The Thirst-stricken Vampre, with solid black eyes, laid on his arched back convulsing and screaming from hunger. Foam clung to the sides of his mouth, and his skin had blistered in his short time in the Brother's light.
"Bring her to the cage." Heklaar directed with his bloodied maul still in hand. Two soldiers jogged up to Ema'as, who stood petrified by the sight of the Thirst-stricken Vampre. For a Vampre, the idea of being stricken with the Thirst was worse than death. Nobody survived it; it was a life of unending hunger and terrible pain. A soldier grabbed each of her arms and attempted to guide her toward the cage, but she resisted.
"No!" she screamed, pulling her arms free, "Please, no!"
"Walk!" one of the soldiers commanded. She refused and locked her knees in place.
"Please Heklaar, please show mercy!" Tears fell from her eyes as she dug her heels into the bloody sand beneath her, "I am one of your people, I was in your tribe. I don't deserve this; you know I don't!"
Heklaar stood and silently observed for a moment before lifting the head of his maul from the ground and brandishing the weapon in front of him. Without another word, he stepped forward. He approached the Vampress and without warning, swung the weapon down at her right knee. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the silent crowd, and her knee bent backward causing her to fall. She let out a high blood-curdling scream, and the soldiers struggled for a moment to hold her up. The observing Marauders cheered.
"Carry on," Heklaar emotionlessly commanded, as he turned from Ema'as. The soldiers obediently dragged the screaming female forward to the cage.
"Come!" the caged Thirst stricken Vampre frantically hissed as Ema'as neared. "Yes, closer! Closer!"
Ema'as reeled in terror as the iron bars of the cage grew nearer. The Vampre put his bony and blistered arm between them and reached his long-nailed fingers toward her. He wore a look of intense determination and firmly pressed his face against the bars, gnashing wildly at the meal that was coming his way.
"Please," Ema'as frantically sobbed, "Please no!" One of the soldiers silently grabbed Ema'as' arm and thrust it through the bars. The emaciated Vampre leaped at the arm, quickly digging his fangs into her.
Blood gushed as the Vampre ripped a chunk of skin and tendon from Ema'as' wrist, creating for himself a fountain of blood from which to drink. Ema'as froze with shock and stuttered a scream as the Vampre feasted on her arm. She could feel herself growing weaker as she quickly turned a ghostly shade of white. When her screaming stopped, the pupils in her eyes seemed to expand to cover the whole eyeball until they were naught but blackness.
Once her eyes had turned, Ema'as felt her two canine teeth being forced from their gums. They fell from her open mouth and landed in the dirt beneath her, adding yet another bloody stain to the area. At that point, she had ceased her screaming. As she stared into nothingness, two long pointed fangs emerged where her teeth had once been.
The Vampre drank his fill. When he was done, his eyes closed and he released Ema'as' limp arm. His black eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out, falling to the floor of his cage. The cheering of the Marauders did not cease.
Heklaar stood silent, having observed the whole transformation. He watched Ema'as for a moment and then turned to the soldiers.
"Take her to a cage," he demanded with a sneer, "If you can, clothe her. If you are unable, so be it." The soldiers nodded and dragged her limp, comatose body away, leaving Heklaar to deal with the trembling body of Faang, the last fornicator.
"Take him to the brothel tent." Heklaar commanded, "Tie him up and make him wait. I will visit him soon."
Eon's swarm navigated through the crowd, and he examined their faces. He had achieved the reaction he desired. While they were thrilled by the bloody display, Eon heard their thoughts. None of them wished anything that had happened on themselves and Eon knew it would have a lasting effect.
He had instilled the fear of his omnipresence in their hearts and had brought a bit more order to the Marauders savage ways. He observed the animals, his pets, once again and navigated to Heklaar.
"You have done well," Eon whispered into the judge's ear, making his voice audible, "You have pleased your king," Heklaar responded with a single nod, and Eon left him.
Eon navigated his swarm through the encampment, passing over multiple tents made of the tanned hides of slaughtered animals and enemies alike. There were no permanent structures, as the Marauder way of life was dependent on mobility. Their ability to travel quickly suited Eon and his ambitions well.
Eon's destination was just beyond the motor pool where the tribe's caravan of variously modified vehicles sat. The cars and trucks were outfitted with metal plating pulled from wrecked aircraft and trains. The modifications were a necessity to travel the Wasteland and survive the inevitable gunfire they endured while raiding the trains and towns. Their suspensions had been lifted to accommodate the rough terrain, and many of their chassis had been cut to allow for passengers to easily fire their weapons. Some had plows and spikes outfitted to the front for quickly mowing through people on the ground. Nearly all had recently been painted with Eon's sigil. There was also a mix of about thirty or forty motorcycles they used for flash assaults and scouting.
A large tan and brown tent came into view, and Eon guided his swarm toward the entrance. He quickly flew undetected past the guards and came to a stop inside.
It was dark and hot within the tent. A red carpet had been unrolled over the dry, cracked dirt when it had been raised only a few days prior, and a long wooden table stood in the main room. At the edge of the table furthest from the door sat a silent figure with his head lowered in a defeated posture.
He had chains around his wrists that were bolted to the heavy table before him. His feet too were chained to the chair beneath him, and a final chain was wrapped around his torso and toned biceps. He wore an ornate black chest plate that was covered by a white tabard that had Eon's sigil displayed on it. A long sleeved black shirt covered the skin of his arms, and on his shoulders rested a set of layered spaulders.
The being's face hid behind a graphite colored mining mask with dual ventilators at the mouth. Short dark brown hair peeked out from behind the mask where the strap wrapped around his head. A jagged, devilish-looking crown composed of horns from various beasts of Duraan laid in a pool of sweat on the table in front of him.
His face was parallel to the surface of the table beneath it. The ventilators in the mask augmented the sound of his breathing, making it sound almost metallic. As Eon's swarm neared him, he quivered a bit, as he had become the only one capable of sensing its presence. He produced a metallic sounding sigh and lifted his head slightly.
"Hello," the being spat with a derisive tone, his voice carrying an eerie bit of tremolo with it. He did not bother raising his head to look, for he knew he would find nothing, "Let's just get this over with."
Eon was pleased with the being's broken demeanor. He recalled how resistant he had been when he had first taken possession of the body. He remembered the pitiful pleas for freedom, the incessant begging to see his family. Eventually, however, Eon broke him, and he became no longer an individual but a vessel.
"I…" the masked being spoke cautiously, "I saw a vision. It was of Crinnan or… the Demon as he is now called. Does this mean he lives?"
Eon remained silent. He was resolute to give the being no comfort, no hope. He watched him frustratedly fidget in his chair and then relax.
"No matter then," he shrugged after realizing he would not receive an answer, "Suppress me, tuck me away, imprison me in my own fucking body again. It doesn't matter. I won't make it out of this alive anyway." He rattled his chains out of anger and then waited.
Eon's swarm surrounded him and entered into his body through his exposed ears. The being lurched for a moment and clenched his fists as a freezing cold feeling shot through his spine.
It happened quickly. He had control one moment, and in the blink of an eye, it was all lost. The bei
ng watched as the locks on the chains disengaged and fell to the floor, and then he felt his body stand. He watched as Eon lifted his hands and examined them, and then heard himself laugh a laugh that he did not create.
"Be still, Rubaan," Eon purred. "Your Saviour is home now."
Chapter Seven
Crinnan IV
22nd of Ramlia – 346AG
13:00 – Belhaasi Weald
"Behold!" Sage proclaimed as he appeared with a long white linen wrapped parcel, "One of the blades that your father wielded in the Exgrane Liberation Wars." He presented the package to Crinnan and stepped back to watch him unwrap it.
Crinnan pulled the linen off the weapon, revealing an oiled, single-edged saber with a gold and blue basket hilt pommel. He held the weapon by the handle and turned it over in his hand a few times as he examined it.
"This is Govian," Crinnan glared up at Sage, "Not a weapon my father would have carried."
"Yet it was in his hand when General Hralsta was assaulted," An exaggerated look of false surprise spread over Sage's white face, "Perhaps this is a detail I have overlooked for two decades now… Perhaps your father, Govian blade in hand, stormed the tent of the mighty General Hralsta in full Black Knight regalia only to deceive. I should say I fear the worst dear boy. I worry your father may be an agent of the Govian Empire!"
Crinnan stared blankly at Sage's ridiculous grin and shook his head, dismissing his foolishness. He looked back down at the sword and returned it to its scabbard. He clipped it around his waist and looked to the obnoxious, yet mysteriously powerful Elf.
"I am ready to leave," Crinnan once again reiterated, "I need to return to my squad."
"Your squad, yes," Sage rolled his eyes and nodded, "Century Squad, no?"
"Yes," Crinnan shifted his weight to his other leg, "You can... take me to them?"
Sage drummed his fingers on the countertop he was leaning against. He looked at the boy with an inquisitive expression, snorted and shook his head.
"I can... but tell me, boy," Sage said condescendingly, his tone implying he already knew the answer to whatever question he was about to ask. "What do you know of the Belhaasi Weald?"
"Only that it is in the way of my squad and me," Crinnan replied, crossing his arms, "What more is there to know?"
Sage superciliously shook his head and stood upright. "Much," he insisted, pointing at Crinnan. "Traversing the Belhaasi Weald will be more than a simple stroll through the woods if you will forgive the pun. There is much to contend with in these forgotten ruins." He stepped around Crinnan, never removing his gaze.
"What then?" Crinnan asked impatiently, "What must a person of my abilities worry themselves with?"
"Your abilities," Sage laughed and shook his head with amusement, "Were they enough for you last time you entered this Ancient overgrown city?"
"Last time I was ambushed," Crinnan retorted, "I was on patrol, surrounded… I fought, but was bested."
"By whom?" Sage asked.
"Many people," Crinnan recalled, "It was dark. They were in the trees, and I was alone."
"You were captured by the Toraan," Sage told him, "Consider them the Belhaasi version of Canrom's Marauders only more grotesque. Had I not found you, your body would surely be in some stage of digestion by now."
Crinnan grunted and nodded his head. "Well, thanks then," he looked away from his supposed savior. He tried to recall the faces of his attackers but realized he had not fully seen a single one of them. All he could remember was their stench, the feeling of his blood draining onto the ground, and then a sudden nothing.
"Do not put your trust in your abilities alone," Sage leaned on the ruined counter once again, "Find faith in something more, trust in something higher than yourself."
Crinnan groaned and turned around. It was already enough that Sage seemed like an overpowered lunatic of a hermit, but throwing the idea of being "evangelized" to while wandering through the ruins of a thousand-year-old city just seemed like more than he could stomach.
"Who shall I put my faith in if not myself?" Crinnan asked, "Dura'Ana? The Brothers? Igo? Who?"
Sage smiled and winked at the boy, "Me."
Crinnan huffed and started toward the hole in the wall at the front of the house, stepping over one of the dead Govians on his way. "Are we ready?" he asked, holding his hands outward, "Can we leave now?"
"We are and we can," Sage stood up from the table he was leaning on, "I suppose I will tidy up once I return. Before we leave, however, could I bother you to drag those bodies outside? I would hate to return home to the odor of rotting flesh."
"Can you not simply move them with your… magic shit?" Crinnan asked, glaring at the Elf.
"I could," Sage shrugged, "But I should say you killed them; you move them."
Crinnan sighed and walked over to the body in the center of the room, the one he had shot in the head. He grabbed the soldier by the hands and pulled him back toward the hole in the wall. He dragged him over the rubble and onto the splintered porch outside.
"Is this far enough?" Crinnan shouted back at Sage as he looked behind him. Sage shook his head and waved his extended index finger in the direction of the woods.
"Further," Sage replied, "I should say the grass is far enough."
Crinnan huffed again and dragged the Govian down the two stairs that led to the lawn. "I should say that you are a fucking idiot," Crinnan grumbled under his breath as he tossed the body into the grass. He dusted off his hands and looked back up into the house where he saw Sage laughing softly to himself. Had he heard him?
The dead body of the Govian whose face mask Crinnan had shot through floated through the air, out the hole in the wall and past where Crinnan stood. Crinnan watched silently for a moment and then turned his head over to Sage who remained unmoving, casually leaning against the splintered counter. He wore an expression that indicated he was bemused by Crinnan's reaction.
"One left," Sage pointed to the Govian whose throat Crinnan had slit, "Get him out, and then I should say it will be time to depart."
Hurriedly, Crinnan clamored inside and took hold of the dead Govian's arm. He began to drag the soldier but stopped when he noticed something clutched in the Govian's hand. He dropped the body and knelt next to it.
Curiously, he took hold of the soldier's wrist and pried his fingers open. A piece of crumpled, glossy paper fell from his hand and into the blood that had pooled on the floor. Crinnan carefully snatched the paper up and unfolded it.
The paper was a photograph, it showed an image of the soldier Crinnan had killed, but in civilian clothing. He wore a red collared shirt and denim pants and was knelt next to a brown-haired boy who looked no older than four or five years old.
"Stupid fuck," Crinnan sighed as he crumpled up and tossed the photograph onto the Govian's chest. He shook his head, feeling pity for the Govian and his son, "You fought your emperor's war and died a sorry death. You failed your child."
A violent wave of vertigo suddenly overcame Crinnan. He lost his balance and crashed forward, barely having enough time to catch himself from falling into the blood pool beneath him. His spine felt oddly cold as if it were somehow rapidly freezing. For a moment his whole body went numb. He lost his strength. And as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he fell on top of the stiff Govian body beneath him.
***
"Da, why!" Crinnan heard the voice of a young boy wail, "Don't leave me and Mama again, you promised you would be home a long time!"
He saw a young brown haired boy, the one from the picture he had found on the dead Govian. He looked around some more and realized he was standing in the living room of a Govian house. It was the type he had seen in pictures, clean, nicely painted, and comfortably furnished with a plush red couch and television. He looked directly at the boy, but the boy seemed not to notice him.
"Da has to do his job," Crinnan heard the voice of an adult male say. The Govian he had killed walked into view, not wearing civilian clothes like in the
picture, but instead outfitted in the combat armor he had died in. He too seemed oblivious to Crinnan's presence.
"I need to catch a bad person, someone who wants to hurt us," The Govian continued as he knelt and scooped his son up into his arms, "I'm doing this because it's my job to take care of you and my country… Da is going to help get all the bad people out of the world so that all little boys and girls can be happy and live good lives as you do."
"I just want you, Da," the child cried, "Other boys and girls have their own Da's to save them."
"Not all of them do," the Govian sniffled, tenderly stroking the boy's hair with his gloved hand, "Some need my help. Some need me to save them from the bad people so that they do not turn into bad people too."
The child was silent. Crinnan watched him nod his head and saw his lower lip quiver. His father patted the boy's head tenderly and walked toward the door.
"What is this?" Crinnan asked, as the images of the "vision" faded. It seemed to be swept away as if it were only dust in the wind and left Crinnan standing confused in darkness.
"My fucking memory," an unexpected voice replied. The voice sounded sullen, broken and highly irritated. Crinnan turned around and looked for the owner of the voice but found nobody.
"Who are you?" Crinnan asked, disturbed by the situation he found himself in, "What's going on?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," the voice returned, "And as for who I am, you cut my throat earlier. You killed me. You... watched me die."
***
Crinnan jerked his body awake, and in a sudden panic, he hurriedly crawled backward. Sage closed his arms around the boy and held him tight, patting the confused soldier's shoulders and whispering that everything was okay.
The Black Knight Box Set Page 9