Queens Of Osiris

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Queens Of Osiris - book excerpt

Chapter 1

Deidre hummed while she knelt on the rock and scrubbed laundry across the tin rungs on her washboard. She stopped when the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end. A tingle traced its way down her spine, and she shivered. It felt as if an icy finger raced back up to her shoulders.

She straightened up, the bones in her back cracked like someone had stepped on twigs, and she searched the surroundings. Tall grass, big rocks, and a setting sun impeded her vision. It could have been an animal, but she didn’t think so.

It didn’t matter. The work in front of her needed completing. She could not return with soiled linens. Whether someone watched her work or not, she had no choice but to continue.

The cold mountain water numbed her fingers. Perpetually bright red hands with dry, cracked skin, and shredded knuckles, were the result of her manual labors. Never mind the tight muscles in her lower back forcing her to walk bent forward, or the way her feet swelled at the end of the day when she was finally able to step out of well-worn shoes.

She didn’t complain; since the death of her husband, she needed the work. No one would have listened listen, anyway.

She had never felt more invisible.

As the sun set, the day’s heat disappeared with the last rays of light. With a full bushel of her employer’s dirty clothing left, it would be some time before she could return home and start supper.

She wasn’t certain if the tune she hummed had a name. It was a simple melody, really, and if lyrics were associated with it, she was unaware. The humming served a purpose. It kept her mind off her life. Long gone were her carefree days as a child. There were chores her parents had expected to be done, there were always chores, but once finished she’d spend the rest of the day playing Kings and Queens with her siblings. They’d slay dragons, hold high court, and the knights often rescued princesses from their sinister captors.

If there was an age, or a moment, when she realized she wouldn’t grow up to be royalty, she couldn’t recall it. For some nearly unforgivable reason, her mother had allowed her to live in the fantasy world created by an overactive imagination. The woman let her believe fairytales actually came true to those who wanted happy endings most.

There wasn’t anger toward her mother. Just disappointment. Deidre was certain her mother had meant well.

She remembered now.

Her mother hummed the same song. Was it something she did to forge her own mental escape?

Keeping her eyes closed, she ran her employer’s skivvies up and down the washboard. Plenty of the filth was crusted on and a challenge to remove. She scrubbed harder, the repetitive motion making her elbows sore and biceps ache.

The long walk home always took a toll on her legs. The veins bulged out on her skin from her ankles up to her knees. The pain was constant. Her knees sometimes refused to bend smoothly—the bone, cartilage, and whatever else was behind the cap rubbed together and resulted in an agony beyond words. The only relief came—and it was temporary, at best—when she soaked strips of cloth in salt water and wrapped her legs tight.

She folded the last of the laundry and placed the stack in one of the three baskets beside her.

Groaning, she stood up and brushed strands of loose hair behind her ear. With hands on her hips, she arched her back and strained against the stiff muscles. The slight relief was euphoric enough that she sighed with mild pleasure.

In front of her, she saw the reflection of a full moon in a cloudless sky in the placid Isthmian Sea. Silhouetted mountain caps and the Fjord Range marina seemed so small, insignificant, and far away. The Rames behind her were towering and imposing, like cold, rock weights. She would swear she felt them pressing down on her shoulders, crippling her spine and crushing her soul.

The path to the stream cut narrowly through those same mountains. Loose gravel underfoot made walking dangerous. With the crumbled pebbles, ice, and snow, she had slipped countless times, several times she fell. She wore jagged cuts and purple bruises like pigment scars on her arms and the palms of her hands.

She walked toward the darkness, up the path, and finally toward home.

Her hairs rose once again, and she stopped, sensing … something was breathing behind her. She narrowed her eyes and held her breath. It was her fast-beating heart making the most noise. The tha-thud, tha-thud of the beats pulsed like thunder inside her head.

She turned around and opened her eyes wider as she searched for any light that might penetrate the swelling darkness.

The shadows moved around her.

If she wasn’t holding bushels of clean clothing, she might have reached out into the black.

There was nothing there. Couldn’t be. Nothing more than her imagination getting the better of her.

No. Deidre didn’t think anything was there.

She spun around, her back to the shadows, and forged her way forward. She did her best keeping herself convinced her mind played tricks on her. Cruel, yes, but tricks, nonetheless.

“You’re tired, and working too hard,” she said aloud, shaking her head as if scolding herself. Humming a simple tune and talking to herself was how she passed the sunrise to sunset on working days. “If you don’t start taking better care, you’re going to get sick.”

Her kids might not have been toddlers anymore, but since the death of their father, they relied on her more and more. Perhaps, more than kids their age should have, but family didn’t turn family away. Ever.

Something shuffled on loose stones behind her.

She stopped and held her breath.

There was no denying it; this was not her imagination. Something was following her.

She could hear it breathing, again, and thought she felt its breath spray onto the back of her neck, hot and moist.

Her chin quivered. “Who’s there?”

She wasn’t prepared to turn around. Not again. Her bravery for the night was shot. A bit of cowardice spread through her bones and surged in her veins. The muscles in her stomach twisted into knots. She would run, but with the baskets she’d never make it very far. And she was tired, so tired.

The thing behind her huffed. It sounded like a horse, or bull. An animal.

She took a step forward. It was short, tentative. It was also the only option. Walk away. Just walk away.

When nothing happened, she took another step.

She heard it breathing a little harder, a little heavier. The sound was no closer. Perhaps it didn’t intend to give chase?

She walked. Slow. Steady.

Inside, she cringed, expecting something would stab her through the back, or sweep out her legs. She’d drop the laundry. It didn’t matter if she lost the job, but she would keep kept her life. She’d find other work, a better position if she had to.

When hands clapped down onto her shoulders, she screamed. The bushels fell out of her hands. The clothing she’d just spent hours cleaning spilled onto the ground. She was pushed forward. She stumbled over the baskets and fell onto the clothing. She clawed at skivvies as she crawled forward.

Something straddled over her back, feet stomping down on either side of her. She felt paralyzed, but managed to roll over onto her back.

Above the shadow of her attacker was a hint of moonlight, letting her see a large blunt object arc over and down.

Throwing up her hands, she deflected the blow. Fingers broke on both hands. Tears poured out of her eyes and rolled down into her ears. When the second blow came, she turned away and raised her arms. The club slammed into forearms. Pain shot through her arms, racing toward her shoulders.

There was no time to reset as the third swing brought the club down against the side of her head.