Brotherhood: Called To Arms

By Don Wilson

Luc awakens to find his village nearly destroyed. There are now strangers in his cabin. Who are they and why are they here? They are the Brotherhood of the Grimm. They travel Europe, researching the old wives tales of spooks and devils, disproving the ones that aren't real, and fatally dealing with the ones that are.

When he learns that two children from the village are missing, Luc enlists the aid of the mysterious but knowledgeable strangers. Their sister Nathalie's misgivings disappear after the village is reduced to ruin by the witch of the woods, and she agrees to go with them on the perilous daunting task.

A new world of what is real and what isn't opens before them as they encounter spells, enchantments, alchemy, and evil. Will they find the twins? Can they trust the Brotherhood? Can they trust each other?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Wilson
• Release date: Dec 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301644315

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BrotherhooD

Book One: Called To Arms

By Don Wilson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Don Wilson

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of this author.

For Gideon and Greyden, who never cease to give me inspiration.

The tale contained in these pages was originally a hand-written piece discovered among the letters of Cpt. Ervine Solomon.

It Begins

I ran. I ran as though my life depended on it because I fervently believed it did. I ran as though it was my only purpose. I ran as though I could feel no pain from the winter wind that howled through the trees around me. Some time ago – how long I could not say with certainty, but what seemed ages – the bright moonlit reflection on the snow across the mountainside faded into a hazy mud of grey and brown when the cloud bank shifted across the sky, blocking out my friend the moon. It was as if the moon itself was covering its face in horrified anticipation of what was coming of me. Some friend, the moon. We had known each other since I was a child, but that night, it turned its back on me and sided with my enemy. Treason.

But still I ran, convincing myself that the winter was not too cold, that my limbs were not numb from exposure, that my lips and ears did not burn with the icy fire of winter. With every racing heartbeat, their sting pulsed deeper and deeper into my body. It was functioning merely on instinct as I lumbered my way down the remnants of the snow covered mountain path. Each conifer, branches languidly laden with heaver winter blankets of snow, catapulted it away in an explosion of the frosty white powder as I thrust past them. If I had not been so preoccupied with staying alive, I might have thought they resembled a barrage of cannon fire, throwing the earth into turmoil with their blasts. However, the situation being what it was, I didn’t care to look behind me to see the thrown snow and bending branches for fear of seeing that howling thing drawing nearer to me. Besides, I could hear the branches. I knew what they were doing.

Each crunch of my footfalls in the snow, each panted and labored breath that burned my lungs and brought intense stabbing pains to my ribs, each thundering heartbeat, all attempted to drown out the sound behind me. Soon I could no longer hear any of these things when that song echoed. Up the mountainside is where I had hear it frist and where I had turn and run for fear of my life. It sang out not only in my head, but off the mountain surfaces around me as well.

Hush-a-by baby

On the tree top,

It echoed in my ears, not much more than a whisper, but a whisper from inside my own head, from the corners of my mind, just not in my voice.

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock.

The wind howled around me, and the swell of snow made it more difficult to see. The path made a sharp turn to change direction down the side of the mountain and I lost my footing. My ankle rolled beneath me and I fell to one knee. Either through adrenaline or cold numbness, but most likely panic and terror, I forced myself up and hobbled and ran down the path, ignoring the pain.

When the bough breaks,

The cradle will fall,

A child’s voice sang the song. Boy or girl, I could not tell, but a voice that felt as though it was sitting upon my shoulders, singing directly into my ears, as though the song was meant for me only.

And down will fall baby

Cradle and all.

Then I heard voices, shouts breaking up the song that surrounded me, though they still seemed a long way off. I reached the small clearing near the stream – the one near the smaller of the falls – and from here I could see the torchlights. They were small stars of yellow, pin pricks of light dancing among the trees below. I had no idea who it might be, but anyone was preferable to the thing that haunted my trail, breathing iced breath down my neck and singing that wretched tune.

Recently felled trees lay strewn throughout the clearing, and my surefootedness caught one sleeping beneath the fresh snow. I went reeling, losing all sense of direction in the night air. I had no idea which direction I was trying to go, let alone which direction I was actually going. When I hit the rocky ground again, my shoulder ground my slide to a near stop, but the slope was so steep that when I rammed a birch stump, I went headlong. A more pronounced and imperfect cartwheel I am sure no one had ever seen. Rolling like an infant falling from his bed, I tumbled, a sack of potatoes trying to escape to who knows where. Finally, the singing had stopped and so had I, under a thicket. My back felt as if it was on fire and my ankle throbbed with intense injury. By comparison, the stabbing pains in my rib cage were hardly noticeable at that point. Breath thundered from my body, sending gray misty tendrils away from my face and I realized that, while the forest canopy was spinning above me, I was in fact facing upward into the snowy night sky. The voices from the torches seemed much more urgent and indignant now. I could not see their sources and they still sounded a long way off, but it was certain I did not know their language. I felt a sticky warmth in the neck of my coat, and trickling down my face. It almost burned. The contrast of warm internal blood on frozen external skin was an intriguing but short-lived distraction from the pain. Did I dare move an appendage to investigate? I calculated that I must, and as I did, I did so without thinking which hand would be best suited. The effort of moving my injured shoulder brought such pain that I had no choice but involuntarily yelp like a mongrel in a bear trap. The world spun, and the colors I saw were brilliantly vibrant against the trees and snowy winter sky before everything went black.

* * *

I was afraid to open my eyes. I knew that doing so might mean a determination of something unpleasant. It might also mean discovering a finality that I simply wasn’t ready to accept. Instead, I did my best to calm myself and slow my breathing. I used my other senses to take stock of my current situation.

I was warm, comfortable warm. There was at least one heavy pelt over me, and no stir of wind or breeze. No exposure to ay elements, so I knew I was indoors. As I listened, I did not hear anything at first, then the faint blow of winter wind outside. My face and lips had feeling again, but if there was a fire in this room, it was dwindling. The air was cold, but still. Then shuffling of pages and the creaking of a stool. My stool. So, I must have been in my house, but I was not alone. I had no family, so whoever was here was here to watch over me, or at least I suspected as much. Also, I owned no books, and knew very little about reading or writing, so whoever was here had brought that with them. The door opened and with the momentary blast of cold came the heavy boots of a large person, judging by the sounds of hefty clomping and labored breathing. It closed and latched the door behind itself and stomped fresh show off of its feet, crossing to the small hearth. It was easier to picture movements based on sound since I had determined by the seeming positions of the stool and the door that I was most certainly in my own bed. The slow scrape of iron confused me at first, but I realized there was a more distinct crackle of fire now and that the iron must have been the skillet placed on the fire after wood had been added. The footfalls crossed again to the door and exited. This reminded me of my ankle and I took a mental inventory of my extremities. The good news was that everything was there. The bad news was that a large portion of it was not in stunning health. My left shoulder was a mass of knotted and bruised muscle, as were my neck and lower back. My right side seemed much better aside from my ankle. It was definitely sprained, but did not feel broken. Every major injury was bandaged. They clung to me in the places I had bled, pulling at the wounds and my body hair with each breath. The aforementioned corners of my mind were foggy and dusty, but the events of the night before came flooding back to my memory. Or was it the night before? The stool creaked and the person there stood, and with much lighter steps that the outdoorsman who brought the wood, moved about my one room cabin, doing what, I had no idea. I really didn’t know how long I had been here, though the stiffness of my joints seemed to indicate that it had been a few days, at least. The sounds of the winter birds in the forest helped ascribe that it was sometime during the day, though no light attempted to pry my eyes open. It was either very early or very gloomy. Suddenly there was a loud hissing sound that sent a jolt thought me. Then another, layered on top of the first. Then another, and then another. Almost immediately my fears were quelled by the smell of bacon. I realized just how hungry I was, and decided bacon was worth forcing my eyes open.

The house was dimmer than I expected. There was the obvious light from the fire, a slightly less noticeable light from the oil lamp on the table where the books lie, and almost imperceptible light from the one small window. I could see that the sky was clear and the pinks of dawn were glowing. A voice spoke from the hearth, You’re awake. He didn’t look at me, but simply turned the bacon in the skillet. Good.

I turned back the pelt and tried to sit on the edge of the bed. Everything stung with pain.

Be still. You’ve been badly hurt. He crossed to me with a small bowl and slowly helped me into a seated position. He offered me the bowl, I took it and it felt warm in my hands. He draped a cloak around my shoulders and indicating the bowl, offered, That should help.

Holding the small wooden bowl to my face, I smelled the chicken broth, and while it made my stomach growl with anticipation, it was not what I wanted. Broth, I muttered, and the man responded to the affirmative. To which, I replied, Bacon. It was, after all, the reason I even opened my eyes.

He looked up from the skillet, soft brown eyes and a polite grin hidden on the other side of a thinning salt and pepper beard. Maybe tomorrow. Broth first. We need to make sure you can stomach it before moving onto meats and vegetables. You’ve likely got a lengthy path to recovery.

We? I asked as I poured the hot broth into my mouth. You and the guy with the wood? I immediately noticed the liquid dripping around my mouth and down my chin and when I wiped it away with my hand, the amount of hair on my face made it clear it had been several days since my night flight. How long have I been here? How did I get back?

One question at a time, he interrupted, while turning the bacon again. We found you the night you were attacked and brought you back to the village. That was six days ago. Pulling a piece of bacon and eating it, I felt that he was taunting me with it, albeit unintentional. When he spoke again, he spoke softly, as seemed to be his manner. "We