The Unworthy and The Damned

by Billy Wong

  The Unworthy and The Damned

  by Billy Wong

  The Unworthy and The Damned

  Copyright © 2017 Billy Wong

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Opening

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Credits and author page

  Sample of Iron Bloom

  The muddy battlefield was rank with the stench of blood and opened bowels, the thick fog perforated by ceaseless wails of the wounded and dying. Marcus limped past the bodies of friend and foe alike, almost wiping at the sweat that ran down his brow with his shield rim before stopping himself. His twisted knee hurt and he felt close to passing out inside the oven which passed for his cuirass, but he could count himself lucky compared to many others... for now. He reached his commander's side just as she cut down the last enemy archer, the burly white-bearded general she had saved stumbling away behind her with an arrow in his buttock and one hand raised in a gesture of thanks.

  "Princess Eleanor," he rasped fearing she wouldn't understand his parched voice, "why did you sacrifice yourself so for that old man? Your life is more valuable than his."

  Falling to one knee, the young royal looked towards him with a strained smile. "Isn't that a bit callous to say. He may be old, but he's a hearty fellow. I'd wager he still has many good years left, and that big family of his would be sad to lose him so soon. Besides, I take a pinprick or two better than most, so you calling it a sacrifice might be a tad exaggerated."

  "Should I do something about those?" He eyed the four feathered shafts jutting from her back, which she had taken shielding the general with her own flesh.

  A hulking figure in a dark cloak ran at Eleanor. She stood and made a backhanded cut with her great sword. Her attacker fell in two, the armored top half bouncing across the ground past her. "Just shave them so they won't get in my way too much." He slashed down behind her, shortening the arrows that pierced her to stubs. A tiny gasp reached his ears, but she didn't otherwise react other than to raise her arm so he could do the same to two shafts in her side acquired earlier. He had seen her cry over allies lost after many a fight before, but while combat went on, she was as a steel wall. "That's better. Arrows aren't heavy, but they feel heavier when they're inside you."

  The battle that had dragged on for so long seemed almost over, both sides exhausted. Fighting still continued in isolated pockets but most were just trying to drag themselves away with their lives intact at this point, a few more selfless souls helping others do the same. "Should we withdraw as well?" Marcus asked. "The enemy is depleted. Even if we concede this ground, they will not be able to take the city."

  Forcing her pain-twisted features into a stoic mask of determination, she shook her head. "This senseless slaughter has gone on long enough. Today it ends."

  "But Princess, you're badly hurt. There's blood leaking from your mouth."

  "One of those arrows probably poked a lung. Still, enough. I'll see this through to the end. That's an order, Captain."

  The pounding of heavy footfalls made him stare in their direction. A nightmarishly tall form approached through the mist. Marcus' heart pounded in his chest as he raised his sword, but if Eleanor felt similar fear, her face didn't show it. The massive thing came into focus, revealed to be two separate beings but no less imposing for it. An armored boar six feet at the shoulder, atop which sat the tallest man Marcus had ever seen—if indeed he was human. The pale, hairless giant in a horned helm looked to be in his thirties, though some rumors claimed him to have lived many times that long. Seeing how strange he looked, it wouldn't be hard to believe. His skeletal structure seemed unnaturally large, his brows sticking forward over his eyes like a ledge of bone, his chin an anvil-esque slab, his hands far bigger and thicker than even his eight and a half foot height should account for. His weight, Marcus could not guess at due to his shell of immense armor, layer over layer of enchanted metal went the tale—but for him to be able to wear that same armor, left no question as to his mammoth strength.

  "Lord Moloch," Eleanor said in an even tone, "son of the legendary Nephilim. Even knowing your ancestors' failure, you continue to rail against God's law? Or are you just an overgrown warlord with a bit of charisma, who managed to rally enough delusional malcontents to your cause?"

  The giant gave her a questioning look. "God's law? If you doubt my heritage, surely you don't believe the drivel rooted in the same mythos. But whether I be descended from angels or a mere man, the fact remains the same that the Kingdom of Eden's ways are outdated and past their usefulness. Step out of the way and I'll let you live." He seemed to consider. "You might make a fine bride, being quite valorous enough."

  Valorous and a fine symbol of your conquest, thought Marcus. "If she lets you pass, then what? Your forces are at the end of their strength as well, you won't conquer us like this."

  Moloch ignored him, not shifting his gaze from the princess. Maybe he refused to consider the possibility of not succeeding... or perhaps he had a trump card. She for her part stood silently before him, hunched against her will from her grievous hurts yet not backing down. "Why do you have such loyalty to your coward of a father, who would send a young girl to die in his stead instead of facing me like a man?"

  Eleanor's response didn't carry the anger one might expect. Flatly, she replied, "I'm not worth as much. If I die, he can just make another heir. But if the king falls..." She raised a hand before Marcus could protest. "You don't need to say anything. He's much more experienced and important to the stability of the country. All else is secondary."

  "I admire your courage," the giant said with a nod. "If only that famed bodyguard of yours were here, though. I would look forward to testing my arms against him."

  That put a hint of edge into her voice. "You know the reason he isn't is because he was poisoned by your supporters and lies on the verge of death. Now who's the coward?"

  "I do not control or approve every action of those who support me." He hefted his black pike, the toothlike head big as most swords. Coils of darkness swirled out from it, sending chills through Marcus while they washed over him. Allies ran shouting in panic, which he realized not to be just irrational fright, but a preternatural terror that emanated from the weapon. He felt a touch of wetness inside his pants. Yet being the proud officer he was, he couldn't even feel embarrassed given the intensity of the aura.

  Eleanor however appeared unmoved. Moloch frowned. "You are the only person who has managed to hide their fear before the spear of our father, the Lord of Light. At least, I consider you a worthy opponent in spirit, though the contest itself may not be so sporting."

  A grin played across her lips. "You might be surprised."

  "You smile in the face of death? Even putting aside your size and sex, you can barely stand. The dark gore
oozing down your chin tells me you might not survive even if I showed mercy and asked my healers to save you. And you still plan to fight?"

  "Yes. Show me the strength of the Nephilim!" Marcus thought against his instincts to back her up, but before he could do anything she burst forward, so fast she seemed to disappear from sight. Then she was behind Moloch's mount and blood sprayed out everywhere. No, not everywhere, Marcus realized. It jetted all around the boar, but from one place—a single clean cut from between its jaws to its rump. As easily as she had cloven through that armored man before, she'd dispatched the beast likely ten times her weight.

  Moloch jumped off his steed as it collapsed in twain, barely landing on his feet. "Even that badly wounded, you're still-" He had no time to finish before Eleanor was on him, battering away at his guard in a blur to put him on his heels. When he gathered himself enough to swing back, she leapt high into the air over the cursed spear and descended spinning towards him. Marcus doubted he would be able to judge the position of her flashing sword well enough to defend, but Moloch somehow did, blocking a downward chop though his back leg bent noticeably under the force of it. He shoved her away with a grunt, eyes wide.

  Marcus struck at him from the flank only to be repelled by an effortless parry that sent him stumbling back multiple steps. Eleanor flew over an abandoned wagon and kicked it towards her adversary as she passed. He met it with a huge shoulder, shattering it to splinters, but an instant later the princess stood in front of him and he froze. Marcus didn't understand at first, until he spotted the gap in Moloch's outer layer of armor... followed by matching rents in the second layer... the third... the vast muscles of his chest... and finally his breastbone. Blood spurted, splashing over Marcus' face as the giant crashed down on his back.

  "This is your divine power?" Eleanor asked. "I'm not impressed. And your mighty shaft is but a useless bauble in the end."

  Choking, Moloch struggled for words. "Sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness." He sounded delirious. "As long as you stand, the Kingdom of Eden's days are not numbered, I suppose." He died, eyes fixing in an awestruck stare at her. Wisps of blue energy drifted up from his corpse, dissipating into the air. So he had been a Nephilim after all? Marcus wondered what would become of his dark weapon after this.

  Eleanor sighed. "If only that were so." After a moment, she added as to clarify, "Fighting prowess is no guarantee of anything."

  "Princess?" Marcus asked in an involuntary whisper. "Were you holding back all along?"

  "Of course not!" She scowled. "I'm insulted you would even think that given how many people's lives were at stake. He didn't expect me to be so strong because his men hurt me to this extent, but I just haven't practiced defending against archery enough. It's a weakness I'll have to address."

  Even so, while he had been well aware the princess was inhumanly strong and fast, he had nonetheless been shocked by that last display. Perhaps she pushed herself to greater heights against powerful rivals without knowing it. "We should get you to a healer right away. Wouldn't want you to die coming off such a pivotal victory."

  Eleanor flashed a weak smile, making the red rivulets from her mouth seem almost like paint to mark her triumph. "Sure. I could use some rest. I'll be glad not to have these ugly stubs sticking out of me, at that."

  Chapter 1

  Celia walked anxiously down the central street of the plague town, hoping the mayor would not be indisposed so she could meet him and get out. The moans of the infected coming from houses she passed made her go faster, which did her no good for there were always more in front of her. She heard too the buzzing of flies over those who had already died, and while the bodies were hidden from view a strong stench of rot pervaded the air. The few grim-countenanced folks she saw outside, she gave a wide berth to. She felt a bit cowardly, but who wouldn't be afraid faced with ghastly disease?

  Damn, why had her father sent her here? She imagined maybe he didn't care so much about her life, and if she got sick and died so be it. But on a more rational level, she knew she shouldn't think that way. She could have asked not to come, but hadn't. He'd visited his share of afflicted towns before, and if he let her go now in his stead it was because he trusted her with important business. Despite her fear, she would stay the course and do what she had promised.

  She reached the mayor's cottage, an average dwelling distinguished only by its location in the center of town, and rapped on the rough door. After a few seconds, she knocked again. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

  The knob squealed as it turned, then the portal yawned slowly open. A middle-aged man with messy curls and large bags under his eyes stood there in a thin tunic, sweat glistening on his face and bare arms. "Sorry," he said in a winded voice, "I was dealing with something and failed to hear you."

  "It's no problem." Though, she hoped it didn't have to do with caring for a plague victim. If someone in the house was infected, he could carry the illness too. "Where is the mayor?"

  "I am the mayor." At her surprised look, he explained, "My servants have fallen sick. As the man of the household, it's my place to do the heavy lifting again."

  Celia tried not to let her worry show. "You don't have any sons?"

  "All daughters. My eldest is quite strong, and helps out her share. But that doesn't mean I'll shove it all on her. Anyway, you must be Celia, the trader's daughter?"

  While they hadn't met before, he probably recognized her from the large hilt jutting over her back. A well dressed young woman carrying around a greatsword wasn't the most common in these parts, if anywhere. "Yes. As I'm sure my father informed you, I'm here to offer medicine that will help your pe-"

  "As I replied to your father, the answer is no. We do not have the means to pay for undoubtedly expensive remedies that may not even work, and will simply have to do with God's providence."

  "May not work? My father is no charlatan! I understand why you might be skeptical, but we would not charge hard earned money for products that aren't known to be effective."

  He looked away in thought. "Admittedly, your family has a reputation as honorable merchants. However, there is still the issue of insufficient funds."

  "I haven't even given a price estimate yet."

  "Then give one, and I will respond."

  "How many sick are there?" After a bit of discourse, she calculated, "It will probably cost around two thousand marks for enough medicine for the already infected, plus those who will become so in the near future."

  "Two thousand! I must repeat my answer to you, which is no. We cannot possibly come up with that much, especially now when many are unable to work."

  "But without treatment, a lot of people will die!" While she was here on business, she would feel bad to leave so many victims to their death when there was something she could do. Besides, she'd hate to head home after coming all this way with nothing to show for it. "What if I offered a discount? We aren't a charity, but it should be possible to lower the price some while still making a profit."

  He raised an eyebrow. "I must commend you, most merchants would not give ground so soon." A savvy party, however, would likely attribute that to her inexperience. "How much are you suggesting?"

  They could probably sell the medicine for twenty percent less for a minimal profit. But a minimal profit would disappoint her father. "Ten percent would be doable."

  "That is still too much. We could not gather such funds in a short timeframe."

  Celia considered lowering the price further, but her father's tutelage warned against it, and they might not be able to afford it even then. "How about ten percent off, but with deferred payment? You can pay half when you get the medicine, and the rest once enough people have recovered and can work again. Would that be acceptable?"

  "Nine hundred marks... hmm. It seems just a tad out of our reach. A third of the full payment initially, we should just be able to manage."

  She wondered if he might be playing her now, and seeking favorable conditions beyond what was needed. "Half is
the final offer," she said, testing him with her hard stance.

  The mayor cracked a smile. "You have fair savvy for barely more than a child. All right, it's a deal. Half at first it is."

  #

  Celia wasted little time as she restocked on food, not bothering to indulge in small talk with the balding shopkeep. He probably wouldn't take much pleasure from it anyway, no doubt having sick friends or kin to preoccupy him. She left the town to the north, knowing she would have to continue northwest to reach the monastery in the hills where plague medicine was made. Minutes after exiting through the simple gate made up of three wooden poles tied together, she spotted a girl about her age in a shabby dress walking towards her. A villager back from gathering herbs, judging from the bundle of them in her arms. Celia stepped sideways, not wanting to get too close to the exhausted looking stranger. Just as they were about to pass one another, the girl tripped, falling facedown in the dirt. Instinctively Celia ran over and knelt at her side.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, trying to help her up, but not too quickly in case she was hurt.

  The girl, thin and freckled, pushed herself to her hands and knees. She stared in dismay at the herbs crushed under or stuck to her chest, and a sob escaped her lips. "I destroyed them! After trying so hard to find them, I couldn't even bring them back..."

  Celia patted her back, feeling a bit annoyed at her naivete, but also sympathetic. Being a similar age to her, the girl must have quite the unfortunate lack of education. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. Those must be for eating or making soup, right? Herbs aren't unusable after being crushed. Just wash them off, and you can cook them just fine. Haven't you ever heard of dried or powdered herbs? Even in much more altered condition than that, they retain their distinct properties."

  The girl looked at her with hopeful eyes. "So you mean I'll be able to save my pa?"