by D. M. Murray
*
Harruld and Kalfinar watched from the window as the ragged man battered the trader back, causing him to fall over his market cart, sending sorry-looking winter vegetables spilling onto the cobbles. The attacker sallied forth, followed by several more wild-looking individuals, scrambling onto the stricken man and clawing at him as he held weak arms aloft in meagre protection. The stricken man thrashed and screamed with little effect, and in the blood and the frenzy of it all, the man died alone, and without help.
Kalfinar regarded his father. His face was grey, a symptom not of the scene he just witnessed from his vantage point in the military High Command, but of something else altogether.
They turned from the window and back to Broden, who sat in the study alongside the dozing Olmat.
“This is a hell on earth.” The governor sagged into his seat.
“Subath has teams of men dispatched to rid the streets of these creatures,” Broden said.
“He needs to be careful. They grow in number,” Olmat’s weak voice sounded, causing them to turn to him.
“I thought you were sleeping, old friend,” Kalfinar said, walking over and placing a gentle hand on Olmat’s liver-spotted hand.
The pace at which Olmat had deteriorated shocked Kalfinar. But that shock paled to the surprise that this man, the simple physician who taught him how to call birds, the man that brought him into the world and schooled him, was the one being in the world who could end the horror now. Dark thoughts rose in Kalfinar, thoughts he damned himself for thinking. No, he can only die a natural death.
“What of the people?” Kalfinar asked. “We can’t abandon them to whatever fate is out there.” He pointed towards the window, looking his companions in the eyes. “We must send out more platoons and make sure the people can find succour. If none is to be had, we must bring them back here. At least we could guarantee their safety.”
“At what cost?” Harruld asked, his expression belying the burden in issuing such words. “We know there’s a plague at work. We’ve isolated it in the High Command. If we bring in the people, we could be inviting death to sit by our very table.”
Kalfinar’s face twisted in anger. “How can we sit and condemn our own people to death?”
“You’re a soldier and a leader of soldiers. This is a decision of war,” Harruld snapped in response. “That’s not to say it’s a decision taken lightly, nor is it a decision that rests easy on my shoulders or, indeed, yours.”
Kalfinar spread his hands on the wall above the window, staring into the city with his back to his father.
“These are the decisions of a leader, son, and you’d best learn to see their place in the world. I’ve committed men to their death and it pains me every moment. The citizens in the streets, the men bricked into the command, they’re all weighing heavy on me.”
Kalfinar looked back at Harruld. The drawn expression on his face was evidence enough of the man’s pain. How can it be that we must make such choices? How can we abandon all humanity? Abandon our flesh and blood to devils and become devils ourselves.
Broden stared at the floor and broke the silence muttering, “It’s said they can hear the screams of the men in the lower reaches of the High Command.”
“Dajda take them into her embrace,” Harruld responded. His eyes screamed regret, circled by dark rings laden with the stress of one who commits men to their end. “There was one down there, his name was Gillen Habston. He stood chest out, chin high, accepting fate for the betterment of his own people. For the protection of his country. That was a hero. I keep seeing his face.” Harruld stared out the window beside Kalfinar as the sun set. Another scream sounded, a woman’s, and then stillness.
“They grow in numbers,” Olmat mumbled.
“We must do something,” Broden echoed Kalfinar’s earlier sentiments.
Kalfinar looked up. “Aye!” He turned and stared at his father. “Let’s take more men out and sweep the city. We can get rid of these demons.”
Harruld shook his head. “No, it’s too dangerous. You’re needed here.”
“Damn it!” Kalfinar snapped. “Let us go. We must go.”
As if on cue, another scream wafted through the window, causing Harruld’s face to twist in a grimace.
“Uncle,” Broden implored, “let us take more squads. We can protect the people.”
Harruld stared out the window and then back at the faces of those around him. He exhaled, his chest wheezing as he began to scribble down an order. “Broden, command four further platoons of guards and sweep the city.”
Broden nodded. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Harruld continued, “Subath already commands the defences on the outer walls. He’ll be sending out roving patrols. You may be able to link up with them. Do what you can for those you can help.”
Kalfinar walked the few steps to Broden and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get ready.”
“No,” Harruld said. “Kalfinar, you must stay.”
“What?” Kalfinar barked. “You have to let me go!”
“I don’t have to let you go and I won’t. That’s an order,” Harruld responded, his voice calm as he folded his order and handed it to Broden.
“You can’t keep me cooped up in here while Broden is out there risking his skin. You’ve to stop protecting me, Father.” You think I’ll go and lose myself in some dark hole by the docks. Smoke and blood, whores and mud.
“I’m not protecting you,” Harruld replied, leaning back in his chair. “I’m doing what’s necessary. You’re needed here with the rest of the command. Truth be told, I don’t want to send Broden out there, but you’ve demanded I do something and I’m responding to that. This is not a negotiation. It’s an order and it’s final.” Harruld looked at Broden. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Broden’s mouth gaped before he snapped it shut. He saluted Harruld and offered a silent shrug of apology to Kalfinar. The door clicked as Broden pulled it shut behind him.
“Is that understood?” Harruld asked Kalfinar as he stared hard at him. Another scream drifted into the room, causing Kalfinar to squirm, his anger bristling.
“Aye,” he grunted through gritted teeth. “Understood, sir.” He snapped to a rigid attention at another scream. “Do yourself a favour, Father, and shut your window.”
*
“Go for the heads! It’ll drop them quicker,” Broden roared as the creature crashed to the ground, its glassy white eyes staring empty at the darkening sky from its ruined head. Blood red sky, how very apt. “Dajda, almighty!” he exclaimed as another creature lurched towards him, the mouth hanging open but the white eyes hard. Broden swung his sword up with both hands, splitting the creature’s jaw up to its forehead, causing it to stiffen and drop. That’ll do for you.
Broden glanced around him as the small body of soldiers fought through the dwindling crowd of creatures. The platoon was made up of boys, young guardsmen in their first conflict, but their battle cries raged in the night even so. The platoon cleaved their way through the creatures, felling them much quicker now that they knew to target the heads.
“Make sure they’re staying down,” Broden ordered.
“What are these things?” a guardsman asked, chest heaving after cutting down another.
Broden sheathed his sword and huffed out a breath, looking at the dead creatures around him. “They were your kinfolk and neighbours,” he said with regret. “Dead of an unnatural plague and brought to life again with dark spirits.”
“The dead should stay dead, sir. That’s the way the world is meant to be.”
“This is black work, lads.” Broden shook his head. “The blackest of work.”
The young soldiers’ faces were ashen as Broden moved away and stepped over the bodies collected around them, checking the creatures for movements or signs of whatever kind of life resided within them.
“Come on,” Broden said. “We’ve work to do if we want to clear the streets of these demons.” Best make sure we�
��ve all eyes as we go. Dajda knows how many more of these things are out there.
*
Broden wiped his sword clean on the painter’s smock worn by one of the creatures. A pale-eyed head lay a full ten feet away, nestled against the lifeless feet of another of its kind.
The platoon rushed to control a fire that spread from an oil lamp smashed in the entranceway of a shop as a creatures leapt out from the shadows. The flames grew tall and licked their way beyond the doorframe and onto the porch, spreading a bright glow in the waning light of dusk.
“Leave it!” Broden hissed. “We don’t know how many more will be drawn to it as we work. We must keep out of sight.”
The platoon backed away and followed Broden into a building across the street, making sure it was empty as they crept through.
“Clear in here,” a guardsman whispered.
“Keep your eyes keen.” Broden breathed against the cloudy window pane, waiting to see if any more of the creatures would be drawn to the flames. What manner of magic can bring the dead back to the living. Dajda, give us strength enough to protect the souls of your children. Broden dropped his head and stared at the floor, his feet enveloped in the dark of the night. What’s the point, you’re not even listening.
“Here they come,” a voice rumbled low at the back of Broden’s neck, causing him to look up.
The flickering glow of the flames spread a warm light up the street. The flames grew in violence, tongues tearing through the roof of the shop across the road. Three of the creatures ran into view, sniffing at the air, mouths agape and legs squatted. Their arms jutted out from their bodies and their fingers were spread and curled like talons. Their necks stretched forward as their bodies leaned over, craning their white-eyed heads side to side, sniffing at the air.
Broden stared at them with horror until his attention was drawn upwards. There was a flash at a window in the upper-level of the shop next to that which was being consumed by fire. A small girl stared down at the creatures, panic etched across her face.
“Dajda!” Broden hissed. “Look! There’s a child across the way.”
“Aye, I see her,” one of the guards replied.
“Let’s rush them, get the child, and get moving,” another rasped. “There’ll be somewhere along the way we can place her where she’ll be safe.”
Broden looked back at the window where the child had been, but there was no one there anymore. He felt a sharp shock run through him and before he knew it, he had burst through the door and was running across the street. The rest of the platoon followed behind.
The three creatures snapped around at the men storming across the street and leapt towards them. Broden dropped his shoulder and crashed through, sending them tumbling. He kicked his way into the door of the building where he’d seen the child. The ground floor was empty, save for the bowls of fabric and cutting tables. He bounded up the stairs, holding his breath as he ascended into the first floor. Smoke was accumulating as the fire spread into the building.
“Girl!” he shouted, spluttering as the smoke clawed at this throat. He put the leather of his greave up to cover his mouth and nose, for what little good it did him. “Girl!” he called again.
Before him, a small child appeared, coughing through the thickening smoke. She held a knitting needle in both her hands before her in a weak form of defence. When she saw Broden through her smoke-stung eyes, she dropped the needle and collapsed in a heap. Broden sheathed his sword and grabbed her into his arms before half-stumbling down the stairs and back into the street. The platoon had made short work of the creatures after Broden had sent them sprawling to the ground.
“Come on,” Broden said, his voice ragged from the smoke. “Let’s keep moving. We need to get her somewhere safe.”
“The cathedral,” a guardsman said. “It’s ten minutes from here. Should be safe.”
“Let’s move out.”
*
Thaskil leapt up onto the battlements to the side of Sergeant Omree. Those who stood to fight cheered around them as the Solansian forces advanced into view, their ranks spreading out wide before them in the Field of Storms.
“That’s a lot of men.” Thaskil grimaced and rubbed at his stomach as he looked across at the ranks of Solansian raiders.
Sergeant Omree nodded beside him before shouting an order to the remaining troops pouring the last of the pitch into the trench, “We’ll give them a few surprises along the way.”
Thaskil smiled and slapped the man on the back of his shoulder. “Good man.” He looked back to see a rider on a white horse come galloping free of the advancing army.
The rider pounded a thin line through the wheat that now grew on the Field of Storms.
Thaskil straightened his jerkin and turned to Omree. “I suppose these will be the terms of our surrender.”
The sergeant sneered and spat over the battlement. “Old Grunnxe obviously hasn’t studied his history too well. Apula’s never fallen in the time of the Free Provinces. Why would a little pin prick in our wall change that?”
Thaskil smiled, his guts settling in the moment. “Do you know something, Sergeant?” He stared out as the rider advanced. “I think I’m going to enjoy fighting beside you. You know what I’d like to do with that rider?”
“Aye, sir.” Sergeant Omree waved his arm down and the front rank of archers let fly a volley of arrows.
The rider pulled on his reins, causing his horse to rear up, before spinning around and galloping back towards the Solansian army. The arrows fizzed off into silence and darkness. Moments later, a cry sounded in the distance beyond the walls.
“You know, sir,” Omree added. “I think I’m going to like fighting beside you too.”
“That’s good.” Thaskil turned, pulling his sword from its scabbard and his small one-handed battle-axe from his belt loop. “Because I’ve a feeling there is going to be quite a bit of that going on soon.”
Omree laughed. It grew in strength and vigour, as the blood rose in his veins. He turned to face the gathered troops and citizens below, and those on the battlements. He raised his arms and let free a war cry, and the city roared loud with him.
The first ranks of Grunnxe’s army broke free, a rush of blades running across the plain of the Field of Storms.
*
Grunnxe watched as the first ranks of men ran across the Field of Storms towards the breach in the walls of Apula. He squeezed at his arousal and laughed. He wouldn’t be waiting much longer. The old king sneered at the back of the Priestess’s head as the Master God spoke to him, instructing him to crush Apula in haste, make his way on to Carte, and break the will of people beneath them.
“Break this city of man, break it quickly and bring me Carte soaked in blood.”
“Whatever you ask of me, Lord, I shall deliver to thee.” Grunnxe sneered as the Priestess turned around in her saddle to face him.
“He speaks to you?” The Priestess hissed.
“Tell the worm.” The voice was strong and stirred Grunnxe’s belly.
“Yes, My Lord,” Grunnxe said aloud. “The Master God, Balzath, wishes you to know you are no longer favoured, Priestess.”
The Priestess snapped back her hand, the long black cuff falling back to reveal a gloved hand and the greyed flesh of an arm. The arm shot forward, but no energy, no force, flew from it.
“The Master God, Balzath, wishes you to know that he grants you no power until you take your place in service to Grunnxe.”
“I am Bhalur. I was once God on high!” the Priestess screeched.
The voice laughed within Grunnxe’s mind.
The Priestess threw back her hood and ripped off the black cloth covering her face, revealing red burning eyes and pallid, grey flesh. Her long, thin strands of white hair shook as she shouted, “The Master God, as he calls himself, is no more than a betrayer, a usurper, and he will betray you in the same fashion he betrayed me—”
The Priestess’s voice cut off sharply and she was cast off her hor
se and into the earth by an unseen force. Her head snapped back and forth as if slapped by some invisible adversary.
“The Master God, Balzath, wishes you to know that words of such violation will not be tolerated.”
The Priestess looked up from her prone position, dark blood trailing from her nose and mouth. She wiped the fluids with the back of her hand and looked at it curiously.
“It is blood,” Grunnxe laughed. “That’s right, once great Bhalur. You bleed and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll learn your place in this world quickly or I and the almighty Master God will see you bleed a lot more.”
The Priestess shakily stood and walked towards her horse, red burning eyes cast to the ground as she went. She hauled herself into the saddle and looked at Grunnxe.
“Have you remembered your manners, she who now bleeds?” The old king stared hard as he drew several inches of his sword from the scabbard.
“My place is with you, Great King, and in service to my almighty, the Master God, Balzath.” The Priestess head was bowed in supplication.
The power of the voice flowing in Grunnxe’s mind was intoxicating. The Master God had chosen to speak to him now. Grunnxe, King of Solansia, and rightful Father of the People of the Cullanain was now the right hand of almighty Balzath. Balzath wanted Carte and Grunnxe would give it to him.
“Commander,” Grunnxe roared, his voice ragged and hard, “commit the full Ravenmayne forces to the wall and follow the first rank in.”
“No!” the Priestess interrupted. “They are my children!”
Another invisible blow struck her face. A trail of dark blood splattered across Grunnxe’s breastplate. The blow left the Priestess sagging and wheezing over the horn of her saddle.
“No, they belong to Balzath,” Grunnxe rebuked the Priestess. “The Ravenmayne worship Balzath above all. The Master God sees fit to use them. If they die, they die. They’ll be replaced four hundred fold before this week is through”