by Ty Arthur
The leader of this profane ritual could only be made out as a hazy, lighter shape in the darkness, but there was a clear ecstasy in his voice as he shouted out a string of incomprehensible words in no tongue Tala had ever heard. While they were completely foreign, she recognized the voids between the syllables, like some mirror opposite of the screams and whispers in their more coherent moments.
The remaining six congregants rose up as one then and slashed their curved blades downward into their preacher as he continued calling out in unknown tongues, finally screaming out the same name Myrr had called, “Drungomet!”
The darkness radiating from the ritual altar coalesced then, taking a physical form that gave the impression of a gaping maw, filled with teeth made of night. A shrieking chorus poured out that had Tala covering her ears as the metal helmet did nothing to block out the noise.
The ritual leader rapturously called out his god's name again; just barely audible above the cacophony of violent sound that now came from without rather than within. All was still for a moment before the soldier was violently pulled by some unseen force into the black maw. A crimson explosion spread across the dim room, the knight transforming in an instant from intact man to nothing but a spray of red liquid as the darkness consumed him utterly, while somehow rejecting his life's blood.
One of the brood-sprayed congregants, lacking the horror of the pair watching on unseen, grabbed a hold of another and shouted, “Rejoice! A sign from the Watcher in the void has been bestowed upon us!”
The rest babbled their assent to this horrific miracle they'd all seen, shouting out gratitude to their deific father for his cruelty.
With the word that called to the father of the night torn from his mouth, Myrr went limp again then, and Tala placed her arm around his shoulder, shuffling him away from the gory sight. She said nothing as they descended the stairs, no longer concerned those above would notice their departure. Walking out into the blessed rain, she hoped it wouldn't take long for the deluge to wash away what was left of the fanatic soldier who had been so happy to die so horribly.
She knew then that the thing inside Myrr was just as awful as the whispers she'd held at bay her entire life, and he'd been forced to see what it could do when let loose twice in a single day. As they shuffled back out into the street, she vowed to find a way to silence that voice inside him, just as he had done for her.
14 (Western Ward, Outer Gate Bulwark, True Night)
The cart again rolled to a splashing stop after winding its way through every back alley in the city, following some pattern Casterly couldn't make sense of. He didn't bother getting up or straining to look through the bars at their current location, as this was not the first time it had clattered to a standstill as more suspected rebels were shuffled in or removed screaming and taken light-knows where.
Not that there was anything to see, with only those disgusting torches lit now, following on either side like faint fireflies as the mounted soldiers circled the prisoners on their exodus. Standing was a dangerous proposition, but sitting was miserable. The bars above did nothing to stop the continuing downpour, which had turned the straw into a soppy mass that stuck to everything. At least no one was trying to stab him at the moment.
The children had finally succumbed to exhaustion and drifted off, but he could tell without even having to look that his mother remained there in her half-conscious way, staring off into nothing. Casterly reminded himself there wouldn't be much more pain to endure, and soon the city could start to heal.
He had only ever paid lip service to the old spirits the city's hedge witches had worshiped before the knights upended their lives, never feeling any particular religious connection to anything outside himself. That all changed when he saw the dark miracle. It may have been made of blood and death, but it was still a miracle, and he felt his faith growing that it would happen again.
The sound of a loud creaking, followed by a dozen or more boots on stone, told him they were near the checkpoint to the western ward's outer gate. Voices called out as a group of soldiers re-entered the city, unseen both from the darkness and the wood bulwark ahead. He knew they were sent out periodically on errands for the Overlord, but none ever bothered to ask what those errands entailed. No one wanted to think about how easy it was for their occupiers to come and go as they pleased while no living citizen had passed through those gates in three years.
The street's illumination suddenly doubled and then tripled as a contingent of knights bearing torches came around the huge wooden bulwark set up to dissuade a mob from trying to breach the gates. Soon it became clear the group wasn't a full retinue after all, but a broken and shattered one, with half of them severely injured and several being carried on their backs atop massive shields.
The group came to a halt after entering the city and a grinding sound indicated the gates were closed again. Only a handful of yards away, escape from the city was rapidly dwindling away, not that it mattered for those stuck in a prison cart. A truly horrific sight came into view then as the knights circled around and set down their wounded and their dead.
On a wooden stretcher were laid bare the remains of a massive scuttler, eviscerated like a beast taken to slaughter. Each of its legs joints were torn apart, obviously with brutal force based on how they had burst, and its central body was gouged by three deep scores. Its rearward facing head was nearly removed entirely, brutally savaged as though by fang or claw, bits of purple brain matter peeking out. The forward facing head was perhaps worst of all, jaws hanging askew at impossible angles, having been snapped apart in opposite directions with something capable of truly horrendous force.
It took a moment to register what he was seeing, never having witnessed something capable of killing one of the Overlord's monstrous hounds. His thoughts turned to Myrr again, but this battle had clearly occurred outside the walls. Was something slaughtering knights both without and within? Casterly's demolished face twisted upward into a grin.
Shaking several droplets of water out of his eyes that came spilling down from the bars above, he looked away from the horrific display of carnage and focused on the leader of this threadbare group of knights, now discussing matters with the guards.
“Found another den of them out in the woods. This one managed to bring some unholy abomination through that tore apart our Overlord's brood. There's more of those light-burned bastards out there, we're certain of it. Sent the recruits back to Varas to report we'll need more rangers to cover these hills.”
It seemed like the typical pleasantries and exchanges of orders were cut short when one of the mounted soldiers interrupted the wounded soldier. “You'll want to reach your destination quickly. It's not safe on the streets. The situation has devolved since you were sent out.”
The recently-returned knight was incredulous as he laughed out, “Devolved, how could it be any worse than before?”
The mounted soldier whistled for his companions bringing up the rear to approach and be ready for departure before he responded, “Rebels tried to burn down the east ward, thank the darkness for this rain, and then some mad man broke into the cathedral. Don't know how, but he managed to blind all the Overlord's personal retinue before escaping. There's also been... a sighting.”
A hush fell over the returning knights at the news, and Casterly suddenly perked up, wondering what this turn of events meant. “That's where we are headed with this group. Reports came in these ragged criminals witnessed the artifact's use. The Overlord wants to personally question them. If it's true, we might be done with this cesspool soon enough.”
Realizing they were talking about the city's savior, he was on his feet screaming before he could think better of it, “I've witnessed your kind cut to pieces with a wave of his hand! Revolution is here!”
Casterly blinked and rubbed his eyes then as an explosion of movement was heralded by his scream, half-seen forms pouring out of every nook and cranny on all sides of the cart. He'd expected to be bludgeoned or stabbed fo
r his outburst, but instead the city's tormentor's were being overwhelmed from every angle. In moments the soldiers were dragged off their horses by a mob of rebels appearing out of every shadow and building, overrunning the prison carts and smothering the retinue of wounded soldiers before they had the chance to even raise their weapons.
He'd never seen a slaughter so complete or so unexpected, save for when Myrr had revealed his truly miraculous nature. Shouts of surprised pain and gleeful vengeance filled the street as rebels tore armor and weapons from their victims and put them to use against the few struggling soldiers who managed to mount any kind of defense.
The crowd came to heel in a semblance of order when someone started shouting commands from behind the carts. A mace was shortly brought to bear by one of the mob's number and the locks were smashed free, the cart's doors hanging open on their hinges. Casterly could make out several men roughly searching the bodies of the now-dead guards, pulling out keys for those still shackled inside the cages. Before long the prisoners shuffled out into the darkness, disbelief clearly marking their faces at their sudden freedom.
Exhilaration coursed through Casterly as he pulled his sister down from the cart, letting out a triumphant whoop while the rebels celebrated by calling out their names and deeds, believing themselves to be on the cusp of victory. That charge in the air was tainted when one among them didn't join in the revelry.
The rebel that had occupied the safe house with them only a night before clambered atop his prison cage and shouted down at the assembled throng, warning of impending disaster. “Form up towards the gates you fools! A counter attack is coming!”
Milling about in confusion, the horde fell silent when another figure appeared in their midst, an older man with dusky skin and a platinum knot of hair who limped forward but still somehow radiated authority. Casterly recognized him as the priest who had led them to the cellar beneath Otta's shop, a rebel sympathizer who aided the lost in remaining hidden.
“He may be lacking in faith, but he is not wrong. Prepare yourselves my flock!”
The mob saw then that their victory was premature. While they had overwhelmed an off-guard enemy, the gates behind the bulwark were exceedingly well-defended, and now a phalanx of reinforcements moved forward in formation. The polar opposite of the haphazard mob, struggling to arrange itself in a defensive position, the troop of soldiers came together in an organized formation, pushing straight ahead at the tide of rebels with spears leveled down.
Chaos erupted fully onto the street then, even worse than anything Casterly had witnessed the night his home had been invaded and his father murdered. They lacked discipline, but the mob more than made up for it in ferocity and numbers as a pitched battle broke out between oppressed and oppressor. When a volley of arrows clattered over the bulwark and sank into the mob, the rebel hurled himself off the prison cart and rushed to Casterly's side, breathlessly calling out, “Do not trust that man. He's the reason all my friends are dead. This battle is lost before it begins.”
Casterly stared slack-jawed at the rebel who had previously been entirely dedicated to the cause of freedom suddenly advocating retreat. Finally roused from her stupor by the active warfare all around, Casterly's mother spoke up for the first time in hours. “There will be darkness to pay for this. We'll all suffer for the foolishness of these dissidents.”
The wave of battle crested and crashed against the family, the group scattering to flee the violence or grabbing anything nearby that could smash or stab and throwing themselves into the fray. That carefully cultivated formation was finally breaking in the face of an overwhelming, lawless enemy and a disorderly battlefield littered with the dead. With the bulwark behind them and the carts ahead, there wasn't room for the group of soldiers to maneuver around the swarm threatening to swallow them wholesale.
Fighting towards his still-catatonic sister, Casterly bellowed at the top of his lungs while hurling himself against the nearest soldier, slamming into the side of the prison cart. Fire burned through his wounded ribs as he ripped the man's helmet free, grinning fiercely when he saw the look of horrified disgust coming from the soldier, clearly terrified by his broken face.
A sound he didn't recognize cut free from his throat as he rammed his opponent's head against the bars, returning the favor ten-fold for his own shattered visage. He didn't stop when the first loud crack could be heard, lost in a sudden frenzy of bloodlust he didn't know was waiting just beneath the surface. The next crack brought the sound to a fever pitch, and Casterly was rocked by the realization of this unknown aural dissonance, forgotten after years without its tenor filling any home in Cestia.
The giggle became a guffaw when he finally cut his hand on the shattered edge of skull, now slick with blood and worse. Turning, laughing maniacally and covered in splatted gray matter, he caught sight of two soldiers who had been approaching his exposed back. They cautiously ceased their advance, unsure of this crazed and deformed monstrosity before them.
Casterly didn't have to bother defending himself, the first soldier crumpling and falling as Erret rammed a stolen spear into the knight's back. The second hesitated upon seeing the crushed face with one empty eye socket continue to contort into insane laughter. Realizing he was cut off from his compatriots and surrounded, the soldier made a run for it, attempting to force his way through a wall of citizens no longer willing to accept their fates. His screams were swallowed by the crowd as it mobbed forward, now growing larger as those in their homes on the surrounding streets stopped hiding and joined the full-scale riot eagerly overflowing the road.
“Forward scions of freedom! Forward to the high ward!”
The call from Father Erret set the mob to cheering, despite all the dead taken down in the counterattack. In characteristic disarray, the throng began undulating forward, away from the now undefended bulwark and empty gates.
Casterly's former cellar-mate pushed through the multitude to again express his doubt and stand against the flowing torrent of approaching freedom. “The gates are right there! Why don't we open them and flee?”
Done with pleasantries, Erret twisted the spear around and slammed the butt solidly into the disbeliever's stomach, calling out so all could hear, “This is no time for half measures. We will free our beloved city or we will fall.”
The pace of the swelling legion of destitute fighters picked up noticeably when a pair of baying howls echoed from over the nearby buildings.
Erret sighed heavily, leaning against the spear, before muttering, “Persistent bastards.”
He flipped the spear around again, pointing its tip at the doubled-over former rebel. “If you are so keen to avoid glory and stay free from harm, gather up the wounded and infirm and take them to the south ward.”
The missionary nodded toward Casterly as the laughter died down, intoning “Long and hard is the road out of darkness and into the light. You are clearly willing to do what must to be done to tread the path. With me then, boy, I have need of one with a strong stomach, unlike this coward.”
With only a glance back at the mob, where he hoped his family was safely being carried along, he scooped up a wayward torch lying amidst the carnage and took up his place beside the priest as they slipped down an alley away from the sound of the approaching scuttlers. Moving away from the raging battle spreading north, Casterly's eyes scanned above the nearby buildings at the tips of the walls visible above the skyline, watching forms run to and fro with torches along the catwalks.
None he knew of had made it over or under the walls, but if any had they clearly wouldn't have returned to boast of the feat. The wide catwalks along the entire length of the defensive outer ring, which had utterly failed to keep the invaders out, along with the sturdy lookout towers every few hundred yards, ensured any who tried to scale the wall were quickly peppered with arrows or doused in pitch and lit aflame. The inner wall separating the high ward from the lower areas of the city was too far away to see, but Casterly had no doubt they were also swarming w
ith figures as the mob approached.
Every citizen who called Cestia home had dreams of secret tunnels to discover and flee into, but as a free city-state with few restrictive laws there had been no need for a network of smugglers like would be found in any of the neighboring nations. With no major enemies and strong, high walls, none of the foolish rulers of the city had felt the need to build secret escape routes.
Casterly tried to muster a curse to fling upon their names, but found the will had faded. For a single heartbeat he wondered if the former rebel had been correct in his plea to escape, but he quickly crushed the thought in light of the brewing revolution. The thought of escape was now more than undesirable; it was actively repugnant. Despite his father's death and his sister's shattered mind, he somehow found himself grateful for the cruelty of the knights.