by Liam Reese
Cold sickness dribbled through her as she watched them screaming and bleeding. Herofic cut them down mercilessly, felling them like a farmer cutting hay. Tears streamed down her face as she watched the soldiers die or fall, so injured they could never hope to live. One stumbled past her, holding the severed stump of his right arm and mumbling as his lifeblood sprayed out between his fingers. Hot drops hit her face as he passed, slowing and falling to his knees before slumping forward to the ground.
Screams of agony and panic smashed into Keluse’s ears, and she turned to see the nightmare scene of the other soldiers mercilessly hacking their way through unarmed tent-town residents. One blood-soaked man grinned maniacally as he slashed his curved sword at a fleeing child.
“No!” Keluse screamed.
Her body performed the action of raising her bow before she even realized what was about to happen. An arrow punched through the breastplate and into the chest of the soldier, pitching him backwards to be trampled by fleeing citizens and advancing soldiers.
Keluse’s mind whirled, thoughts tumbling in her brain. Did he have a family? Children? Were there those who would miss him? What even was his name? Rooted to the ground, betrayed by her own mind and racked with guilt, Keluse could only watch as the horrible battle raged around her.
Herofic and Besmir had killed the formerly mounted soldiers; their hacked, broken bodies lay in various poses of anguish. Nightmare injuries marked their bodies where the axman had cleaved into them viciously. In all the time Besmir had been teaching her to become a hunter, Keluse had never felt squeamish, but seeing inside these men made her palms tingle, a pain growing in between her breasts. Entrails had spilled from one man, and she watched in abject sorrow as their owner tried to gather his guts, the loops spurting through his fingers as he sobbed and begged.
Besmir let another arrow fly, watching as it slammed into the back of a soldier, knocking him forward. Ranyor slashed his sword at his neck, severing his spine and killing him instantly. He watched the sinewy man whirl, slashing at another man and catching him across the face.
Turning, Besmir watched a group of women and their older children jump on another man, dragging him down by force of numbers. One little mob grabbed his sword arm, pinning it to the ground and wrenching his weapon free, while one of the women − a mother, Besmir was sure − drove a crude knife just beneath the edge of his helmet. Even at such a distance Besmir heard his gurgling scream.
Herofic was leaning on his ax, breathing heavily as he scanned the battle ground for danger. Besmir darted across to him.
“What ails you?”
“Why did you start all this? Killing the lead soldier like that?”
Herofic stood, grunting in disdain, and hefted the ax again.
“You would have preferred it if I had waited for them to start the slaughter?” he asked, anger coloring his face.
“I’d have preferred it if you’d have given me a chance to speak, to give myself up before chopping his head in half.”
“And achieve what?” Herofic demanded, spinning to face Besmir. “You would be dead and the hopes of everyone finished.” His eyes bored into Besmir’s own, filled with rage.
“But these people would be alive!” Besmir cried. “Women, children. They’d be able to live another day.”
Herofic slammed his ax down into the neck of a moaning soldier as he writhed on the ground, clutching at his belly. Besmir watched coldly as he died.
“They would be dead and more besides had I not attacked first,” Herofic grumbled. “And you know it. You saw the dead at the first camp we found. The other women and children? Burned beyond recognition? That is exactly what they would have done here.”
Besmir knew the stocky fighter was probably right, but the horrifying truth was that every person there, every dead child and mother, had died because of him. Besmir scanned the scene of violence before him. Dead soldiers lay side by side with the people of the tent town as if they had been defending rather than murdering them.
What manner of man is Tiernon to do this to the poor and starving?
“I’m sorry,” he muttered to Herofic.
“I knew your father and grandfather, lad,” Herofic said gently. “Good men both, and it seems the old saying about seeds and trees is not far wrong. Trust in Zaynorth and I, Besmir, trust we have the best interests of Gazluth in our very hearts.” He offered his hand and Besmir took it. “My king,” Herofic added.
The younger man grinned.
“Let’s end this,” he said, searching for any remaining soldiers.
Ranyor slashed his blade across the face of one soldier as a ragged group of women and children hauled another to the ground, butchering him brutally. Ranyor watched them defend their home from these attackers in his peripheral vision as he faced the other man. The king’s soldier wrenched his damaged helmet off, hurling it at Ranyor and growling through his pain.
Ranyor saw his blow had dented the man’s helmet, mashing his nose and shredding his lips. Ranyor stabbed at him, not wishing to give him an advantage, but he danced back and brought his sword up, feinting at Ranyor before reversing his cut and slashing at his chest. Ranyor stepped back, reassessing the man before him.
“One of Tiernon’s better-trained dogs?” he goaded.
“Better a king’s dog than servant to a Pratak like him.” The soldier thrust his blood-coated chin at Besmir.
“What?” Ranyor asked with a grin. “It looks as if you have some kind of injury to your face.”
His opponent roared and charged Ranyor, slashing at him wildly. Ranyor parried one blow, turning the man’s blade so it caught in the dirt at his feet.
“No!” the soldier roared when he realized he was finished.
Ranyor slammed his blade into the man’s unprotected back before twisting it and wrenching it out again. Blood pumped from the soldier’s back, a thick fountain of crimson gore spreading over his clothing. Ranyor crouched beside him as he died, gripping his hand in brotherhood.
“We are all men of Gazluth,” he said. “Be at peace, brother.”
The downed man coughed out his final breath, the light fading from his eyes. Ranyor sighed, shaking his head.
“Are you injured?” he asked the group who had killed the other soldier.
“We...we are well, my lord,” one of the older women replied.
Ranyor saw the younger children were gathered around their mother, leaning into her skirts, while her slightly older children stood by, weeping. The eldest boy was pacing around, glaring up and down as if searching for something. Red-faced and with his teeth bared, the young man raged as Ranyor watched.
Sadness welled up inside Ranyor at seeing the bloodlust in the boy’s eyes and the utter burning hatred pouring from his every gesture. How many of the younger generation would never know how great Gazluth could be? Now that Tiernon had fractured the land, rending families apart and turning countrymen against each other, Ranyor feared for the future of his homeland.
Crying people milled around him, gathering what meager possessions they could find and attempting to repair what was left of their homes. The brief but brutal battle had damaged or destroyed around thirty tents, scattering the occupants’ personal items and trampling them into the mud.
Ranyor made his way through the crowd, dodging people looking for loved ones and stripping the dead soldiers of anything of value.
“Damn Tiernon to the Pits,” someone moaned as he wandered. “Sending his men here.”
“I wish that Besmir fellow had never come,” another voice complained.
“You would have starved without his aid, and you know it,” someone replied.
“Still, he is the cause of all this. We should have given him to them.”
“And you really think Tiernon would just let us be? Do you even recall the war?”
Ranyor walked on, ignoring the acid comments and soul-destroying wails as people recovered their dead. Arriving at the tent he had been sharing with Herofic, he found Keluse sitting cross
-legged at the entrance. Her head was bowed, a curtain of blonde hair cascading over her slim shoulders.
Relief flooded his system at the sight of her, and he longed to brush back her hair so he could see her face, lose himself in her sapphire eyes.
“Keluse,” he breathed. “I lost sight of you. What happe—”
Ranyor’s words failed in his throat as she looked up at him, the sight like a hammer to his gut. The Gravistardian woman’s face was screwed up, creased with guilt and pain, fear and horror. Tears had reddened her eyes, and her nose was red from wiping it repeatedly. She sucked in a breath, the air jumping in her throat, and sighed it out again.
“I-I-I...killed a man,” she wailed. “Sh-Sh-Shot him in the chest.” The pain in her voice tore at him. “I-I-I’m a killer!”
Ranyor squatted beside the sobbing girl, concerned for the gore on her face.
“And you, Keluse, are you injured? Where has all this blood come from?”
Keluse, however, was in no state to answer, muttering that she was sorry over and over again. Ranyor lifted her easily and she wrapped her arms around him, clinging on as if for her very life. He could feel her shaking, even through the thick clothing she wore, and Ranyor wondered how much this would change her. He ducked inside the surprisingly spacious tent, sitting them both down on his crude bed.
“All I can see is his face,” she said. “The pain and fright as he fell back.” She turned her wet eyes to him. “Do you think he had a wife or, or children?”
Ranyor considered lying to her but had made a promise to himself not to do so. Whatever she had suffered in her homeland, telling her lies would be to perpetuate that crime.
“I hope not,” he said gently, cupping her chin. “But many soldiers marry and have children before leaving for war.”
A low moan escaped from Keluse then, a wail of pain and sorrow that folded her in two. Ranyor laid a hand on her back, feeling the breaths expand her chest as he stroked her spine.
“His face,” she muttered. “I can’t forget his face.”
“What led you to shoot him?” Ranyor asked. “It might help to speak about it.”
Keluse sat up, turning her face to him, the pain still there.
“You think so?” she asked, hope filling her voice. Ranyor nodded. “When I saw him he was...was just about to kill a little girl. I-I-I don’t even remember pulling an arrow out or drawing my bow...but then he was dying with my a-arrow in his chest and I had my bow up. I can still see his face,” she added.
Ranyor held her hand, drawing invisible symbols on her skin and relishing how soft it felt.
“Look at it this way, then,” he said quietly. “If you had not stopped him, he may have slaughtered that girl and many more before someone else managed.” He studied her face to see if his words were having an effect. “He was killing children, Keluse. No matter what side of this conflict you are on, killing children is evil, heartless. It is Tiernon’s fun. In my opinion you are a savior, a heroine that protects children from evil men.”
Ranyor’s heart beat faster when a tiny smile crossed her lips, the tiniest hint of color returning to her cheeks.
“A heroine?” she asked. “Me?” Ranyor nodded, twining his fingers through her own. “I don’t think so,” she said.
A little of the pain left her voice, relieving Ranyor’s concerns somewhat. Warm pressure hit his chest abruptly and he stared into her eyes, a feeling of completeness washing over him.
“I can still see his face, though, I just can’t forget it,” Keluse muttered, staring at Ranyor’s lips. “Make me forget, Ranyor,” she begged. “Please,” she breathed, pressing her lips onto his.
11
Tiernon’s dog-girl prepared to scream the alarm.
Sharova had other ideas, however. He slipped the thin blade of his knife into her soft throat. Thoran slapped her hands to her mouth as the girl’s young body started to spasm in Sharova’s grip. Wrenching, choking noises came from her throat as she died, and Sharova felt a horrible sense of despair swell in his chest at having to kill her. Yet whatever Tiernon had done to make her the way she had been had been worse than him ending it.
Sharova hugged the dead girl to his chest as the jerks from her body got progressively weaker. He stroked her hair and whispered to her as she died, lifting her small frame with ease when it was over.
“I will not leave her here for him to defile further,” he explained when Thoran questioned him with her eyes.
Her face changed at his words, the deep creases at the apex of her nose vanishing, her eyes becoming round. She reached out and gripped his arm, squeezing gently in approval, then turned towards the door.
The Hall of Kings stood as silent and empty as it had earlier as the small group slipped from the king’s room, bare feet slapping on the stone floor and the sound of their combined breathing loud in the dark.
Sharova turned toward the throne room at the head of the corridor, staring at the gaping maw of blackness that was the hall itself. Thoran grabbed his arm as he was about to start forward.
“It is madness to go through there!” she hissed.
“It is also virtually unguarded and a good conduit to the outside world,” he whispered back.
The atmosphere in the great hall was markedly different to that which he remembered. When empty and only lit by celestial light, the massive room echoed hollowly with their combined footsteps. To Sharova, it sounded like thunder rolling through the hall, and he expected guards to appear and cut them to shreds at any moment. Although slight, Virine’s body was a constant burden, making Sharova’s back and arms ache. Sweat streamed down his back and his breathing came in pained gasps.
“Hand her to us,” one of the other women mumbled. “We will share the burden.”
Sharova reluctantly hefted the girl’s body into the other woman’s arms, watching as the other captives assisted her. He puffed a few breaths then turned and started forward again, his tired body shoving against a large, iron candelabra his eyes had not detected in the gloom.
His hands grabbed for it as it fell, but he was nowhere near strong enough to halt its fall after knocking it over, and it hit the floor with an explosive bang. Gasps and squeals of fright followed as cold shock pulsed through Sharova’s body.
“Run!” he hissed, grabbing Thoran’s hand and pulling her along.
Like a cloud of bats erupting from a cave, Sharova led the small group of women from the great hall and throne with its gilt dais and velvet drapery, entering the antechamber outside. The gathering area there was gravely silent, and Sharova was shocked to learn the alarm had not yet been raised.
Where are all the guards?
He paused briefly at the door, pressing his ear to the wood, hearing nothing but the blood roaring through his ears. Sharova reached down, twisting the heavy ring, sure that some guard would slash at his throat. The corridor outside was silent and as dark as the rest of the palace.
Sharova led the women down corridors that should have been kept lit but were as dark as jet stones. So nervous and filled with anticipation had he been on his way inside, Sharova had not even noticed. Now the empty hallways echoed with the whispers of the women behind him and the occasional strange thump. Doors that should have had guards stationed outside hung open, the chambers beyond silent as sepulchers.
Sharova put the issue out of his mind, not able to believe his luck, and concentrated on leading the women from the palace.
Still have to escape the grounds.
At the main door − still open as he had left it − Sharova peeked outside. Elegantly manicured lawns and shrubs lay still and fresh in the moonlight. Gazluth’s capital, Morantine, lay beyond the walled gardens, and his eyes could see the twinkling lights of hundreds of candles and fires.
“Are we free?” a ghostly voice asked from behind him.
Sharova turned to see the hopeful faces staring back at him and smiled.
“I believe you might just be,” he said. “A little more patience
and silence as we leave the grounds would be prudent, however.”
Running almost in a crouch, Sharova trotted along the gravel pathways, past bushes sculpted and clipped into the shape of beasts and heroes. A maze lay to his right, but he skirted round the edge, not wanting to get caught up in the green twists and turns. Glancing back, he saw the women were lagging behind, especially the few who carried the unfortunate Virine. Having been half starved and treated worse than cattle had certainly not helped, and Sharova slowed his pace until they caught up to him.
“Hand me the girl,” he ordered, taking the body from them. “For any who do not know, this is the northern gate.” He pointed to a darker patch of night. “Once through that gate you will all have to find your own way.” Sharova said grimly.
“Thank you, Fleet Admiral,” Thoran said.
Sharova felt his eyes widen when the younger woman hugged him tightly, pressing the warmth of her body against him. Two of the others followed suit, offering blessings and good fortune while thanking him for their lives.
He watched as one by one the former captives slipped from the gate, their forms melding with the night and disappearing from view. It was not long until only he and Thoran remained. He looked at her fine profile, strong yet delicate nose and the long, dark lashes that graced her eyes. His career had left little time for appreciation of the fairer sex, and a pang of regret hit him that he had wasted so many years in service to a mad tyrant.
Thoran caught his look and turned her eyes away in embarrassment.
“What are your thoughts?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Merely detailing my regrets, lady,” he replied. “We ought to leave here and put as many miles between us as possible.”
Thoran looked at him with something like awe in her eyes. Sharova could see tears glistening in the moonlight, and his heart broke to see them.
“Do not shed tears, lady,” he said. “You are free to return to your home and family,”
“I have none,” she said with a wrenching sob. “My home was attacked and burned to the ground. Tiernon had the women and older girls rounded up and put in massive wheeled cages. Then he made us watch his troops slaughter the men. My betrothed died fighting them.”