Heart of a Huntsman

by Liam Reese

  “I hope they fit,” he said quietly. “I had to make a few promises to get them.” He grinned as he passed the rings over.

  Norvasil slid the rings onto both Ranyor’s and Keluse’s fingers, removing the wrappings from their arms. He lifted their clasped hands high so all could see.

  “I declare you to be man and wife!” he shouted.

  The people around them cheered and clapped, hugging each other and the newlyweds, offering little gifts and tokens.

  “I love you too,” Keluse said as Ranyor led her towards their tent.

  Besmir floated above the city of Morantine, his light body able to sense the changing air currents that held him aloft. The raven he had taken control of had been busy pecking the eyes from a dead sheep it had found when he had slammed into it. The taste of rotting flesh still hung in his beaked mouth like a malevolent spirit.

  He swooped down towards the southern gate, expecting to find it locked tight and heavily guarded, yet when he touched down atop the granite wall that housed the gate, he saw nothing. The guardhouse sat silent and empty, the gate half open and unmanned. He would have frowned if his avian face had allowed it, but the raven simply tilted its head as a single figure slipped inside the gate, becoming one with the shadows.

  Besmir watched as the newly married Ranyor crept through the silent streets. An eerie silence had settled over the city and many of the buildings stood open, ransacked or simply empty. With a jump and flap of his wings, Besmir rose into the night ahead of the swordsman in search of any signs of life.

  His mission here was twofold. He wanted to see for himself what secrets the city might hold and saw the sense of his advisers telling him not to go. He also wanted to keep an eye on Ranyor, especially as he had just married Keluse.

  As he fluttered over the buildings and walkways, Besmir could see the piles of rubbish and discarded debris looters had left behind as they ransacked homes and businesses. Fire had broken out in a few places. Soot-blackened stones surrounded empty doorways that bled ash into the street.

  Besmir landed, strutting back and forth on the cobbled streets, waiting for Ranyor. The sound of footsteps echoed from the stones around him and he turned to see a small group of men approaching. Torches cast weak light that flickered, reflecting off his beady eyes as he twitched his head back and forth.

  “Will you look at that!” a voice said. “Crow stood there as bold as day!”

  A pockmarked face peered at Besmir in confusion as a second man pushed him aside.

  “That’s a raven,” the second man said. “Not a crow.”

  “Does it matter?” pockmark exclaimed. “Look at him just stood there!”

  “Ignore the bird,” the second man grunted. “We need to get out of this cursed city.”

  Besmir danced out of the way as the two companions stomped past. They were both poorly dressed and armed only with small daggers, making Besmir wonder what had happened to them.

  Abruptly Besmir realized they were heading straight for Ranyor, and leaped into the air to warn him. He rose above the buildings in search of his friend, flapping his wings madly when a freak gust threatened to blow him off course. His keen sight picked out Ranyor in the darkness, slinking through the streets. Besmir dropped like a stone, folding his wings to hammer towards the ground before the swordsman. He landed, flaring his wings at the last moment and mistiming it so he hit heavily.

  Ranyor turned the corner, his dark eyes landing on the raven as it capered about, trying to get its balance. Besmir could see his confusion as the bird scrambled about in a most un-birdlike way.

  “I may be losing my mind,” Ranyor whispered. “But is that you Besmir? He asked the bird.

  Besmir bobbed his raven body and head vigorously, making Ranyor grin.

  Besmir stared down the path Ranyor had been following and spread his wings out wide as if to stop him.

  “I take it you do not wish me to go that way,” Ranyor said.

  Besmir shook his bird head, waving his beak from side to side.

  “This is madness,” Ranyor said in amusement as he ducked inside an open doorway.

  Besmir launched himself into the air, wheeling up and out of the way of the two companions until they passed Ranyor’s hiding place.

  Moments later the swordsman appeared and slipped along the gap between two buildings and out onto the main road that led towards the palace. Outside the curtain wall surrounding the complex, Besmir could make out several dark shapes moving, and the sensation of horror crept over his feathered scalp. Whatever moved in the darkness was as far from human as it was possible to be, and the sensation that flowed over the raven’s body reminded Besmir of the absence in hell. Fright crawled through him when he thought about Ranyor coming into contact with whatever these things were, and he leaped into the air, trying to swim through it like a river.

  The swordsman was sneaking along the shadows on the eastern side of the avenue leading to the palace, using the ancient oaks for additional cover. Besmir headed awkwardly for him, almost crashing into Ranyor’s face, blinding him with his beak.

  “Gods!” Ranyor spat, batting at his avian king as Besmir flapped wildly at his face.

  Annoyance and shock made Ranyor ignore what Besmir was trying to tell him and he shoved at the bird, knocking Besmir to the ground.

  Besmir felt more than saw the creatures that guarded the palace as they approached Ranyor, sucking the life out of the air itself. As he pulled his conscious mind from the bird Besmir just made out the large shape of something that was not human grabbing Ranyor by the throat

  Ranyor felt the warmth pulled from the air as the raven flew away, cawing madly. He stepped out from behind the ancient, gnarled oak and almost straight into the ice cold grip of a massive hand. Fingers as strong as steel grabbed his throat before he could react, hauling him up into the air and face to face with something from a nightmare.

  Set too deep within the metal helmet it wore a pair of dim, yellow eyes gleamed like iridescent pus, glaring at Ranyor. His arm snapped as easily as a twig when the thing twisted it, his drawn sword clattering to the cobbles as he groaned in agony.

  Ranyor struggled vainly, pain throbbing in his arm as the large creature carried him towards the palace, its silence almost as eerie as its form.

  “I have seen you,” Tiernon said when Ranyor was dropped at his feet. “You are part of my nephew’s little army.”

  Ranyor turned his head from the vile stench that wafted from Tiernon’s mouth and grunted.

  “You will tell me everything I wish to know,” Tiernon said. “From his plans to his companions.”

  “Go die in a hole,” Ranyor said through clenched teeth.

  “That is unkind,” Tiernon muttered. “Perhaps this will loosen your tongue.”

  Flame crept through Ranyor’s veins, wrenching a scream from his throat as he collapsed to the floor. His heartbeat sped up and it felt as if his very blood itched. The one enduring thought keeping him from madness was Keluse’s face and he clung to the image as Tiernon tormented him.

  “You are strong,” Tiernon said. “I can see there is little point in asking you about Besmir so I will just end your life.”

  Ranyor heard a cracking sound as something vital gave way inside him. Pain lanced up his back, making his spine arch and the base of his skull tingle. His final thought was a regret that he would never get to meet his child.

  23

  “Zaynorth! Norvasil! Herofic!” Besmir bellowed as soon as his conscious mind flicked back into his own body.

  Arteera stared at him as if he had gone insane, turning over in their bed and pulling the covers up around her throat.

  “Middle of the night,” she muttered. “Quiet...sleep.”

  Besmir launched himself out of his pavilion, shouting and rousing the whole camp.

  “Ready yourselves! We must march!” he bellowed as he ran through the camp.

  Faces began to emerge from tents, bleary-eyed and angry but curious as to what the com
motion was. Many had drunk too much in celebration of Ranyor and Keluse’s wedding and were still a little drunk.

  “Get up!” Besmir shouted. “Wake and ready yourselves for battle!”

  Within minutes the whole camp was awash with activity. Women fell from tents half-dressed in armor but attempting to form up as elder children looked after younger ones with wide-eyed fright.

  “What is the cause of all this?” Zaynorth asked as he tugged his beard.

  “Ranyor is in trouble,” Besmir told him as Keluse trotted over.

  “Ranyor?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Something Tiernon’s brought here or...created,” Besmir said, “took him.”

  “Tiernon’s got him?” Keluse screamed. “Tiernon!”

  All the fight seemed to go out of her at once, and she collapsed against Besmir, who held her up as he issued commands through Herofic and Norvasil.

  Within an hour, the majority of Besmir’s army was marching down towards Morantine as the first fingers of light crept over the eastern horizon. Besmir rode at the head of his army, leading by example as he entered the largest city he had ever seen, the scale of the place overwhelming now he experienced it in his own body.

  The southern gate was easily fifteen feet in height. As thick as a man and fashioned from iron-bound tree trunks that had been squared, the pair of wooden doors hung partially open, and Besmir had crews open them fully before entering.

  The sound of hooves echoed hollowly back from the surrounding stonework, mingling with the nervous chattering from the woman at Besmir’s back. The king reined in, turning in the saddle to shout back at them.

  “There is nothing to fear within these sections of the city! Nothing resides here, it’s at the palace you will face your terrors. Know that I am proud to serve alongside every one of you, and come what may, I am proud to be your king!” He waited as their cheers died down before pulling the bow from his saddle and raising it high. “For Gazluth!” he shouted, spurring his horse forward.

  Besmir’s army thundered the cheer as they followed their king through the deserted streets and roads of the capital, kicking aside trash as they went.

  Besmir looked at the buildings he passed, each one a work of art as well as a functional building.

  “Where is everyone?” Herofic muttered as he marched. “That is what I want to know.”

  Zaynorth turned to stare at his normally fearless brother, noting the grim set of his mouth and the whiteness of his knuckles gripping his ax.

  “I have been wondering the same thing,” Besmir heard Zaynorth say. “There must have been twenty thousand people living here. Even were they all to flee the city, word would have reached us before now.”

  Besmir came to the oak-lined avenue leading to the palace gate and looked along its length, wondering where Ranyor had been taken, if he was still alive. Birds flew overhead and he briefly thought about taking one over but dismissed the idea, as he needed to do this in his own body. The hunter king clucked his horse forward, leading his army towards the palace.

  Sunlight broke over the buildings at his back, illuminating a scene that turned his stomach and made the whole army pause. Dead bodies lay in random heaps leading up to and through the palace walls. Some looked serene with arms folded, while others lay with their arms outstretched as if begging for salvation.

  Rage vied with the horror that crawled through Besmir as he looked at the awful scene. Men, women, children, none had been spared, and lay atop each other like firewood stacked for the winter.

  “Gods!” Besmir spat as the wind changed, bringing the scent of death to them all.

  He dismounted and let his horse go, the animal shying away from the smell of death. From inside the gate came a soul-chilling howl that was soon joined by others. Something stepped through the gate, dark and horrific in the dawn light. Seven feet of hairy muscle with claws and talons, slavering and insane with blood matting patches of the fur. Remnants of their armor clung to them, although the six forms had no need of any of it. The first through the gate reached into the pile of corpses at its feet and lifted a body by its arm. Limp and lifeless, the girl unfolded in its demonic grasp to hang facing Besmir, her dead face a mask of accusation. The creature hoisted the girl high into the air, dangling her before its maw as a horrible sucking sensation reached his ears and he realized the thing was feeding on her corpse.

  Rage took over Besmir at the sight. What right did these things have to kill the people he had promised to protect? What right did they even have to exist in this world? A scream tore from Besmir’s throat, and he charged at the creature that held the girl.

  The demon tossed the girl’s body at him almost contemptuously, but he managed to dodge it with ease. Besmir fired an arrow, catching the thing in the throat. A howl split the dawn light, pain and fright filled, as the beast felt the bite of injury for the first time in this world. Besmir’s hands flew as he filled the air with arrow after arrow, one leaving the bowstring before the previous missile had even hit home.

  Arrows bristled from the thing as it staggered towards Besmir with claws outstretched. Its muzzle peeled back in a grimace of agony, showing Besmir its jagged teeth. Chest, throat, abdomen and even its face had been pierced numerous times, causing terrible injuries, yet still it plodded towards Besmir as the army watched in utter silence.

  Besmir raised his hand as the thing reached him and tried to swipe at him. Its yellow eyes widened when a gout of flame exploded from his hand, engulfing it completely in blue fire. A hissing scream ripped from its throat as Besmir burned the thing alive. The stench of searing hair and cooking flesh washed over him, and he became vaguely aware of some retching sounds from behind him. Besmir’s lips pulled back in a grimace of effort and barely controlled rage as he intensified the flame. The demon writhed and mewled in agony, but no one mustered any pity for the vile thing.

  A loud popping sound erupted from the thing as its skin burst, spraying intestines and organs over itself and the ground around it. Besmir stared at the other five gathered beasts as they watched him burn their brother alive, a grin spreading over his face. It died in agony, its spilled organs cooking even as it still clung to the last threads of life.

  Besmir lowered his hand, staring at the charred, oozing mass of cooked and burned meat before him. Glad it was dead, he felt guilty for torturing the thing so. His guilt dissolved, however, when he saw the piles of bodies again. These things had no mercy in them and deserved none either.

  Shouldering his bow, the king drew a sword the White Blades had gifted him. Once belonging to his grandfather, they had secreted it among their stacks of weapons to keep it from Tiernon’s hands. Three feet of bright steel flashed in the dawn light as he held the sword aloft for all to see.

  “For Gazluth!” he screamed before charging at the group of demons.

  “Charge!” Herofic bellowed, hefting his ax.

  “White Blades to me!” Norvasil yelled, throwing himself forward as well.

  Unorganized and throbbing with fear, the army marched forward to join their king as he hacked and slashed at the ungodly beasts like a man possessed.

  The demons themselves appeared confused as to what was happening. Food had never behaved in this manner before. Food ran. Screamed. Died. Never attacked. Never caused hurt.

  Loraise kept one eye on Norvasil’s massive back as she waded in with the other women, hacking and stabbing the unholy beast that screamed and thrashed before her. Shock hammered up her arm every time she dipped her blade into the creature, but she carried on until numbness weakened her to the point she could no longer manage, and she stepped back, panting hard. Although they had three of the things down and dying, her eyes picked out writhing shapes on the ground, comrades and friends that had given their lives in the attack. Neighbors, women she knew, lay dead at her feet. Sadness and rage exploded in her chest with equal intensity. One of the demons lay crumpled in a heap atop several of her comrades.

  No. You do not share
the ground with my friends.

  Loraise walked over to where it lay, punctured and broken, blood leaking from hundreds of wounds. It looked pathetic in death. Massive but pathetic, and Loraise felt all fear evaporate as she looked at the thing. Reaching down, she grabbed it by one hand, its dead flesh chill and rubbery, but it was like pulling a root to move a tree. Its arm moved a little but no more. Loraise dropped its hand and fell to her knees, sobbing for the friends she had lost.

  Icy shock and panic gripped her when the hand gripped her neck. She wrestled with the demon’s wrist as it choked her, sitting up slowly, its dead head rolling limply on its shoulders. Loraise knew it was dead, but her oxygen-starved brain conjured images of the thing being able to come back from the dead, to kill endlessly until the world was a barren waste. Her chest ached, her fingertips tingled, and darkness started at the edges of her vision as the dead demon got back to its feet once more.

  “Dead!” it bellowed. “You are all dead!”

  Women turned to hack and stab at the dead thing, crowding around it and plunging their swords into it over and over. Long strips of flesh and muscle peeled back to reveal the tendons and bones inside.

  “Loraise!” Norvasil thundered as he dashed across the battleground towards the group.

  Women turned to see the immense man galloping towards them, broadsword raised above his head, and melted from his path like ice thrown into a furnace. Norvasil leaped into the air, bringing his sword down in a vicious arc that smashed and cut through the demon’s forearm, jerking its shoulder out of its socket as well. Sparks exploded where the sword hit the cobblestones, rising in a shower to set fire to the demon’s fur.

  Loraise slumped backwards, still gripping the demon’s severed arm but thankfully able to drag a little air into her lungs. Norvasil knelt beside her, oblivious to the chaos around them.

  “Are you well?” he asked gently as he freed her throat of the severed hand.