Wergild: A Heartwarming Tale of Coldblooded Vengeance - Sample Chapters

Blackwood Barrow

The fiend—for this creature clearly was it—stared down to where Deirdre lay on the ground. After some moments, the monster spoke with a slight gesture.

"There's a stream yonder 'round the next bend, if you want to clean yourself." The enormous thing strode in the direction indicated without further word.

Deirdre wanted nothing more than to fly, to flee, to jump up and get away. But in the end, her pain and rage were greater than her terror. She would stay, because she had to. The screaming in her head would brook no other action. She would stay and sell her soul.

And yet, it took her some minutes to quell the trembling in her body and to rise from the ground.

By that time, the fiend had passed around the bend in the path to which he'd recently pointed. His absence made rising possible, but when she came awkwardly to her feet, Deirdre stood for some minutes, head down, moving her feet in place as if that mere action would move her toward her destination. She was frightened beyond words, but slowly, ever so slowly, in mincing steps, she began to creep after the fiend.

It was a walk that should have taken mere moments, but it must have taken nearly an eighth of a bell. And when next she spied the fiend, it was sitting on a broad patch of grass beside a quiet stream, its legs spread before it, elbows on knees, gazing into the forest beyond. Nearby, there was a broad pool formed on a bend in the stream, and it was to that spot Deirdre slowly repaired. The fiend appeared to pay her no mind, and she struggled not to look in its direction.

Thankfully, as she often did, she'd donned that morning knee britches under her dress and did not have to bear the shame of undressing completely before the monster. Still, it took her some time to wiggle from her britches, clean herself, and then properly launder her garments, both inners and outers. All the while, the fiend sat patiently, apparently disregarding her entirely. His mere presence caused her to shake uncontrollably and for her breath to come in shallow pants.

The young Surrey girl had never been so frightened.

But her inner torment would not allow her to leave, and the moment she finished her ablutions, she walked, head down and in short steps, toward the lawn where the fiend was couched. Stopping ten feet before it, she struggled to speak.

"You should run along home, now," it said. "Your parents will be missing you." Its voice was still deep and malevolent, but it lacked the buttery cream of before.

It took Deirdre some moments to compose herself. "I can't go back."

"Nonsense," replied the fiend. "Are your parents looking to marry you to some toothless imbecile? Is that it? You look to be of an age. I assure you, it won't be all that bad. Just run along."

True. Deirdre was fourteen, nearly of an age to marry, but ..., "that's not it. I've come to sell my soul." Those last words left her as a mere squeak.

The fiend sighed. "Oh ... that again. Not in the market."

An upset yelp of protest escaped her before she could think.

"Child," the fiend continued, "you humans put far too much stock in the worth of your souls. I'm here to tell you, after long study and careful consideration, the human soul isn't worth a tuppence. Now, good day." Somehow the fiend rolled to its feet, again towering over Deirdre, before turning and again striding away.

That couldn't be it.

That couldn't be all.

This ridiculous journey was all she had, her only hope, her only chance at justice, at vengeance. The injustice of the whole embarrassing episode fueled her anger and remorse and, with her still soggy britches in hand, she ran after the fiend, whose long legs carried it at a great pace.