Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27012445-20161129220751

The young maiden knelt amongst the rubble and burnt out wreckage that was once her simple home. Smoke plumed into the sky and ash hung thick in the air. It stung her eyes, but that was not the cause for the tears streaming down her cheeks. She was in mourning. Unseen, she had departed the group of refugees and returned to her village, determined to find the bodies of her father and three brothers. It was her duty to anoint their brows with consecrated oil and bid them farewell into the afterlife. Her father and brothers were among the few who bravely stayed behind to hold off the enemy, providing precious time for her people on the eastside to escape the massacre that fell upon the village. Her distraught heart was filled with confusion for, upon her arrival, not a single corpse was there to find.

The sacked village lay deserted and barren, smoldering from fire and flame. Although the smoke billowed over the ground, not a single body could her eyes see. The enemy had attacked from the North under the cover of night. They slaughtered everything in sight; man, woman, and child. No one was spared. Yet, not one corpse lay on the ground. The words of the old widow Me'heethlo came to mind. She was fond of stories about the enemy. Tales the maiden thought were meant to frighten young children into obedience once it was time to remain in bed.

She surveyed the ruins. What did not escape her notice was the grimy layer of soot that covered everything within the burnt-out village. The mass did not give the appearance of ordinary ash, but of mold that grew in the dark and damp places of old. Of nature's making, this was not; this was rot and decay that laid before her. The edges of the mold were of the deepest black with hints of green, but on top of its center grew white and gray fuzzy hair that vibrated ever so lightly. If it were not for the irritation from the smoke, she would have sworn the mold and mildew grew and stretched out before her very eyes.

The crackling of burning wood suddenly vanished from the immediate extinguishing of its flame. The mold congealed upon itself forming vines and tendrils. They writhed on the ground before her feet, encapsulating and covering all within its reach. A soft hiss emerged from the ruins. A dense gas rose into the air from oval and lipped mouths that pimpled the surface of the thicker tentacles. It flowed like a liquid upon the soil and clawed up the scorched beams like an animal searching for prey.

The maiden brandished her broadsword with speed and skill, for having been the daughter of a great blacksmith and the youngest sibling to three boys, she knew the ways of steel better than most. The hiss grew louder as it permeated the terrain. She backed out of the remains of her home, defenses at the ready and eyes keen to any movement in her field of vision.

Cracking and snapping broke the silence as the mist billowed and swirled. It reminded the maiden of the breaking of tree branches from the ice storms that raged during past winter seasons. However, this was different. Whatever was being fractured and shattered sounded wet and moist. The snaps and cracks grew more intense and frequent with every moment. It came from all directions. It suddenly reached climax and then all was still.

The maiden gripped the hilt of her sword tightly. She held the mighty blade over her head in a defensive position, ready to take the head off any foe or adversary who would rise against her. She kept this stance in silence and stillness. The girl did not grow tired, or fatigued for the blade was the perfect weight for her. It had been a gift from her father and made just for her and no one else.

Broken was the silence with the harsh, raspy breath of lungs filled with fluid and phlegm. The ground heaved upward and separated from wet hands that reached up to the sky. The lost villagers had returned! Worms and maggot still feasted on the dead and rotting flesh. Scabs tore free from wounds that would never heal and spilled pus onto the ground. The poor creatures dragged themselves out from their resurrection hole. Disorientated, they staggered and stumbled, but the scent of the young girl quickly filled their nostrils and filled them with hunger and rage.

From behind, a lost villager fell upon the frightened girl and bit down on her neck with a ravenous ferocity. To her surprise, its teeth did not break her skin. The bite hurt terribly, but its teeth felt soft and mushy within its clenched jaw. Several more of the lost villagers slashed at her with thin, pointed fingers, and again they felt flimsy and lacking any rigidity in their jabs. The answer to this riddle quickly flashed in her mind, "Newly risen are these beasts! Their skin has not had time to harden!" she thought.

In a high overhead arc, she cleaved the lost villager that stood before her in two with her sword. With the blade's hilt, she struck the one that held her from behind in the face and shattered its bone. Another lunged at her and held her by the throat in an iron grip. She brought her sword up, twisted and separated its hands from its wrists. In one graceful motion, she twirled and took off the top portion of the creature's skull. An unseen villager, a child, scurried on the ground and locked its arms around her leg. It bit down hard, and she shrieked in pain as she saw blood trickle from the decayed child's mouth. She brought her blade down hard and drove its tip completely through the child's head and buried it deep into the wooden floor.

She scanned the area for a means to escape as crinkling and cracking from drying skin, and hardening hides filled her ears. In the distance, she saw her only hope. An old windmill stood a short distance away. In the absence of any clear path to escape upon, its sturdy walls and thick door would provide shelter for her immediate safety. She sprinted with all her might towards the haven. She almost would have made it were it not for the ground opening up below her feet.

She fell hard, sword clanging out of her grip. Wet and cold hands grabbed and pulled her deeper into the maw of the dark hole. Further and further she went. She turned and looked upon the faces of the ones who held her. Four faces stared back at her from the shadow of the muddy pit. For the briefest of moments, she saw a familiar shade of green in each of its eyes. It was a shade of green, much like her own. There was such terrible sadness and tears in the eyes of each. As quickly as it had come, the black and mildewed film washed away all hint of color and humanity. The creature's grasped tightened, and the fair maiden screamed in terror.

From the darkness, a strange whirring in the sky began to sing. The sound was melodic and beautiful. The struggling maiden turned from the dead face and snapping jaws she held at bay and saw a twirling diamond of light approach. It streaked across the night, ricocheted off the trunk of a tree and sped in a downward trajectory towards the girl within the hole. It slashed through the creature without resistance, separating their heads from shoulder. The maiden followed the mysterious spinning diamond of light with her eyes. It flew high into the sky and began to descend towards the ground in a large arc until it came to rest in the hands of a boy.

The boy was of fifteen to sixteen years of age wearing thin and light silver armor. The object he held was a diamond-shaped disk with three blades that retracted into itself. He secured the disk to his gauntlet and drew his sword. In that instant, it appeared the mist quivered at the sight of this mighty sword. She watched him run head-first into the approaching lost villagers. Her keen eye could tell that the boy was well-trained, but lacked experience on the battlefield. Still, the lost villagers were no match for his blade and amazing diamond disk.

In the distance, she saw another young boy wearing the garb of a squire emerge over the horizon. Accompanied was he by six fearsome warriors, four men, and two women. They raised their spears and blades high above their heads and charged forward with a loud and magnificent battle cry.

With a sly grin, the young warrior approached the maiden and said, "My lady." and offer her his hand.

Helping her out of the dark hole, he spoke with such genuine charm, "My dear, what is such a beautiful and fair maiden doing in such a wretched place as this?"

She rolled her eyes, but sill could not entirely suppress the effects the young warrior stirred within her.

With her hand firmly still held in his, the young man spoke, "I am normally quite shy about things such as this, but given the moment, I thought it would be worth to risk the terrible shame and embarrassment if you were to deny my request."

With that sly grin once more upon his face, he held up her sword and said, "Would you care to dance with me?"

Seeing the dark figures moving in the shadows, the maiden took hold of her sword, smiled and looked into the eyes of the one she knew she would call husband one day and said, "Yes good sir. Nothing more would please me."

The End

Author's note: The Maiden and the Lost Villager is meant to be a companion to the story "Day of the Worm." Although the plot of TMATLVS is adequately contained in itself and reads well as a stand-alone fairy tale, its true intent is to build upon the beautiful and rich world that was created in "Day of the Worm." 