickens and a dead cat littered his path as he half stumbled as his vision blurred. Lying on front of the door was the bloody body of a goat, throat torn out and its intestines spilled out on the dirt. Who ever had done this likely used hunting dogs locating their prey but the carnage was rankly human.
The door had been barricaded shut using the timbers from the destroyed fence. The methods, the smell, he had seen it all before though he never expected to see it again. If his instincts were right, there was little hope that anyone had survived. Engle struggled to remove the barricade and open the door. As he did the sudden rush of the wind and a wall of smoke and fire slammed him back. Flames exploded through the roof several feet high. Engle let the violence subside and crouched down. The escaping heat singed his hair and burned his throat as he moved inside.
“Hello,” He choked. “Hello.”
The roof and the support beams collapsed inward with the expansion of the flames but the walls were made of stone and could have provided some protection. There was a slim chance that someone might have survived the initial attack if they had been able to keep below the flames. If there was going to be anything worth saving he had to get inside now. To the right of the dead goat was a trough of water. Engle doused his head and soaked his cloak. He rushed back through the doorway. Broken bits of pottery ground under his boots. He could not see anything. The heat singed the hair on his hands and every fiber was screaming for him to get out. Under the roar of the blaze, he thought he heard a moan.
Engle dropped to his knees and felt around until his fingers contacted something soft. He grabbed hold and pulled as hard as he could, eliciting a sharp cry as it moved. Engle felt arms and a torso and grabbed hold with a final burst of will he pulled the soul free of the rubble. He half carried, half drug them to safety and they collapsed together on grass a step from the door. Engle’s hands and shoulders covered in burns and he could feel them blister. His lungs ached and he could hardly draw breath. He turned toward the body next to him. He could only guess that it was once a woman though her burns covered enough of her body and were severe enough to bear the question. She was bare except for with just the blackened remnants of a shawl. Her nose and lips were gone exposing her teeth in a freakish smile. When he touched her hair it crumbled into ash.
“Please be dead.” Engle exhaled. To his horror her eye rolled back and she looked up at him. Her jaw moved as though to speak but the words were only gurgles I her throat.
“Don’t speak.” He whispered.
Her eyes sharpened and she tried again.
“Hush.” He commanded afraid to touch her less he cause more pain. “I’ll get you some water.”
She shook her head and beat his knee with her raw fist, her jaw twisted in a cry of pain that could not escape past her throat. He realized she was trying to open her hand, to give him something. The woman’s eyes shrieked as he tried to open her hand. He stopped, unwilling to hurt her further but she started beating his knee again. He closed his eyes, giving throat to her agony with his own cry until he at last had her fingers open.
“This?” He said pulling free a small coin on a leather thong. On one side was a pagan cross and on the reverse was something that looked like the jaws of a creature about to attack. The likeness was chilling and the threat unmistakable.
“This is from the men who attacked you?”
She nodded her head yes and immediately her body began to convulse.
“You need to be still. Let me help you.” Engle tried to comfort her. He rubbed his hand over his face and his beard and brows crumbled to ash. Mercifully she lost consciousness.
Aside from her fatal burns, there were other nonfatal wounds. Some of her fingers had been broken, her pelvis crushed and her tongue split to her throat. The latter was an ancient tactic used in interrogations when all that could be learned has been gained. Their use of it on her was likely symbolic. They probably believed she was dead when they set the fire. The viciousness was beyond anything Engle had seen on Lisseon soil. He found her husband’s body in the barn. Not even their animals had been spared, becoming sport for whatever beasts these men used in their hunt.
Engle made her as comfortable as he could. He carried with him the small black seeds of a flower. It was potent at dulling the senses, inducing a state of euphoria and eventually bringing sleep. He gave her a generous dose but the little seeds were little match for her pain. The damage to her battered body was too great. By evening she was dead.
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