Rise of the Red Harbinger

by Khalid Uddin

  “Just do it already, coward!” Marshall Taurean leaned against the wall of a broken-down house, bracing himself for imminent pain. He’d never pulled an arrow shaft from his own body, but having seen others do it countless times, he was sure it was better to remove it slowly. Dozens of splinters stabbed into the flesh of his shoulder. Even if he removed the shaft, there was no guarantee that it would be a clean pull. The arrows were made from a strange wood, used specifically to splinter inside the target’s body.

  The sun had not fully risen yet, but the longer Marshall waited, the more likely he was to sweat and heat up. The sun had been uncharacteristically overbearing, even for summer. Most days, Marshall was able to manage the heat. But then, most days Marshall did not have blood pouring from his shoulder. The last thing he needed was to black out.

  He started to feel light-headed from the pain and blood loss. He was a warrior, and warriors didn’t fear pain. If anyone else could see him, they would turn their backs to him in disgrace. But nobody else was around. They were likely all dead.

  Marshall reminded himself that he was one of the best warriors of his people. His heavily tattooed head and body were evidence of that. He was courageous and wise. He knew he must remain that way whether or not anyone watched. Marshall’s hesitation had not been solely from the pain. His mind found difficulty focusing one on thing at a time, still confused, exhausted, and overwhelmed from what had transpired over the past hour.

  Marshall clenched his teeth and broke off the portion of the arrow shaft stemming from the front of his body in one quick, definitive snap. He’d had worse injuries in his life, and he realized that the pain he presently felt was not the issue. Dozens of splinters remained in his shoulder, and would shift every time he moved his arm. There would be no remedy or elixir to heal this. Someone would have to cut open his shoulder and remove them piece by piece. That was assuming he survived this siege.

  Marshall still could not fathom how his village had not been prepared for this attack. Most outsiders had no idea where the Taurani village lay, deep in the northern forests of Ashur. A short tower stood at each corner of the village, where lookouts kept watch throughout the night. Even if the lookouts spotted nothing strange, intruders still had to advance through the eastern or western gate of the village. Any type of attack would result in sounding the horn atop the towers, so that those sleeping could prepare. Marshall once again had been unable to sleep, and had heard no horn calling his people to arms. If this was a full-on attack, as it seemed, the gate would have been torn off, allowing for scores to enter the village at once.

  The attackers had come nearly an hour ago. They had already advanced past where Marshall sat, most likely assuming they’d killed everything in their way. Marshall knew the stories and the legends, which were the reasons his people dedicated themselves to being warriors. His people descended from Taurean, one of the original three Harbingers, humans chosen by the Orijin to lead mankind and bring it back to righteousness. They had been proclaimed as Harbingers of the Orijin, the creator of man.

  But men generally did not understand the ways of Orijin. Their god was not always fair to the righteous and, based on stories and scriptures of old, Orijin provided no guarantee of anything after one met death. He had not provided even the Harbingers with insight on the afterlife, except that one existed. Taurani assumed, based on the teachings of their priests, that as long as they believed in and prayed to Orijin, they would escape His wrath. There were rumors of a Book of Orijin in the cities of Ashur, but Taurani saw even the idea of it as blasphemy.

  Men had generally come to fear death because of the unknown. Taurani, however, raised their children to have no fear of death. They took much pride in their ancestry, and revolved their existence around living up to the accomplishments and accolades of Taurean.

  After Taurean, Cerys, and Magnus failed, Orijin anointed five new Harbingers many centuries later. These new Harbingers, Darian, Jahmash, Abram, Gideon, and Lionel, managed to instill in mankind the devotion to Orijin once more, but in the aftermath, they resorted to fighting amongst themselves. Jahmash grew mad, betrayed the rest, and was exiled from the rest of mankind; he hadn’t been seen or heard from in more than a thousand years. Rumors flooded the world that his return was at hand, and that everything bad that occurred in Ashur was because of Jahmash, often called “The Red Harbinger.” None claimed to have seen Jahmash, however the Taurani culture and lifestyle were meant to prepare them for his return, as the ultimate honor to Taurean and the Orijin.

  Marshall hadn’t heard any distinct names in the chaos of the morning. But if this battalion indeed belonged to Jahmash, then these were the days his people had waited for centuries to come.

  Marshall understood that many of his people would die today, but the amount of casualties could be controlled. The Taurani were trained to find the enemy’s weakness. Marshall would have to find it himself. His right arm was useless, as the arrow had pierced the bones in his shoulder. He tensed once more and pulled the remaining portion of the arrow from his back. He tasted blood in his mouth from having bitten down so strongly, gritted his teeth and handled the pain. He ripped his shirt in two pieces to bandage the wound and use as a sling. His arm would still move somewhat, but it was the best he could do.

  This army had interloped upon them so quickly that only those who had been near the armory and watchtowers would have time to find armor and weapons. Even they could not have all fared very well.

  Marshall couldn’t stop to think about that now. People were dying and he couldn’t help that. He had to worry about his own survival if he wanted to save anyone else. His village would receive no help from outside. Most likely, nobody outside the village would even know this was happening.

  Close combat was his only chance. The soldiers were poor marksmen else he would be dead by now. But there were still hundreds of them, judging by the deluge of arrows that had flooded the skies. That had been the first wave. After the arrows killed or maimed anyone outside or near windows, the second wave of soldiers stormed the houses.

  Marshall lived at the edge of his village, near one of the blacksmith’s workshops. Buildings, trees, houses, and everything else had been torn down in the process of killing anyone the soldiers found. Marshall simply got lucky that he couldn’t sleep during the night and was outside, behind his home when it came crashing down. His parents and two sisters, however, did not share his luck; nor did anyone in the homes around him. The soldiers never saw him because he got caught in the rubble, but he had already been struck by a stray arrow.

  He had dragged himself across the common courtyard that lay behind his house and those that neighbored it. Marshall sat beneath a cluster of broken wooden planks, against the remnant of a wall, nursing his shoulder. What bothered him the most about having been shot was not that he had been injured, but that the arrow had pierced through one of the quotes in Imanol, the ancient tongue of the original Harbingers, that had been tattooed into his skin. It had been his favorite, the motto of Taurean, Cerys, and Magnus, “My life is an instrument for the good of mankind.”

  It was a custom of his people to cover themselves in tattoos of quotes, symbols, and markings; it was a sign of bravery. The more one was covered, the more one was respected. Marshall’s body was covered head to toe by markings and words in Imanol. He had only lived for eighteen years, but aspired to dedicate his life to the benefit of his people.

  The norm was to start at the face. Nearly every Taurani wore two stripes down their faces, starting from the hairline and ending just below the chin. Taurani normally received these black tattoos when they were five or six years old. Marshall was often called ‘The Painted One’ by friends and family. He was one of the most completely painted Taurani in the village and was revered for his bravery. He would need it now.

  Marshall could hear the soldiers advancing, killing every Taurani they came upon. Sleeping villagers would have had little time to arm themselves. Even if any had managed to kill their at
tackers, this army swarmed their houses like flies to a corpse. Marshall’s people were outstanding fighters, skilled with sword, spear, and in hand-to-hand combat, but the numbers were greatly against them. It was not their way to surrender.

  There had to have been a traitor, someone in our village to help this happen. There is no way Taurani could have been overrun this easily, even in our sleep.

  He needed to find answers. And find others. He listened to the commotion that buzzed beyond the broken down houses. Footsteps trod the dirt road and the unfamiliar language identified them as the attackers. Marshall would have to wait them out. But minutes meant more casualties to his people. He peeked out from beneath the planks that were once the floor of a house and saw the tail end of a battalion of soldiers with swords and spears passing. They paid no attention to the destruction surrounding them; sure that no one had survived their onslaught. As he readied himself for the opportunity to leave his hiding spot, he realized he was still only clad in his undergarments, a result of having left his bed in the middle of the night. He would have to find breeches somewhere. There were no clothes visible in the remains of this house.

  Marshall crawled from his refuge toward the road. As he advanced, he crawled over more and more bodies. Of neighbors. Of friends.

  At least my family died in the house. I could not bear to look on them.

  Some of the invaders lay dead on the ground as well, but not many. The sun had risen higher and he could see plainly the vastness of the destruction. Even if enough of his people had survived, there would be no way to rebuild this place.

  He would have to move slowly and stay on the ground. He was well enough to walk, and had bandaged his shoulder securely enough that the blood was no longer flowing, but he could not risk standing. He crawled through heaps of splintered wood, beds, bodies, and other rubbish. He spied tatters that resembled clothes. He slithered to them and examined the pile. A pair of tan breeches slightly too big for him. They would have to do.

  Crawling behind the small pile of clothes and wooden furniture shards, Marshall wrestled on the breeches with his one good arm. He wriggled back out and the dirt road became visible ahead. Every road in the village had once been lined with various types of trees, and the one that should have been standing before him now lay lifeless on the ground like so many of his people.

  Footsteps. Coming fast.

  Marshall flopped on the road, paying no attention to what might be in the vicinity. The footsteps grew louder. Voices. Marshall realized his left arm rested over the exposed innards of a dead body. More discomforting was that he had to keep his eyes open and unmoving as his head faced the oncoming soldiers, despite the cloud of dust, dirt, and rocks that they were kicking up. Marshall could only pray that the soldiers were more focused on where they were going than on the ground.

  The soldiers were not as organized as he originally supposed, at least not in their appearance. They maintained no consistency of armor or uniform, and bore no sigil. No flags of any sort. Their skin colors and features bore no similarities to the races of Ashur. If they did fight for Jahmash, they had to have been taken from various nations and walks of life. But which nations? They maintained the visages of desperate soldiers. They were here to fight, kill, and destroy. They were savage, bloodthirsty. Marshall did not need to understand their tongue to know that they fought without honor or mercy. He could see them waving severed heads as they ran past. Their boots trampled. Crushed Marshall’s right hand. Kicked his head. He exhaled the beginning of a groan, then stifled it immediately. One soldier stopped to find the source and Marshall held his breath. Keep going. Keep going! Marshall fixed his stare. The soldier yelled and shook the severed arm he carried, and then marched on.

  They must still be destroying the other end of the village.

  Marshall waited for several moments after they had all gone by, then looked around and immediately lifted his arm from the body next to him. His arm was covered in blood and fragments of bone and skin.

  A fallen tree lay only a few dozen feet away. Marshall scampered to it and lay down within the thick branches. As excessive as the destruction was, it would actually be a boon, providing ample shelter for hiding. The elder Taurani always preached that the best warriors knew how to use their surroundings to an advantage. An injured or unarmed fighter could defeat an armed fighter in any battle if he knew how to employ his environment.

  Resting within the dense brush of the dead tree, Marshall wiped his arm against the bark. It was disrespectful to disturb the dead. The only time it was allowed was when one was preparing the body for its last ceremonies. He felt shame in having those remains on his skin. As he smeared the blood away, Marshall thought he could hear a faint sound in the rubble on the other side of the road.

  He poked his head over the trunk of the tree, noticing two giant heaps that had been houses earlier this morning. A figure crawled between them. It slowly grew closer and closer and Marshall could see it was one of his people, covered in Taurani markings, but also covered in blood, ash, hay, house debris, and bodily remains. The person wore leather armor. He must have come from the stable and armory that had once stood at the northern side of their village. As the figure lifted his head Marshall identified him. His cleanly shaved head bore the two customary stripes of Taurani, except his extended all the way to the back of his neck. Aric, one of the Tower Guards whose post was at the northeastern tower. He was also the youngest-ever Tower Guard, because of his keen eyesight and fighting ability. He was only a year younger than Marshall, but Tower Guards normally ranged between the ages of twenty-two to twenty-seven, because it was generally agreed that they needed considerable fighting and hunting experience to train their eyes.

  Marshall hated him. Aric had taken a fancy to one of his sisters, Esha, and Marshall did not find Aric fit for her. Besides, Esha never shut up about the greatness of Aric and his accomplishments. Marshall was so tired of hearing about the boy being great at this and the best at that.

  Marshall cast his thoughts aside. Now was not the time for petty squabbles, yet he found it difficult to let that hatred go. But he needed help and if Aric was uninjured, he could be a great asset. Marshall glimpsed Aric looking toward the tree, but hesitated to signal him. Images of Aric and Esha flooded his mind and disdain coursed through him. Of all the Taurani to have survived, it had to be him. Finally, Marshall allowed reason to guide him, and raised a hand over the tree trunk to catch Aric’s attention. Being civil would be just as difficult, if not more so, than staying alive. The road had been empty of soldiers for several minutes, although they could be faintly heard at the other end of the village. Aric rose to his feet and, hunching over, ran to the tree. Marshall begrudgingly made room for him and attempted to mask his disappointment. “Aric, what happened?” Marshall grunted as Aric sat beside him, resting against the trunk of the fallen tree.

  “I don’t know, Marshall. Rufus was on duty atop the tower during the night. I was to relieve him at sunrise. I went to the stable to feed the horses, when I heard him scream like death. I ran out to see what happened and I saw him falling from the top. I wanted to help him but the arrows were never-ending and the tower was on fire. I saw them coming and ran back to the stable. Hundreds of them came from the forest, weapons in hand, destroying everything in sight. It would have been futile to stand and fight.”

  Aric had always spoken to him as if he assumed they were friends, as if he presumed he was accepted by the whole family. In truth he was, except by Marshall.

  Coward. Marshall nodded. But then again, I did the same thing outside my own house. Perhaps I can put aside our differences for now; then go back to hating you after we get through this. “I understand, and I would have done the same. In fact, I essentially did the same thing, which is why I am alive.” Aric’s explanation did not manage to make anything clear though. “Is that all you know?”

  Aric paused, confused. “I don’t understand what they are doing. It’s organized chaos. First they were walking up
to our people. Aggressive. Talking in some strange tongue. But for some reason, they grew angry with everyone and ended up killing any Taurani they encountered”

  Marshall considered this for a moment and began to understand. How dimwitted could you be to not see this? “They want us for something; otherwise they’d just be killing us on sight. My guess is they wanted to reach us first. And if we won’t surrender, we have to die. With what you’re saying, this is beginning to make some sense. Aric, it is not our custom to surrender, and you’re saying that they are not killing us on sight.” Esha would be able to piece this together just as easily as I, how could she love you when she is so much smarter than you? “Did you hear what they were actually saying?”

  “Hardly. The stable was coming down and I was hiding in the hay. And even when I could hear, I could not understand them. They do not naturally speak our tongue, and when they do, it is broken and marred by their accents.” Aric dusted his body off, inspecting for sources of the blood that was now caked on his leather armor and on his body.

  Marshall had the beginnings of a plan. “We need to capture one of them. If they know enough of our language to question our people, then that is enough to get answers. And if you and I are both alive, there have to be others who have survived.”

  “And what do we do if we get our answers?” Aric retorted. “Even if others have survived, it will not be enough to mount an attack on these people. They outnumbered and overwhelmed us, despite our watchtowers and scouts. Surely you do not believe a handful of us can atone for this attack.”

  “If we can get answers, then we can find an opportunity. Look at our village, Aric. They destroyed almost everything we know in an hour. They knew we were not ready for this. They knew when to strike. They have been scouting us, studying us. Whether we are the only two left or there are one hundred of us, I cannot simply sit idly and live with this.”