by Jeff Gunzel
The ranking of most cities and towns is directly tied to the amount of financial or political influence tied to that town. If a neighboring town is in economic turmoil or recovering from siege, the surrounding areas that have to share the same resources would actually benefit if the town were to dry up. As such, to provide aid on any level to a potential enemy, or at least a competing rival that could pose a threat in the future, is done rarely, and only at great cost to the recipient.
In fact, to dispose of an entire town that seems to be gaining strength and may pose a threat in the future is rare, but not unheard of. There are a number of ways to do this and not draw too much negative attention. The most common is to simply hire leathers, or mercenaries, if the militia’s resources are not sufficient enough.
Leathers have a reputation for not being skilled in anything but sword-wielding. Their notoriety precedes them, and most reputable tradesmen would never hire a leather for anything, no matter how minimal the skill level needed for the position. Leathers are either hired to kill, or not at all.
An accepted practice amongst the cities and towns is to hire leathers to ransack each other, making the attacked town inhospitable and thus forcing the populace to flee to the town that initiated the attack in the first place. With this plan of attack, two objectives are accomplished: the threat to power is no more, and the attacking faction’s numbers and resources increase.
In Tarmerria, the wildlife far outnumbers the small patches of civilization scattered across the continent. Countless beasts roam the fields and forests. Because of the existence of creatures such as the alcatross, a fierce carnivore large enough to take down humans, most of the continent is largely unexplored. Little is known about the lands that lie to the far north and south, except that the north is predominantly an uninhabitable desert and the south is an impenetrable forest.
Apart from the minor skirmishes and takeovers, no major battle has taken place in Tarmerria for hundreds of years. The last documented war, the “Undead War,” took place some four hundred years ago, and unlike the world of old, which historians continue to try to piece together, it is very well documented. It was a time when humans banded together to fight against the crytons, whom the humans named “the undead.”
Calling the crytons “the undead” is a deceiving concept born mostly out of superstition due more to their physical appearance than to any biological similarities to a walking corpse.
The war between humans and crytons lasted for fifty years, according to the records kept. The war was bloody on both sides, and in the end, the crytons retreated into the Mogan Forest, which is why it is sometimes referred to as the ‘Dead Forest.’
Most humans believe whatever crytons remained were probably killed by the unnatural energies dwelling there. No human could have ever returned from the dark forest, so why would the undead be any different?
Accounts of the war feats of the crytons include sketches of the war machines used by them. Their ingenuity was considered brilliant, and many historians believe they would have driven the humans into extinction if they had not been outnumbered fifty-to-one. There are detailed descriptions of the mystic powers used by many of them, accounts of creating fire from nothing but their bare hands and calling down lightning from the sky to strike their enemies.
Why did the war happen in the first place? No one knows who struck the first blow, or why. Nonetheless, the war raged on for decades before the humans drove the crytons back.
A favorite ghost story told by the elders entertains the idea that the undead still exist, and have found a permanent home in the dead forest. There, they wait patiently for the human world to lower its guard, and then they will rain fire from the skies and take back what they believe to be theirs.
Now would be as good a time as any, given that the humans are hardly united. Each town and city worries far more about its own affairs and survival. Any unity developed by humanity post-war is now nowhere to be seen.
Ghost stories have little bearing in the harsh daily life of Tarmerria, and folks keep doing just enough to see the next day come and go.
But there are far worse things lurking in the uncharted shadows of the realm than superstitious rumors…a far greater evil than the human world has ever known.
* * *
Chapter 1
Smooth wooden benches provide little comfort. Walls of brown stones encase the oval-shaped room.
For hundreds and thousands of men, this dank, musty room is the last sanctuary they will ever see before going to the afterlife.
The air is full with the usual sounds of grown men crying and whimpering while curled up on the floor. Men who consider themselves brave and hearty when tested by life’s trivial challenges now rock back and forth as they hug their own shoulders, sobbing uncontrollably while relieving themselves where they are. Others laugh hysterically as their minds break like twigs spun through a tornado. The rest remain quiet and reserved to their fate while they kneel on cold stone, praying to the deity of their choice, with no answer or sign forthcoming. Ironically, praying seems to make men feel more in control when giving up all control. It is easier to believe your life was never yours to begin with.
Even through the pungent smell, sheer emotion carries the strongest scent of all. The air is thick with pure terror. Only the strongest men could resist the onslaught of the looming reality swimming around the room. It would seem death itself is more welcome than the reality of having to think about it.
A warrior sat back against the cool stone and began to take in the whole scene. A room full of dead men who could not accept the cruel reality of their fate was nothing more than an annoying distraction to him now as he tried to clear his head for the upcoming test of survival—a test he not only didn’t fear, but found a strange sense of exuberance and even acceptance for. After all, we all meet our end sooner or later. No sense fearing the inevitable.
Continuing to let his mind relax, he found the cries and whimpers of the irrelevant souls in the room begin to fade into a muffled, distant hum, becoming nothing more than background sounds similar to wind rustling through the leaves of trees off in the distance.
With the warrior’s mind coming under a relaxing trance—a battle tactic learned long ago—his conscience drifted to the events leading up to his newest challenge. He thought back to a life that no longer belonged to him...
* * *
This is going to be a slaughter, the warrior thought to himself. More than fifty trained mercenaries would be attacking an unsuspecting village in the middle of the night. “Where is the honor in this?” the giant grumbled while fingering the handle on his axe, a handle shaped to represent the head of a wolf, complete with fangs and yellow eyes. If that wolf could talk, it would brag of the many souls taken over the years, none of which had been taken through anger or vengeance, but simply because that was the job that needed doing that day.
Leaning back in the saddle of his great warhorse, he eyed the men to his left and right without looking directly at them. It always seemed easier to prepare for battle when there were no distractions of morality or even friendship. He tried not to engage in any small talk or even make eye contact with friends before his “job” needed doing.
“You don’t like your duty now...huh, Morcel?” spoke the man to his right in a low, grumbling voice while looking around at everyone else, trying to gather approval for his jest.
The men in the immediate area let out a forced laugh but kept their eyes low. Forced because it was no secret how Morcel viewed such missions, and a touch nervous because there was not a man here who wanted to suffer the wrath of this killer merely over a jest.
The warrior’s head whirled around and looked directly at the man, who flinched, seemingly unnerved by the sudden attention given by those bright green eyes—a piercing, unnatural green that seemed like two emeralds gleaming in the dark.
“I’m glad you’re up to the task of killing women and children, Grom,” said Morcel in a rather lighthearted fa
shion as he leaned in close. “If any of the larger women give you trouble, I promise to protect you,” he said smugly.
Booming laughter echoed through the camp while an embarrassed Grom dipped his head and began fiddling with the reins of his horse.
Morcel decided not to push it any further. There was nothing to be gained by starting any arguments over something as out of place as morals, especially before preparing to purge a town of women and children. Besides, he had no bad blood towards Grom, or anyone else here for that matter. Most here were just following orders to earn some coin.
Sure, there were always the ones that actually enjoyed the killing. Some even enjoyed the victims screaming and pleading for their lives, as if it were some sort of game. They were no different than boys burning ants with a looking glass, trying to play god. But he wanted to believe most viewed all of this similar to the way he did: just hoping to get this cowardly act over with so they could go back to their wives, or whores, or whatever their illusion of love may be.
“Line up, you soulless leathers!” cried a booming voice from the back of the group.
“Leathers” was simply a nickname given to mercenaries, who were often described as leather—hard and tough, but not very refined.
“When the scout gives the signal, we charge, got it?”
Whistling and cheering followed the blunt command, for these men were killers, but clearly not soldiers.
“Arrowhead formations now,” said Belar in that deep, authoritative voice. “Leave none alive…” His voice trailed off as he spoke the hollow sentence his heart wanted no part of.
Belar was a tall, thin man who had seen his share of battles. This was certainly evident by the numerous scars across his chest and back, none of which could be seen due to his jet-black full-body leather armor. However, no visual evidence was needed to convince anyone of his past or skill set. His steady voice and dominant stare spoke a thousand words. The man could be giving instructions on how to sew, and the whole world would stop and listen.
Belar didn’t like this any more than Morcel did, but he had even less of a choice. Belar was the captain of the guard for the town of Athsmin, and had been sent to lead the pack of leathers in this mission.
The sleepy farmers’ town known as Brinton had been climbing in rank due to several good crop seasons and many well-run family businesses the last few years. Naturally, this was seen as a threat to the financial well-being of Athsmin, so that was it, then—wipe them out and blame local bandits for the unfortunate fate of the town. The militia back in Athsmin would take no part so no one could trace the slaughter to their doorstep. Not that any real investigation would ever take place. Such politics were not only accepted, but silently applauded as long as no witnesses remained. Only the strong survived in this harsh world, and none of the larger cities had any real reason to look into such grave misfortunes that befell smaller, insignificant towns.
Leathers had no loyalties and were known to do a thorough job. They always had a price, and their services could be bought for minimal coin. The only real instruction given to Belar was to keep these guys in line...and finish the job. That was all he planned to do. He was well aware that although they were all skilled killers, they had little real military experience, and trying to set up teams of various battle formations would do no good. Not that any real tactics would be needed this day. All there was to do now was wait for the signal from the scout they had sent in around an hour ago to be sure the streets were mostly empty. As long as he could walk to the center of town undetected, that would be good enough.
A burning arrow shot straight up into the night sky from the center of the sleepy town.
“Charge!” yelled Belar to virtually no one, as every leather was off in a flash long before the arrow reached its zenith. The thunderous sound of steel horseshoes pounding the hard ground echoed into the night as they roared down the hill and through the streets. Street lanterns cast their shadows on wooden shops and homes, the buildings hardly distinguishable from one another in the dim light as war shouts echoed off them.
By the time they had fully penetrated the town, there seemed to be no resistance at all. Many of the leathers had dismounted their horses for the simple reason that they could cover more ground without them. This was no battlefield, where the high ground would bring a significant advantage. It was simply a matter of kicking in doors and killing the contents inside. Grown men, women, infants, dogs; it made no difference. In order for the leathers to get paid, everything needed to die. The first wave, still mounted, charged clear through the town with reckless abandon. There was no fear of retaliation or even of some peasant getting off a lucky shot. Their plan was to clear the way and strike down any mounted defense that happened to have been quickly assembled. There was none to speak of.
The clopping sounds of horseshoes cracking against the stone roads cascaded in all directions. As Morcel galloped down street after street with his axe in hand, ready to strike anything that moved, a dark feeling crept over him. This was going to be worse than he thought. There was no militia coming out to deal with this threat. The leathers had undoubtedly made their presence known by now. He knew from countless battles that this was a total sign of submission. Everyone was hiding, and they would have to go door to door, killing families in their own living rooms. Let the bloodthirsty have their fun; I have no taste for killing infants. Morcel had known the whole time that it might come to this; he’d just hoped that it wouldn’t. He didn’t mind the helpless feeling of being completely outnumbered with certain doom looming, but strangely, this was gut-wrenching to him.
Dismounting his horse, he leaned against a street lantern on the side of the road and watched the impending chaos erupt all around him. Door after door was being smashed in as the savages ran into homes, followed by the chaotic screams from the families inside. Many did not even draw their swords as they entered, clearly having no fear of the trembling souls inside. He watched as entire families were pulled into the street and killed in front of one another. Some of the leathers went about it in a swift, businesslike fashion, hacking through entire families like cutting down weeds in a yard; showing no emotion at all, just wanting to get this done and gather their coin.
Others rather enjoyed the game, and made family members choose who would die first. Of course, the twisted request was always followed by incoherent wailing and screaming, finally ending with the gurgling sounds of slashed throats. They never let it play out too long for fear they would miss out on other victims, acting like greedy children fighting over candy at a festival even though they could not even finish what they had already collected.
The whole thing felt like a dream as the warrior walked down the street, seeing death on every corner. Half-naked women were dragged along by their hair, while others were thrown from second-story windows. Frightened men swung shovels at their would-be attackers while the leathers just laughed, easily dodging the amateur attacks.
It seemed odd to Morcel how similar all the executions were—every person pleading and begging for their lives with no more hope than to buy themselves a few more seconds in this world. With only a few exceptions, they didn’t even try to fight back. The mind of a warrior simply could not understand that.
The town was quite small, and he could see that most of the doors had been kicked in by now. I just want this over with. I won’t take any pay. I just want to get back home.
Just then, in an alley behind the local blacksmith’s shop, a sound caught his attention. Above all the anguished sounds echoing through the burning town, he somehow heard the bloodcurdling screams of a child.
Racing into the alley, the scene before him sent a tidal wave of emotion through him. There was a young boy no older than twelve bent completely naked over a broken bench, with two leathers holding him down. A third was standing behind them with what appeared to be the boy’s older sister wrapped in a tight bear hug. The fat, bearded man kept lifting her head back as he urged her to watch.
Thrashing wildly, the young girl of sixteen or so screeched at the top of her lungs, “Let him go. By the gods, let him go!” The horror in her eyes seemed to go beyond the fear of her own death.
Morcel followed her horrified gaze back to the boy, and could hardly believe his own eyes. The first leather, a thin man with a long, pointed beard and oversized black hat, pinned the head and shoulders of the boy to the bench while the other, even thinner man continued to push the handle of his dagger deep inside him. The child, no longer screaming, looked up at Morcel with a contorted expression, his mouth hanging wide open. It was unclear whether he had no air left in his lungs to scream with, or if the deformed look with his eyes rolled back into his head was simply from shock.
The scene sent a rage through the warrior that he had not felt in years. Of all the men he had killed in his lifetime, some deserved it, others did not, but it had never felt personal before. He wanted to scream about honor and the ways of the warrior, yet not a single word left his lips. The warrior instead did something that would change his life forever.
The two men were a good ten feet away, but with freakish speed for a man his size—or for any man, for that matter—he closed the distance in a fraction of a second. Gripping the wolf-head axe, he never remembered drawing it and slashing across the throat of the man to his left. Spinning like a tornado, he continued the axe’s path in a complete circle and gashed open the belly of the other before the first even fell.
Warm blood sprayed across the alley walls. The first man’s eyes bugged out of his head, as if someone were pushing them out of their sockets from inside his skull. His tongue hung grotesquely from a wide-open mouth that tried to scream, but only produced a sickening gurgle while his body hung backward. Then those bulging eyes looked straight up as his whole body finally tipped over. The second man simply lay draped over the poor boy like a dripping sack of gore, with his intestines strung to the side.