Blood Rain

by Helix Parker

  A thought entered his head that he could easily kill the landlord and simply take his land. But that was not him, he told himself, not since he had met Cassandra.

  Walking along the path that led to the top of a hill, he kept his face low and watched the dirt and gravel. Each stone was beautiful in its own way. Every grain of sand and speck of dust held the glories of the world. And yet who noticed them? Who among men ever stopped to ponder the beauty of creation? What a fickle animal man was.

  When he reached the summit, he turned and looked at his home. The door opened, and his wife exited with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She looked up and saw him. After giving him a little wave, she followed the path.

  When she arrived, she stood by his side and looked out over the rolling grasslands. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I see Star playing here with her brother, running the fields and chasing sheep and goats. I thought I would give this land to them to raise their families as well.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder. “This is not your burden to bear alone.”

  “I am the provider. What am I if I cannot provide for my wife and children?”

  “You are a man, like any other.”

  “I am not like any other.”

  She put a hand under his chin and turned his face, forcing him to look at her. “All men have problems. But we have each other, and we have our children. We don’t need anything else.”

  “You would not be saying such if we were living on the shore in rags.”

  “Yes, I would. I married you for you, not for anything you could provide for me. If you recall, I had everything I could ever want, and I left it for you.”

  He was once again struck by how much he loved her, and he rested his head on her shoulder. Standing on that hilltop, with his wife and unborn child, he knew that he would do anything for them. They did not deserve to suffer because of his shortcomings. The land was theirs, and it was his duty to ensure that it would stay as such.

  “I have to—”

  “I know,” she said, not allowing him to finish. “But for now, let’s just enjoy this moment.”

  14

  The next morning, Leon went to the bed and saw Star snugly tucked away, snoring. The noise made him grin, and he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead so as not to wake her. Then he lifted the satchel he had packed the night before, rubbed his wife’s stomach, and gave her a kiss. Strapped to the satchel was a thin leather harness holding a sword.

  “Are you certain?” Cassandra asked.

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her again, and they embraced a long time before he left. As he rounded a hill, he looked back and saw his wife still standing in the doorway.

  The day was boiling hot and humid, making him feel as though he were breathing through pudding. Bale was a half-day’s journey, and he wasn’t looking forward to the time that would allow him to think. He didn’t want to think. He just wanted to act.

  The road was dry, and dust kicked up with every step. The sun grew unbearable quicker than he had anticipated, and he stopped to soak a rag with water from a leather pouch and place the cloth on his head. The sun’s powerful rays were blunted by the rag, and as the water dribbled down his neck and forehead, it cooled and soothed him.

  He was used to hard labor. At least he had become so since he’d met Cassandra. Before then, whatever he wanted, he took, whether it was gold, a woman, a man, or some luxury. Whatever his eyes rested upon was his, and the only price was that he had to be absolutely heartless.

  Then the dreams had come. He was like a man looking back on another man’s life and was disgusted by what he saw. Some of the things he had done, been forced to do, he hadn’t thought twice about while he was committing the acts. But seeing himself do them in his dreams made him quake with fear—fear that a part of him was still capable of such atrocities.

  Leon remembered a city without a name. Carved out of the side of a mountain, the gates were pure stone and took twenty men to close at night and open in the morning. The city was a trading hub used primarily by merchants to make a small profit between their treks to the larger cities. One day, for nothing more than pleasure, he had murdered all in the city.

  Just thinking about it sickened him as he walked and considered murder again. He spotted a fine stick, smooth and white, on the side of the road. He lifted it and found it just the right length to use as a walking stick. The day seemed to move more quickly.

  When the sun was nearly overhead, he rested in the shade beside a pond. Cassandra had packed some food in the satchel. He took out some dried mutton and a few slices of cheese and ate quietly as a breeze cooled his sunburnt skin.

  A shepherd wandered by not far from where he sat. The tall man in white garb with a blue cloth wrapped around his head had with him various goats of all sizes.

  The shepherd smiled when he reached Leon. “Good to see another face out here. May I sit?”

  “It’s not my pond.”

  “Ah, and neither is it mine. But you know who takes credit for it?” The shepherd sat down and pulled his knees to his chest. The goats wandered a bit and grazed. “The king. The king believes that it is his pond. It was here before men walked the earth and will be here long after we are gone, and yet the king truly believes it is his.” He put his hand to his chest and bowed his head slightly. “Raimon of the Nell.”

  “Leon.”

  “Leon? Just Leon? No surname or place of birth?”

  “No.”

  “Most unusual for a man not to have a place of birth.”

  “I suppose I’m from here. That’s as good a place as any.”

  “So, Leon of the Pond, why do you sit here by yourself?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for a stranger. You don’t know me at all. I could be a ruthless bandit waiting for a fool with a flock of goats to let down his guard.”

  “With a rusted sword? I think not. Bandits dress in rags and smell like hogs, but they keep their weapons in good order.”

  Leon couldn’t help but grin. “So, Raimon of the Goats, what’s a shepherd doing this far from a village?”

  “I lost one of my flock and went searching for him. Before I realized it, half the day was gone, and I could no longer see my village. So I’m making the journey back now.”

  Leon glanced at the goats, which hadn’t moved more than a few feet away. “Your goats are well behaved, aren’t they?”

  “I train them myself from the moment of their births.” He took out a pouch, opened the top, and lifted it to his mouth. After a long drink he lowered the skin and swiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ah, nothing like cold wine on a hot day.” He offered the pouch to Leon.

  “No, thank you.”

  “It is an insult to deny a traveler an offer. Take some, please. It lubricates conversation.”

  Leon took the skin, lifted it, and drank down a gulp. The wine was from the white grape, the sweetest he had ever tasted—too sweet for his taste, but colder than anything he had drunk recently. He took a few more gulps and passed it back.

  “So, Leon of the Pond, where are you headed in your travels?”

  Leon’s stomach warmed and began to tingle. “Bale.”

  “Ah, Bale, wonderful city. The best prostitutes east of the capital. Do you like prostitutes?”

  “No, I’m married.”

  “So am I. But as they say, we are married not buried, correct? How do you feel?”

  “What?”

  “How do you feel? You look unwell.”

  Leon felt sick, and his stomach seemed to be doing flips inside of him. His brow was doused in sweat, and his vision was blurring. “The wine,” he muttered, “the wine.”

  “Yes,” Raimon said with a wide grin, “the wine. Never accept gifts from a stranger, Leon of the Pond. Now sleep.”

  15

  Upon Rodrick’s shoulders fell the task of preparing the raid of Dolane. His master had called on him in the middle of the
night and spoken to him from the blackness of a room with no windows. Rodrick had been down on one knee when his master told him he would plan the siege, the raid, and the conquering. Of course, it was assumed that Rodrick would receive no credit.

  But credit did not matter. In a village, everyone was killed. But a city was different.

  When a city was conquered, the custom of the Marauders was a dive into insanity afterward. Rape, slaughter, destruction… anything and everything was permitted. No law stood in their way. Not even their master. And when the master would finally appear, he would walk triumphantly through the city and declare himself lord. If anyone opposed him or showed any insolence, the person would be killed. The rest were allowed to live if they gave their allegiance to him.

  And that was what worried Rodrick. The people of Dolane would be forced to swear loyalty to his master, even above the king. If the king was smart, he would see what was coming. His master was planning to conquer the realm one city at a time.

  Rodrick stood in the great hall in front of a stone table. Before him lay the best map of Dolane that could be found. He had never commanded an army so large and decided it was best to split the army into three regiments. He would lead one and put two generals in charge of the others. Hess would lead the first regiment. His mind was shrewd and ruthless and, though Rodrick didn’t believe in magical abilities, Hess did seem to have some sort of foresight into events. Perhaps Hess simply had an intelligence that lent itself well to deducing what events were about to occur.

  The other general was a woman, the most beautiful Rodrick had ever seen. But his opinion may have been tainted by the fact that she had little regard for death—hers or others’. Saria had led men in battle before, and Rodrick had been there on one occasion when a village on the outskirts of the kingdom had been taken. Rather than gathering up the villagers after the raid, she rounded up her men and asked them if any of them felt remorse for the slaughter that had just been perpetrated.

  One man reluctantly said he felt pity for a baby he had killed. He had thrust his sword near the babe’s mouth, and the child thought it his mother’s breast and attempted to suckle it.

  Saria ordered the man hanged.

  She stood too close to Roderick, wearing a loose-fitting black shirt that came down to just over her thighs with fur boots and a dark red necklace. Rodrick had seen her use lust before to get her way and decided it was a game to her. She enjoyed watching men squirm before her sensuality, knowing that not a single Marauder would dare touch her. Not only was she a fierce warrior, rumor had it that the master had fallen in love with her. Whether the rumor was true or not was of no consequence. The Marauders stayed away.

  “Large city,” Hess said, looking over the map. “Back to the sea for supplies. Difficult to conquer.”

  “The sea is to our advantage,” Rodrick said. “They have nowhere to retreat. There aren’t enough ships in the kingdom for a million people.”

  Saria said, “It will make them fight harder if their only retreat is the ocean. If they don’t have enough ships, they will feel they have to fight or drown.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “I don’t want them to fight us. I want them to know it’s better to surrender.”

  Saria scoffed. “A city of a million people against an army of ten thousand and you expect them to surrender? Their army alone has ten times the number of men we do.”

  “You underestimate fear. You are thinking of them as Marauders, which they are not. A Marauder would rather die than surrender. We look forward to battle. But a baker, a shoe cobbler, and a blacksmith with families at home do not see the world as such. They wish to survive. And if they feel surrendering is their best option to do so, they will surrender.” Rodrick pointed at a portion of the map. “This is the secondary gate. It’s used for their armies and to bring in supplies to the city they can’t get by sea. The front gates are kept clear for passage. The army goes for their exercises in and out of the secondary side gate.”

  “You intend to raid the city through a side gate?” she asked. “They are not fools. They must have the gate well guarded with archers.”

  “I don’t want the gate. I want the army.” Rodrick slammed a fist on the table. “We must show them our true power. No hidden tactics. We will simply kill as many of their army as we can. Two hills overlook a valley outside the side gate. We will raid the army during their exercises. They do not come out at once but in portions, about ten thousand men at a time.”

  Hess grinned. “They would not be able to stand against a Marauder horde.”

  “No, they would not. We will slaughter them. Every last man. Then we will put their heads on pikes about the front gate for their people to see, among other stratagems. After a few days, we will send an emissary to offer terms of peace.”

  Saria said, “Once we kill a regiment, what’s to stop them from sending out the other ninety thousand?”

  “They will. But ninety thousand men cannot fit through either gate. I have seen it myself. Perhaps, marching in columns, one thousand can come through at a time. We will hold a line directly in front of both gates and massacre them as they exit. They will not know our numbers, and fear will overtake them when they see their comrades fall. They will retreat to the safety of the city walls.”

  “That is a great risk,” she said. “If they do not retreat, it will be ten thousand against ninety.”

  “Ninety thousand Dolanian troops against a Marauder horde. If those numbers overwhelm us, we need not stay and fight. I would move our troops away and wait for the armies to set up their posts. Then we would attack them randomly—always at different locations and both day and night. Their wills would get weary over time. We have the great advantage in that we are in no rush to conquer the city.”

  “Yes,” Hess said. “You are correct. Fear will overcome them. We don’t need to kill all of them, just enough to frighten the rest. But they have ships to bring more troops and supplies into the city.”

  “Their ships won’t mean anything. We have another weapon.” Rodrick grinned and pointed at the corner where a man lay on a cot. The man’s skin was yellow. Boils covered his face, hands, and arms. He was barely able to open his eyes, and his breath was raspy and labored.

  “Plague?” Saria asked.

  Rodrick nodded. “A weapon the world has not seen before.”

  16

  Leon saw a burning city. The buildings were made of wood and stone, and the fire consumed the wood and charred the skeletons of stone black. People screamed and ran and cried for their loved ones. He stood among them and laughed. He laughed at their plight and their little lives and how weak and fragile they were. A crying child came out of a building, and he dropped a beam of wood on top of her.

  Leon startled awake, gasping for breath. Pain filled his body, and he was in the dark. He ran his hands over his face and then reached out to his sides. He was surrounded by wood. Splinters broke off and stung his fingers. He put his hands on the flat surface beneath him and felt more wood. He was in a wooden box.

  He slammed his palms into the lid. The wood didn’t give, and dust and dirt rained down between the slats and into his mouth. He choked and spat. Terror gripped him when he realized he had been buried alive.

  He shouted for help, struggled, and punched and kicked at the box. As he attempted to roll onto his back, Leon felt pain in his shoulder and knew he had scraped some skin. The wood was old and falling apart.

  The dirt continued to sprinkle over him. He closed his eyes and thought of Cassandra, Star, and his unborn child. He wanted to weep, but no tears came. He deserved what was happening for the things he had done. Part of him, somehow, always knew he would eventually be punished.

  Leon placed his hands on the box again and began to push. He held the position, his arms rigid and full of pain from the tension. The dirt began to pour into his mouth, ears, and eyes. He held his breath and, with a final push, broke open the top of the box.

  Reaching through the opening, he clawed
at the dirt. He kept his eyes and mouth closed, as he blindly dug. He created an opening just wide enough for him to slither upward. He felt as if he were swimming in a sea, trapped beneath a heavy current. He kicked sideways, traveling horizontally and only partially vertically. The process took a long time, longer than he could hold his breath. Lightheaded and weak, he feared he might faint at any moment.

  Finally, the warmth of sunshine fell upon one of his hands. And just when he thought he could take no more and had to suck in air even if his lungs filled with dirt, his face broke the surface. He inhaled like a drowning man who had reached salvation.

  Pulling himself halfway out, he lay on his stomach and enjoyed the sensation of breathing. He pulled his legs out and lay on his back, eyes closed, sweat covering his body. He got to his knees and crawled over to a nearby tree. He leaned against it, the shade cooling him.

  He felt groggy and slow and, for a moment, couldn’t remember how he had ended up in the ground. Then he pictured the shepherd’s smiling face. He checked himself. No injuries. However, his satchel was gone. Looking behind him, he spotted the rusty sword lying on the dirt. Apparently, that had not been worth the effort to steal.

  He rested a long while. But realizing he was losing daylight, he got to his feet. He thought about returning home, but the only thing for him there was humiliation and a sense that he had failed. He would get ownership of that land for his family even if he ended up in a thousand graves.

  He walked slowly at first and then picked up the pace. With no water or food, his strength wouldn’t last long. He hoped he would pass a caravan or some traders who would take pity on him and supply him with water. His throat felt as if he had swallowed hot stones, and he coughed puffs of dust whenever he attempted to clear his lungs.