by R. T. Kaelin
The men in Ebel watched the conversation in silence, unable to hear anything being said. After a few exchanges, the demon-man lifted his arm and pointed straight to where Silas and the corporal stood at the center of the line. The mongrel turned its head and stared.
Frowning, Silas mumbled, “Uh-oh.”
Corporal Lurus remained silent.
The demon said one last thing to the mongrel, pivoted in place, and marched back through the ranks of the beasts behind him. The brown and white mongrel remained in the street, staring into the village.
Keeping his eyes on the mongrel, Silas muttered, “Blast the Gods, it’s ugly.”
“Wonder what it thinks of you?” mused the corporal.
A quiet, dry chuckle slipped from Silas. Ensuring his voice was low enough so that none of the villagers could hear, he said, “I’ve never actually seen one before. Have you?”
Corporal Lurus shook his head.
“No, Silas…I have not.”
These villagers believed the Dust Men to be seasoned veterans. Corporal Lurus certainly looked the part. However, neither of them had ever lifted a blade against another living soul outside of drills.
With his gaze locked on the mongrel, Silas murmured, “It looks like a hairy man with a dog’s head.”
The corporal grunted, “Huh. I would have said prairie wolf.”
“Does it matter?” grumbled Silas. “Look at those blasted jaws! They could rip out a man’s throat in one—”
“Silas!”
He turned quickly to look at the corporal and found the man glaring at him and wearing a disappointed frown. Corporal Lurus’ gaze danced to the villagers and Silas’ followed. The two men from before were staring at him with wide eyes. Pressing his lips together, Silas dropped his head and made a show of inspecting the leather straps on his shield back, upset with himself. He knew better.
As Silas shifted his feet, kicking the dirt, Corporal Lurus called to the men, “You two! Take these men—” he pointed to the two other closest villagers “—and do a quick walk around the barrier’s perimeter. If you see anything odd, report it immediately.”
Silas glanced up as the four men hurried away quickly, striding to the north. The nearest citizen of Ebel now stood two-dozen-feet away, his face taut and drawn. Silas ran his gaze along the long line of villagers. Worry was threatening to bloom into outright panic. He sighed and turned back to the corporal.
“I’m sorry. They don’t need to hear that.”
“No, Silas, they do not,” answered the soldier firmly. “We cannot have them running to Freehaven the moment the first mongrel charges.”
Silas nodded.
“I understand, Corporal.”
“And stop calling me that,” muttered the corporal. “‘Rhohn’ is fine. We’re not in the army any longer.”
“I know,” said Silas. He glanced to the line of villagers. “But they think we are. And that helps them.”
The corporal eyed the men briefly before shrugging his shoulders.
“Hells. In that case, call me ‘Captain Lurus.’”
The corners of Silas’ mouth curled up slightly.
“Yes, Captain.”
Corporal Lurus’ eyes narrowed.
“I was jesting.”
“I know.” Looking over, eying the man who was both his friend and his commander, Silas asked, “So…what do we do now?”
Corporal Lurus sighed, reached up, and ran a hand over his head. Two weeks’ worth of growth covered the left side of the man’s face and head where hair still grew.
“The only thing we can. Wait. They will come eventually. My guess is just after sunset.”
Silas glanced up at the late afternoon sun and frowned. Dusk was near.
“What makes you say that?”
The corporal shrugged his shoulders.
“I heard mongrels prefer to hunt at night.”
Silas could not help but chuckle softly, saying, “I heard day.”
Corporal Lurus frowned, the left side of his lips turning down a fraction further then the right.
“Wondrous. We are fighting an enemy about which we know nothing.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” muttered Silas. “I know plenty about mongrels and demons. Granted, it’s all from playmen’s tales and rumors.”
The corporal grunted, “Not helpful.”
“No,” said Silas. “I suppose it’s not.”
Corporal Lurus stared west again, as did Silas. The lone brown and white mongrel still stood in the road, staring into the center of Ebel, directly at the pair of Dust Men.
“What do you think that one is doing?” asked Silas.
“Another question to which I have no answer.”
Silas locked eyes with the creature and tried to hold the beast’s gaze, not wanting to show the uncertainty and fear bubbling deep within him. After a few thudding heartbeats, however, he dropped his stare. All he could think about was the animal’s teeth ripping into his flesh. He looked back up quickly, and found the mongrel glaring at the corporal now. For a long moment, beast and man glowered at one another.
“I don’t think he likes you, Rhohn,” muttered Silas.
“I like him less.”
With a quick toss of its muzzle, the mongrel dropped to all fours, turned, and loped back to the lines. The corporal turned to Silas immediately.
“I want you to check on the line to the south. I’ll take north.”
Silas nodded, saying, “Yes, Corporal.” He started to turn.
“And Silas?”
Stopping, Silas looked back and said, “Yes?”
“Be careful what you say. I don’t want anyone to think they will survive this.”
Silas peered at his friend and frowned.
“Men fight better when they have hope.”
“It’s a false hope you’re giving them.”
Silas shrugged, saying, “Perhaps. But false hope is better than no hope.”
Corporal Lurus shook his head.
“No, Silas, it’s not. Their fates—our fates—are what they are. Do not spend the last hours of your life deluding yourself and others.”
Silas held the corporal’s gaze for a long moment before shaking his head and turning away to stride south. He had taken two steps when Corporal Lurus called out softly.
“Scared men fight harder than hopeful ones, Silas.”
Silas did not stop or respond. As he walked toward the first few men, he stared westward, eyeing the rows and rows of mongrels. If the corporal was right, if scared men truly were better fighters, then the ninety-four villagers in Ebel were going to be the toughest force the invaders had met yet.
Chapter 2: Mongrel
Rhohn Lurus’ life had not been an easy one.
Life was a struggle in the Borderlands, filled with dust, dirt, and infinite horizons of chest-high, dried-out, brown grass. He grew up in Dashti, a village not dissimilar to Ebel, with his mother, father, and the Lurus family’s herd of goats. In his eighth year, a grass fire had swept through the region, swift and without warning. The Lurus’ home caught fire in the middle of a one-moon night, trapping the family inside. His father managed to pull son and wife free, but Rhohn’s mother was already dead. Rhohn suffered severe burns over the right half of his face and torso.
He healed as best he could. Life went on. He and his father rebuilt their home and continued to herd goats. When Rhohn was sixteen, a terrible illness struck the village, sending his father to Maeana’s hall along with half of Dashti.
Rhohn buried his father in the morning, sold the herd for a pittance at midday, and left Dashti in the afternoon, wanting to be free of a place so full of tragedy and bad memories.
He traveled to Gobas, the capital of the Borderlands, strode straight to the Dust Man training grounds, and signed his name on the army rolls. The sergeant, unable to take his eyes from Rhohn’s burn scars, had never even asked his age.
Rhohn enjoyed the life of a soldier. The constant direction was welc
ome, providing a sense of order and structure for him when life seemed random and callously chaotic. He spent a full two years in Gobas, training and working as a city guard before he was assigned to an outpost on the northwestern edge of the Borderlands.
Fort Jorodas was one of dozens spread along the long border with Sudash. The Dust Men stationed at the outposts were the first line of defense against raids by the oligurts, razorfiends, or mongrels residing to the west. The Sudashians had been quiet for over two decades before Rhohn arrived, but none expected it to last forever. Border skirmishes had been the rule for generations.
He spent four uneventful years at Fort Jorodas, riding routine patrols through the dusty hills or training in the fort’s yard. During his third Winter there, he was promoted to the rank of corporal. Despite his earlier hardships, he felt blessed. He had found his place, his purpose. He was content.
However, like peace in the Borderlands, his reprieve from hard times would not last. Greya, the Goddess of Fate, seemed determined to make him suffer.
A year ago, disturbing reports began to arrive via dispatches from the southern posts. A great host of Sudashians had amassed along the border in numbers impossible to believe. Tens of thousands of oligurts, razorfiends, and mongrels were heading east, marching together as one enormous army. For well over a turn, Rhohn refused to accept the tales, as did most of the Dust Men at the garrison. The disparate races of Sudash loathed one another, resulting in constant war between them. Their fractured existence kept the Borderlands safe more than the Dust Men.
Yet, as the dispatches from nearby posts slowed to a trickle, Rhohn came to accept the rumors were true. Soon, every corner of Fort Jorodas was alive with anxious whispering. Only three hundred Dust Men were garrisoned within the old earth and stone stronghold. Should even a fraction of the attacking army come their way, Fort Jorodas would fall. Quickly.
He and the other soldiers expected a directive from Gobas to fall back, gather with other Dust Men, and form a more formidable force. However, weeks passed without a single missive arriving from the east. Then, the reports from the other outposts stopped altogether.
The Sudashian army, however, did not.
One morning, scouts returned from a patrol to report a thousand oligurts in a nearby valley, heading for Fort Jorodas. They would arrive within the day. Both Rhohn and his sergeant pled with their lieutenant to abandon the post and head east. Yet the man, proud and stubborn-as-stone, refused, insisting that Gobas and Duke Vanson surely had a plan.
Rhohn’s sergeant showed infinitely more wisdom than the lieutenant did and ordered four men east to carry word of Fort Jorodas’ inevitable fall. That evening, Rhohn and three other men—Silas included—had ridden from the gates of the doomed stronghold. He loathed leaving his fellow soldiers behind, but he had ridden hard nonetheless, hoping the message he carried could make a difference in the grander fight.
They arrived in dusty Midiah three days later and found a town in disarray. Reports about the massive invasion ran rampant. The populace was terrified.
Rhohn shared the fate of Fort Jorodas with the Dust Man captain there and was dismayed to learn that he, too, had not heard from Gobas. The words ‘Duke Vanson’ were used mostly as a curse by those in Midiah. Despite lacking the authorization to do so, the captain wisely ordered the town’s populace to flee east. Most complied, although a handful of naysayers stayed behind, insisting the Sudashian invasion was a playman’s fantasy. Rhohn could only assume they were now dead.
For a full turn, the four Dust Men from Fort Jorodas traveled east with the ever-growing exodus, collecting people and soldiers at every settlement. Food was scarce, hope even more so.
Rumors drifted through the migration, whispers that a resistance force was fighting the Sudashians. Of the four Jorodas’ men, only Rhohn and Silas turned to join the fight. For three weeks, they traveled against a tide of humanity, seeking the Borderlands’ resistance. They found none.
Three days ago, the pair had come across Ebel, an unremarkable village nestled among three grassy hills. Most of the villagers had fled a week before, but ninety-four men had stayed behind, foolishly determined to defend their homes. Rhohn pleaded with them to leave or at least come and join the resistance—if any such existed—but they refused.
Rhohn was ready to ride away and leave, but Silas wanted to stay. After leaving their fellow soldiers in Fort Jorodas, Silas could not bring himself to leave these villagers to die alone. Tired, hungry, and despondent, Rhohn gave in to Silas’ impassioned argument. Ebel was as good a place to die as any.
For the past three days, Rhohn and Silas had developed and implemented a plan for a very meager defense. Silas seemed certain that only a small force would come to Ebel, and was set on trying to defeat them. Rhohn simply wanted to kill was many of the invaders as possible before passing on.
Shortly after midday today, the invaders had crested the western horizon and had reached Ebel by early afternoon. Silas had remained quiet for a long time, staring at the hundreds upon hundreds of mongrels. It seemed Rhohn’s plan was the only one with any chance of succeeding.
By now, Mu’s orb had dipped behind the western horizon, abandoning the few wispy clouds in the sky and plunging Ebel’s valley into dusk. Dozens of torches, already lit, were planted in the ground behind the piled fortification of chairs and tables. Within the hour, their flickering flames would be the only source of light in the area as both moons would not rise until midnight. Rhohn doubted he would see them.
Silas stood beside him, sword in one hand and bronze shield in the other. The men of Ebel stretched before him, staring anxiously to the west. Each held whatever meager, improvised weaponry he had been able to scrounge up or cobble together. Mostly, Rhohn saw sharpened sticks, worn shovels, and a few poorly crafted spears. He and Silas were the only two men armed properly.
The enemy still stood two hundred paces away, peering down the open length of road, eerily quiet. To this point, the men of Ebel had managed to match their silence, the only sound being the gentle whisper of the wind rustling the grass.
Rhohn’s eyes narrowed, spotting movement at the rear of the mongrels. The horned head of the demon-man strode quickly through the ranks and, upon reaching the front, emerged from parted lines. Grabbing the neck scruff of the nearest mongrel, he continued forward, dragging the beast along with him as he trudged closer. His curved sword rested on his right shoulder the way Rhohn might carry the pole to a water tote. After fifty paces, the demon stopped in the street, released the mongrel, and said something to it. The black-furred beast stood at his side, unmoving.
The demon-man studied the men of Ebel for a moment before calling out, “Do you truly think you can stand against me?” His voice, deeper than distant thunder, reverberated with a strange, thudding power that Rhohn felt in his chest as much as he heard.
A quiet moment passed before Silas shouted, “We do not fear you, demon!”
Rhohn shook his head and sighed. Silas’ words were as empty as the grass and dried-mud buildings around them.
The demon’s crimson blood eyes locked onto Silas, burning hot.
“I doubt that was wise,” muttered Rhohn.
“You doubt?” murmured Silas. “I’m quite sure it wasn’t.”
After a moment, the demon broke his gaze off and ran it along the line of villagers while bellowing, “I give you two choices today! The first: I send my pack in and they rip your throat from your neck while you watch.”
Silas whispered, “That sounds undesirable.”
Rhohn ignored him, keeping all his attention on the spawn before them.
The demon took two steps back from the mongrel and exclaimed, “The second: come forward now and I will end you swiftly!” He lifted the giant sword from his shoulder, whipped the blade around, and cleanly severed the mongrel’s head from its shoulders. The body collapsed to the dirt as the head rolled a few paces down the road, bouncing closer to the center of Ebel.
Silas drew a sharp bre
ath.
“Gods protect us…”
Rhohn shifted his gaze to watch the men, slightly concerned that some might take the demon’s offer of a quick death. If one broke, they all might, leaving him no hope of killing even a single Sudashian. After a few, tense moments, a grim smile slowly spread over his lips. None of the men budged. They were fools for staying here, but they were brave fools.
When nobody stepped forward, the demon captain spun around and headed back to his army, leaving the mongrel’s corpse lying in the road.
Rhohn glanced over at his friend.
“Now, Silas.”
His fellow Dust Man quickly sheathed his sword, ripped a nearby torch from the ground, and jogged forward. Two sets of men rushed to lift a pair of tables and stretched-hide doors from the barrier, creating a small opening through which Silas squeezed.
The sudden activity drew the demon’s attention back to the fortifications. Halting his return to the mongrels, the spawn twisted around and watched Silas sprint down the road. He eyed the Dust Man much as Rhohn might an ant scurrying about the ground.
Ten paces past the fortifications, Silas leaped over a shallow ditch and continued ten more before stopping in the road. He lowered the burning head of his torch to the second trench and, with a soft whoosh, flames spread outward along the channel dug clear across the road, from one earthen building to another. Silas ran back toward the barrier, leapt over the first ditch, paused long enough to light the trench, and then sprinted through the opening in the wall. The villagers quickly replaced the stacks of ruined chairs and tables, sealing the gap in moments.
Rhohn muttered mockingly, “That ought to stop them…”
During his first night in Ebel, Silas had noticed the torches in the village burned longer and brighter than was typical. When he asked why, one of the villagers showed the soldiers a pit full of a sticky, black substance oozing from the ground. The man explained the people of Ebel had dipped their torches into the muck for generations. When Silas had suggested they dig trenches and fill them with sludge, Rhohn had agreed, indifferent to the plan. It at least gave the villagers something to do while they waited to die.