by Damien Lake
He forced his legs to support him and rose unsteadily. His sword was lodged inside the beast’s corpse. A hard tug did nothing to dislodge it. Only a sustained pull with all his strength finally freed it.
Marik’s head rang. His neck had been filled with ground glass. He struggled to think what he should do when Colbey stepped beside him from behind. The scout cast one scornful glance over him before sneering, “Now you learn what it means to be ready to fight!”
That made Marik angry enough to push away the other emotions roiling in a turbulent turmoil. Colbey had not fought! He had stood behind like a coward!
He nearly shouted this before he noted the scout held a bow. Fresh panic plucked at him until he saw it was different from Edwin’s. Wherever Colbey had acquired it, Edwin must still be alive and shooting.
“There!” Colbey shouted before Marik could ask. “That white-robe! They are the minds behind these beasts! They are the controllers! Kill them first!”
The scout fired before Marik could see what Colbey spoke of. A tumbling body caught his eye, a man shape amidst the demonic hoard. He must have been sitting curled in one’s arm to have tumbled as he did. Colbey’s arrow had pierced his chest. His white robe rippled in free-fall, a hood fluttering from his back, unused despite the cold temperature.
Why did a man travel in the arms of a monster? His mind stuck on that question for a heartbeat until a change exploded through their demonic ranks, all the more terrifying for its inexplicable nature. Several nearby creatures threw back their heads while clutching their temples around their horns, shrieking rage-filled roars that made their previous bellows sounds as whispers.
Marik’s legs collapsed anew under the horrendous sound assaulting him. His ears were going to rupture! He clasped his hands over them and felt childish screams ripping from his throat, completely inaudible to the man originating them.
When he unclenched his eyes, wet from terrified tears, he saw that three monsters had ceased their attack. They stood as the one he had faced, licking wounds or otherwise ignoring the humans. That state lasted for a further ten seconds until a different beast came closer than the first cared for.
It snarled at the second, which remained focused on a guardsman, pushing forward to kill. The first lashed out in challenge.
Whatever hold kept the monster at its purpose broke when its fellow snarled and clawed. They turned on each other, snapping, swinging massive hands, until they wrestled on the frozen ground, locked in battle.
It made no sense. Men running with demons? Demons turning on each other? Marik comprehended nothing he saw. Were these creatures Devils summoned from a different plane of existence by a sorcerer? They certainly sounded like such, as described by Tollaf, but their eyes, bestial and ferocious, were ordinary for all that. Celerity said a Devil always had red eyes…or some other color…hadn’t she? Hadn’t—
Colbey struck him a harsh slap across the face. When the confusion cleared from Marik’s gaze, he commanded, “The white-robes! Kill them quickly, if you value seeing tomorrow’s dawn!”
The scout dashed away, straight into a different fight involving three demon-beasts. He dodged around the conflict to disappear amid furry, savage legs.
His raw shock abated in part. Marik looked at his sword. It would be no good; a useless metal lump. Colbey had shown him what to do.
Marik ran back into the surviving men on shivering legs, aching head darting everywhere until he found who he wanted. He grabbed Churt’s shoulder while the boy fumbled for a new quarrel from his waist quiver.
Churt leapt at Marik’s unexpected touch. His eyes were wider than Marik had ever seen, the demeanor beyond his years vanished. Marik gripped his arm and shouted into his ear, telling the young man what needed to be done. As soon as Churt understood, or said he did, Marik dashed away to find the other archers.
He needed to spread the word quickly to everyone with a bow. While explaining to the eighth man, a renewed earth-shaking howl ripped apart the world. The archers had killed a white-robe, or else Colbey had found one wherever he’d run off to. Monsters at various points in the line paused before the savage beasts continued battling.
Unfortunately, Marik quickly learned, this enemy weakness was no simple matter. Though the beasts would fight each other, they were also equally pleased to continue killing men. These demons delighted in warring against any living creature within reach of their claws.
The opportunity came when four beasts, each one combating the other three, pushed their battle into a knot comprising eight monsters engaged in fighting Atcheron’s and Fraser’s failing defense. Marik never heard the shouted commands, yet it took no imagination. Every surviving man ran as angry demons shifted their attention from the smaller, weaker prey to their own.
With the beasts occupied, the savaged defenders were able scramble away from the Stoneseams pass. Exhaustion plagued every man from the long march that had ended in a sudden life or death struggle.
Despite that, even the wounded found energy to run for the town while night descended, each man listening to the hell-born cacophony dogging their stumbling steps.
* * * * *
They ran as Marik could never remember doing before in his life. The distance to the town never shortened; a far longer journey than returning to Kingshome, surely. Steps flagged. Wounds took their toll on men still unable to accept what they had just been through.
When at last they gained the first buildings, Marik felt like kneeling to sing praises in Ercsilon’s name. Hymns of deliverance were cut short before they could begin when the distant battle roars shifted, uniting into that rising howl that announced a pack on the hunt.
Whatever they had gained by killing those white-robed figures abruptly vanished. The beasts ceased their squabbling to resume their focused battle against the Galemarans.
Fraser and Atcheron immediately ordered wagons to carry those wounded who could no longer move under their own power. If any could be found. Marik, with several able-bodied mercenaries, ran through the rapidly emptying village to search out conveyances. Three were located, along with the horses to pull them, but they were too few. The duty switched to confiscating wagons from those who sought to flee.
Most residents had already run, escaping from the carnage they could see and clearly hear. Others, primarily the few merchants who ran the village’s trade businesses, had loitered, hoping the conflict would remain in the pass, or else they had been too busy loading wagons with every possession they could lift.
Marik would have felt ill at ease under normal circumstances, stealing wagons from honest people wanting only to survive with their livelihood intact. Snarling, fanged demons with curving horns leapt through his mind, as frighteningly real as when he’d fought them. He shoved piled boxes and crates from flatbeds or tossed bags over the railed sides without much care for anything beyond his shieldmates’ lives. Goods could be replaced, whatever the outraged merchants thought. Lives could not be.
Most merchants fled on horseback after realizing the fighters would deny them their wagons. A handful refused to leave, instead sorting through the piles to repack the smallest valuables into their travel packs. Three demanded compensation and followed the mercenaries back to where Atcheron worked beside his men to lift wounded bodies into a cart.
Marik ignored their arguments. He was too busy searching through the still forms while he rapidly provided help wherever it was needed. His sick worry mounted into a painful knot twisting his stomach until he finally found Dietrik binding Floroes’ head wound.
His friend glanced over briefly when Marik arrived, refocusing his attention on the amateur chirurgeon’s injury as he bitterly commented, “Tall tales and unfounded exaggerations, eh? Bloody curse it all!”
“The joke’s on us. Are you all right?”
Dietrik nodded. Floroes gasped in pain. “Sorry, chum. No time for finesse, though.”
“I know,” the big man assured in a faint voice. “Keep the wrap tight over the pad, or t
he flow will never staunch. You can bleed out from head wounds, shallow ones too, if you aren’t careful.”
“Yes. Mate, come put your finger on this.” When Marik held the bandage wraps tight so Dietrik could tie them without adding slack, the smaller man continued. “A fine lot of bloody good I was. I stayed behind the line. Not so much as a bow to fire. I thought I could thrust through that thick hide of theirs with my rapier. No other blade can match rapiers for thrusting power, but I saw how much good it did him.” He gestured with his nose off to one side.
Marik found Arvallar sitting atop a crate. His fine clothing was ripped in many places, his customary hat gone, no doubt being flattened under demonic feet at that very moment. Every inch of him exuded shocked dejection. Wide, unbelieving eyes stared blankly at the rapier in his hands with its severe bend. Only a skilled smith would ever be able to completely restore it. If it could be repaired at all.
“Those things…” Marik’s voice faded. He searched for any words that would comfort either of them. None came, so he voiced a different concern. “They caught us by surprise but I’m not sure it would have made any difference. They aren’t men.”
Dietrik snorted. “Is that supposed to be a revelation?”
“I meant you can’t kill them the way you can kill us…men I mean! They…” He shook his head. “They are monsters. We can kill them, but not like this. Though…though Colbey knew what to do.”
“Sorry?”
“Colbey knew to kill those white-robed people the monsters were carrying. I don’t know who they are, but he called them controllers.”
“Controllers?”
“I don’t know what that means either. Whenever one died, the beasts rampaged. That must mean they hold the monsters to their purpose.”
Dietrik stared hard at Marik. His voice came harder still. “Do you realize what that suggests? Which is worse? That these hell-beasts are ravaging the land? Or that men are using them to do so as a hunter uses his dogs?”
“How in the hells should I know?” But if these are the dogs, then please, Ercsilon, I don’t ever want to meet the hunter!
“How did Colbey cotton to that? Is it what he learned during his time scouting across the border?”
“I suppose, perhaps... Where is he? Have you seen him?”
“No, I have not,” Dietrik said. Sloan came stalking through their corner, snapping harshly at everyone and shouting that they would be moving out in the next two minutes.
Both mercenaries set to working hard. The intense labor kept them from the unanswerable questions ringing through their heads. Wagons were overloaded with wounded men, many piled atop each other. Legs were propped atop torsos opposite their bearers. Axles creaked ominously. Horses pranced and the drivers strained to prevent the distant roars from panicking them into a terrified gallop.
They pushed hard, their only concern to increase the distance between their limping group and their pursuers. Marik cared for little else during the first candlemark. The beasts were pursing them, the sounds drawing closer. A quick drift into the etheric confirmed what his ears already knew. Barely a quarter-mark after leaving, they could hear the town’s unmistakable destruction. Wood splintering, walls tumbling, roofs collapsing.
And through it all, the chilling, bestial cries.
The leaders pressed on despite the exhaustion sapping the men and the nighttime darkness obscuring their vision. It soon became apparent that Atcheron meant to retreat as far as the Eighteenth Outpost. There they would find reinforcements. There they could send reports and desperate requests to the scattered army detachments.
Though mostly unwounded, the men afoot staggered when the outpost’s lights at last shone through the darkness. Marik stumbled, close to collapse, while sentry cries alerted the army posting to possible attack. He hardly cared when soldiers rushed from their tents with swords drawn. They lowered their blades after Atcheron declared his name, but Marik would have walked into the steel points regardless. The roused outpost soldiers could kill him if they wanted. All he wanted was to find a spot to rest.
Their ragged state quickly put the outpost on guard. A quartermaster with shirt hanging open soon directed the newcomers to temporary quarters, a ridiculous stocking sleep-cap still perched atop his head.
There were not enough available tents to house everyone. The baron’s men and the few survivors from Lysendra’s guard quickly filled the limited space. As usual, Marik and Dietrik bitterly reflected, the mercenaries drew the short straw, each man being stuffed into crannies about the outpost. They, along with Floroes, Cork, Wyman and a Third Unit man were left crouching in a canvas alley between crates beside the large command tent’s western wall.
The Ninth Squad scattered across the entire outpost. Two chirurgeons dashed from nook to cranny, several assistants accompanying them carrying bandages or other medical implements mounded in their arms. Other men made rounds for no reason apparent to Marik, each stopping to ask inane questions without substance before scurrying away to annoy someone else. Glynn eventually appeared, extremely flustered, asking Marik if he had sustained any injures. When Marik replied he had not, his relief noticeably blossomed. He started to leave before suddenly stopping, then, stuttering in an embarrassed manner, asked the others present the same question. Their denials allowed Glynn to stiffen his spine, nod as though he had accomplished a grand deed, followed by an imperious departure.
Dietrik stared through the gloom in a silent commentary Marik ignored. His friend had spent the entire time since leaving the battle in shock.
Marik cast the whole mess away. Glynn could pretend he only had as much interest in him as any other fighter all he wanted, and Dietrik would collect his thoughts sooner or later. After the long, terrible day, he only wanted to sleep, to ignore the bustle so it would finally come to an end.
Sleep eluded him. As exhausted as his body was, as numbed as his mind might be, wakefulness plagued him. He felt too tired to do anything, even to fall asleep, absurd as that would have sounded to him at any other time. Propped against his crate, he allowed the strangeness to wash over him. The crazed rumors come to life, the horrible battle, the nightmares made flesh…
The aftermath.
“I am not denying the evidence of my eyes,” a strange voice, sounding angry, drifted to him. Marik shifted his head to stare dumbly at the tent wall through which had floated the declaration. “And the Eighteenth Outpost is preparing to defend. Messengers will leave within the next quarter-mark to warn the nearby armed forces as well.”
“Damn it all!” Marik dimly recognized this voice as Baron Atcheron’s, cursing vehemently. “I’m telling you that’s not good enough, captain! You need to call for reinforcements! For more men! You need to report this straight to the nearest regiment and get them here at once!”
“I am sending a report, my lord baron.”
“But not the nature of those demon-beasts,” Fraser’s voice countered. “They need to come prepared, captain. Or else they will fare no better.”
“The Seventeenth Outpost will be sending their forces to aid us in…in plugging this breach in our border,” the captain stated decisively. “They will arrive by late morning, or noon latest.”
“Do you intent to hold back the facts?” Atcheron demanded.
“Facts? My lord baron, I am charged with holding this position in our defensive line. My duty demands I report on any change in conditions, not that I send the entire southern command into a frenzy by passing on unverified rumors and wild stories.” Atcheron and Fraser both started with hot retorts which the captain overrode. “I have no evidence of these…these creatures other than your word, gentlemen. And while I have no reason to doubt your word, I cannot disrupt the army’s structure solely on unverified information.”
“How much verification do you need?” thundered Fraser. “Look at our men! They are the lucky ones!”
“I have no doubt that you encountered a substantial opponent, lieutenant. Perhaps an armed rebellion force ou
t from Tullainia, or a squad of whatever militants is causing the ruckus over there. The other outposts will arrive soon to help us push them back across where they belong.”
“Are you calling me a liar? Are you calling the baron a deceiver?”
“A…no, I am certainly not! I am sure…” the voice wavered, plainly uncertain about everything. “I am sure there is an explanation behind whatever you thought you saw. Maybe…maybe a strange spell that befuddled you.” A brief silence met this comment, followed by the captain resuming, his tone changing from uncertainty to a religious zealot preaching his faith’s principles. “Yes! I am sure that explains what you thought you saw. A spell to confuse your enemies and make them believe they see phantoms while your men slaughter them with ease! A despicable strategy, but once you see through it, it can be countered.”
Atcheron, outraged, shouted, “Those were no misty vapors that killed my men, captain! Those were demons straight from Vernilock’s parlor!”
The captain replied, his voice firm with conviction, “I am sure you believe that to be so, my lord baron. Ah, when we drive them back tomorrow, then we shall see the heart of the matter, yes?” He obviously thought that he would be the one saying ‘I told you so’ to the baron, rather than the other way around. “Have your able-bodied men ready to march out by tomorrow noon, my lord baron, and yours too, lieutenant. You will deploy with our forces.”
“You cursed fool!” Fraser yelled. “If you don’t send for the nearest force regiment, it will be your last mistake!”
“I need to change my dispatches. We need a magic user who can counter this confusion spell.” He completely ignored the council.
Rustling from within sounded, then the captain strode purposefully past the canvas alley’s mouth. Fraser and Atcheron stepped into view a moment later. They both stopped to stare after the outpost’s commander in disbelief. The baron ground his nails into his palm as Fraser clutched his forehead. Atcheron departed, fists still balled.