East of the Sun

Chapter 3

Bryn hit the wood with the force of a war hammer. The broken, chipped boards shuddered and the ancient hinges gave way.

She fell forward upon them. The pull of the ring—conveniently—lessened enough to let her tumble downward, yet remained strong enough to pull her arm outward when the limb would have been preferable beneath her; to stop her face from slamming into the ground. Pain lanced through her cheek...and everywhere else.

For a moment she lay still, panting. Her ribs protested each breath. Bit by bit she pushed herself up with her trembling free arm, working her jaw and contemplating plausible excuses she might give her father for the bruise likely forming there. He wouldn't believe crazy-magic-ring-pulled-me-through-wooden-doors-and-into...where was she?

Beams as wide as her torso spread along the floor, supporting equipment veiled in deep shadow. From where she swayed, on weakened legs, it looked like some sort of abandoned flour mill. Who put a flour mill in Alviora? As far as she knew the climate of the kingdom did not allow for the production of grain crops; they had to be transported in, already milled. But there was no mistaking the quern stone which lurked solemn and dark at the mill's center, just as her father once described mills in the countries of the south.

But she doubted the southern countries allowed so much dust and neglect in such buildings. A cloud of particles swirled through the air, billowing away from her landing and encouraging a sneeze.

She stilled the sensation with a pinch of her fingers.

Nothing living stirred the room, the only life came from the whistle of wind now flowing freely through the entrance arch. The sound added to the overall ambiance. Unease overtook her, as if an awareness, or spirit, seeped through the walls to study her.

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously she stood up on the wooden boards. The rung urged her forward, but ramming her body through the doors had weakened it and she pulled her hand down at her side and kept it there with little effort.

No spirit hovered maliciously before her, but she pried up a loose board, with a long—rusty—nail protruding from the end. She swung a few times, for practice, driving splinters into her fingers, before considering that spirits were likely incorporeal.

“Mwoooaahnn,” a spirit from the other room cried.

Bryn's stomach heaved in surprise and then fell with dread. What kind of fool faced an angry spirit with a piece of door? It probably knew what she planned. She probably made it angrier just thinking about hitting it with that nail. Or maybe it didn't care. Maybe the spirit and the ring worked together in a plot to lure locals into the old mill to kill them and...

The barrel like silhouette of a man stumbled into the arched door frame at the back of the main chamber. Another sick groan left his lips.

What remained of the light of dusk tangled in his thick beard, hiding what was likely a ferocious sneer. The deep scar tissue on his left cheek pulled tight, highlighting it in white against his sun-browned skin. He reminded her of a sea pirate, and likely was, but he was no spirit.