by Marcus Lee
The soldiers, eight of them in this squad bellowed with laughter. One of them, a hatchet-faced corporal with pockmarked skin, called Meech, pulled him to his feet. ‘Soon,’ he laughed, ‘but not yet.’ Having said this, he drew his fist back and started to pound Kalas’ face.
Blow after blow Meech struck, and the world started to grow dim to Kalas.
‘I’m coming, Syan,’ Kalas muttered.
As Meech continued, he gashed one of his knuckles badly on Kalas’ teeth. Despite it bleeding freely, he unleashed another punch, and his blood splashed into Kalas’ mouth.
Suddenly Kalas’ eyes opened wide. ‘Kill me,’ he pleaded. ‘Kill me!’ but his final desperate plea fell on deaf ears.
‘Finish the old sod off,’ shouted one of the other soldiers, and bored now with the beating, they turned back to their food.
Kalas fell to the ground, and Meech knelt either side of his shoulders.
Meech was about to draw his dagger when he saw Kalas was trying to tell him something with his last breaths, beckoning with his hands.
‘What is it you old fool? Have you got any coins hidden you want to tell me about? If so I’ll bury your wife instead of leaving her to the crows,’ he lied. Meech leaned down and put his ear next to Kalas’ broken mouth to hear his whispered response.
In an instant, the old man’s hands were on the back of his head, and Meech couldn’t pull free.
‘I told you to kill me,’ said Kalas. His voice that moments ago had been broken and pleading was now deep and menacing. ‘Now … now it’s too late, for us, for everyone!’
With that, he opened his mouth and bit deep into Meech’s neck. Meech tried desperately to pull away but couldn’t, and felt his blood being drained from his body. He wanted to scream, to cry to his friends for help, to beg for mercy, but it was as if his body was locked, frozen, unable to move. In the last moments before his life left him, he saw Kalas’ eyes glow red.
The other soldiers who sat around the well eating their food, noticed the absence of sound and turned their attention back to Meech. He knelt on top of the old man, twitching in a strange puppet-like fashion.
The horses were whinnying and skittish where they were tied to an old wooden fence, their eyes wide and rolling with fear, and the soldiers stood to look around.
‘Meech what in the gods’ names are you doing to that old man?’ laughed Antoc, the squad leader, suggestively. The others roared with laughter and started jeering, but it soon died away as something obviously wasn’t right. The horses had sensed it, and now they did too.
As they looked, Meech seemed to be shrinking, shrivelling before their eyes. Then like a bag of bones, he was cast to one side, his arms and legs mere sticks covered in taut skin wrapped in scale armour.
The old man sat up then, but he didn’t look as old as before, and when he got to his feet, it was with a smoothness of one much younger.
A silence settled across the yard, and slowly Kalas looked up. His face which had been old like wrinkled leather, was now firm, the skin taut. Blood ran down his chin and neck, but it was his eyes … they glowed a fierce red as if a fire raged behind them.
‘In the name of the gods!’ cried Antoc, surging to his feet. His sword blade whispered from its scabbard, as a cold chill ran through his bones. He moved to a fighting position, and all around him, the other men followed suit, all bravado, all the laughter gone. Swords and shields at the ready, they quickly surrounded Kalas in a ring of bared steel.
‘Kill that thing!’ Antoc ordered, then lunged forward with his blade for Kalas’ unprotected chest as the others also started to move. But then those fiery red eyes fixed on him, and it was as if everything slowed, except the red-eyed fiend.
Kalas twisted and spun dodging the blow, then his hand snapped up palm first, to break Antoc’s nose. As Antoc’s head rocked back, Kalas turned the man’s wrist sharply, taking the sword away, and then before Antoc’s had time to recover smashed the flat of the blade into the side of his neck and jaw.
As Antoc fell stunned to the ground, blood pouring, he saw Kalas flicker like a flame amongst his men, and they fell in his wake like wheat under a scythe. It was over in a few heartbeats, everyone dead and him wounded. He couldn’t stand let alone fight, but maybe he could still get out of this alive. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Let me live, don’t kill me,’ he begged, holding a rag frantically to his bleeding neck while also trying to stem the blood flow from his nose.
As Antoc watched, Kalas knelt over him, and the glare of the red eyes faded a little to be replaced by the dark green they’d been before, full of sorrow. He felt his hopes rise.
‘You should have killed me when you had the chance,’ said Kalas softly, ‘but I promise I won’t kill you.’
Antoc felt relief wash over him then, and he sobbed a little, feeling the warmth of the sun replace the death chill that had been seeping through his bones. A chance at life again, he thought, things would be so different from hereon, maybe he could run away from the army, find a girl, have children.
‘I am sorry though,’ said Kalas, interrupting Antoc’s thoughts.
‘Sorry?’ asked Antoc, through the pain. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ and tears ran down his cheeks. ‘I am the one who is sorry for all of this,’ and his eyes swept around the courtyard, encompassing everything from the dead soldiers, to Syan, to Jay. ‘What do you have to be sorry for?’ asked Antoc. He could feel the blood flow from his wounds slowing, and his heartbeat steadied. Yes, he would try and live a better life after this.
‘Well,’ said Kalas, ‘I am sorry. I promised not to kill you and I won’t, but you see, he is hungry after so long, and still needs to feed.’ With that, his eyes flamed red, Antoc screamed, and Kalas began to drink.
-----
Rakan sighed. He’d never been close to anyone.
As a child, he was beaten by his father, his older brother, and his cousins because he had the skin rot. It was a malady that caused his flesh to be covered in sores that rarely healed, and that made him disgusting in their eyes, something to be despised.
They couldn’t kill him, as death was answerable with death, but they’d certainly hoped he would kill himself. His mother offered no warmth either, she had barely touched him, and from an early age, he’d felt the hatred of everyone around him.
The constant beatings would have broken most people, but Rakan after a while had stopped feeling the pain, came to accept it, came to enjoy it. He’d toiled harder than any to chop the trees in the woods, became stronger and revelled in the physical work and pain from his exhausted muscles.
When he’d reached fourteen summers, and was old enough to join the army, the local sergeant at arms had recruited and sent him to the nearest garrison fort to take the oath and amulet. His ability to ignore pain while inflicting it was noticed during training, and he was transferred to the Nightstalkers, an elite unit.
He had to wait for two years before he was given his first leave; two years of punishing training, putting down an occasional insurrection, fighting the green folk of the Eyre and stepping over the bodies of his fallen comrades.
After two weeks of riding hard, even at night, revelling in the risk but knowing he was the equal of any dark things that were abroad, he’d arrived back at his old village just after sunrise. He’d ridden in, nodded to the local garrison soldiers and enjoyed the look of distrust they gave him in his black uniform. He was only a young corporal then, but the black uniform showed him as being in the Nightstalkers, and he was something to be feared.
One hour later, he’d ridden back out again. He’d killed everyone; his father and mother, his brother, his cousins, and when anyone else tried to stop him, he’d butchered them too.
Two guards ran to investigate the screams and had come upon Rakan covered in blood up to his elbows, sword covered in gore. However, they’d dared not intervene, for he outranked them, and he’d only killed townspeople, and a member of the army didn’t have to answer for that.
> The town overseer also came in time to witness the slaughter, and he had the authority to stop the carnage. But when he saw who it was, Rakan returned, he’d scurried from sight, praying to all the gods who would listen that Rakan didn’t come for him too, and when Rakan left town, he’d sobbed in relief.
Years had gone by since then, and Rakan was surprised to find himself thinking back that far, but what now surprised him most was that for the first time in his life, he felt almost liked.
That young lad Taran had not only idolised him, but with his tales, the rest of the squad had started to look at him differently. They’d applauded his exploits, showed respect for his rank, and the nods they gave him when they met his eye had made his heart swell.
Normally his scarred visage, his cruel look, the marks of rank on his cheek and the open sores from the skin rot, meant people rarely ever held his gaze for long, yet last night the men even sought to be next to him.
Rakan had hardly been able to believe the accusation and sentence when they’d been told to him by one of his men. He’d even considered recruiting Urg because of his size, and found it hard to believe Taran had killed him. But everyone had heard about the fight, and it seemed Urg had died during the night. The law was clear; if a civilian killed another civilian, their life was forfeit.
It might be unfair as it had happened from an agreed bout on the justice turf, but it seemed the townspeople and the overseer had lost money, so this was a way of exacting petty revenge.
As he’d walked through the village, he’d heard the sound of the shouting rabble, demanding Taran’s blood, and it had sickened him. These peasants, these land grubbers who’d never held a sword... Yet he’d carried out executions more times than he could count, some on comrades he’d known years, and they’d never caused him pause. So he’d shrugged off his concerns, and strode faster thinking to get this over and done with and to be on his way before Taran’s dead body cooled.
Yet when he’d approached the justice turf and seen Taran tied to the post, had felt the lad’s steady gaze meet his own, then heard him deride the overseer who was so keen to end his life, Rakan thought of a solution.
Now, as he looked down at Taran’s body and the blood being soaked up greedily by the dust, he felt satisfaction.
His blade hadn’t delivered a killing blow. As it swept up toward Taran’s throat, instead of cutting it slowly, he’d slashed the dagger across Taran’s cheeks to carve the marks of a corporal on his face.
Rakan didn’t judge Taran harshly for blacking out, the pain would have been quite excruciating, but it would have been the expectation of a death blow that would have caused his body to shut down in self-protection. So, for the moment while the silence continued, Rakan cut the bonds on Taran’s wrists.
The crowd, realising that the sentence they’d expected, had not been passed out, began to scream in hatred and confusion, then surged forward in a rare act of bravery onto the justice turf.
‘Swords!’ called Rakan, and the troop of soldiers who were with him drew their blades in smooth unison and faced outward. The throng, shocked by the strength of Rakan’s voice and the glittering steel waiting to shed their blood, came to a hushed standstill.
Only the overseer found the outraged strength to speak.
Spluttering, he started screaming. ‘He is sentenced to death; you cannot pardon him! Do your duty and carry out the execution. It’s the law and you are held by this law, captain. If you don’t carry it out, it will be carried out on you!’
Rakan, raised his voice so everyone could hear and nodded down at Taran who was starting to stir. ‘That man,’ he stated loudly, ‘was conscripted to the army of the Witch-King last night before Urg died, and therefore the law states.’ He raised his voice even louder. ‘That as a member of our king’s army, he is not answerable for the death of a stinking civilian!’
-----
Taran was aware of the sound of screaming. ‘It seems I’m damned,’ his mind quailed, and he was scared to open his eyes for fear of seeing the nine hells he’d apparently been consigned to. Yet open his eyes he did and saw Rakan’s scarred, ugly face looking down at him.
‘Welcome to the army, corporal,’ said Rakan with a wolfish grin, and reached down to grip Taran’s hand then pulled him to his feet. ‘No rest when you’re on duty, lad.’ He slapped Taran on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Taran’s hand reached up to his painful face only to have Rakan knock it away. ‘Touch those cuts with those filthy hands before they’re stitched, and you’ll likely end up dead of rot,’ he warned.
As Taran’s head began to clear, he searched Rakan’s mind and understood what had just happened.
Rakan and his men, blades still drawn, pushed their way through the crowd with Taran between them, the townsfolk muttering curses as they realised their chance of vengeance was gone.
As Taran walked, blood splashed down his shirt, and he pulled a cloth from his belt pouch to try and staunch the flow.
‘If you think it hurts now,’ laughed Rakan, ‘wait till I start stitching you up!’ and with that, some of the men laughed half in sympathy, half in malicious jealousy at his sudden elevation to a corporal’s rank.
Taran, though, was just happy to be alive irrespective of the pain and began to think about how to get out of this new mess he found himself in.
-----
Maya had managed to fall back to sleep, but the glimmer of dawns early light and the rumble of her empty stomach grumbling in protest awoke her with a start.
She reached for her scavenging bag, only to see it in shreds and the remains of its contents strewn around the floor of the cave.
Then memories of yesterday flooded back like a wave, and her eyes flew to where she’d tied the wolf, only to see the leather tethers in shreds and the wolf no longer there. A chill ran down Maya’s neck as she picked up her bow, then nocked an arrow before moving quietly to the entrance of the cave, ready to draw and loose should the wolf still be there. Yet of the great beast, there was no sign.
Relief washed over her. She wasn’t sure one of her arrows could bring it down and was glad she wouldn’t have to find out. Returning to the cave, she threw the last of the branches onto the fire and enjoyed the heat as it banished the cold of the fresh morning air.
Next, she carefully gathered the few unspoiled berries that had rolled around the floor during the wolf’s midnight feast and bemoaned the fact that the two rabbits she’d caught had been eaten without a trace. Better them than me, she consoled herself, and was glad those small snacks had been enough for the wolf, and she hadn’t woken to its jaws upon her throat.
She sat back against the cave wall and chewed on the berries while trying to make sense of the night before. She needed to choose a plan of action.
Astren, her dream, and the punishment she faced gave her pause, but it was thinking of her father that made up her mind. He would have spent a terrible night worrying about her, wondering whether she was alive or dead, injured or otherwise, and she couldn’t let him suffer any longer.
The best course, she decided, was to return to the settlement as soon as possible to face the overseer. Get this over with, put whatever punishment that was inflicted behind her, and get back to living her life. The dream was just a dream, and she shouldn’t sit here dwelling on it any further.
She paused and looked at the berries before dropping them. Likely they were off or somehow different from what she usually picked and had made her hallucinate. She knew mushrooms could make people see things that weren’t there. Now that was far more plausible than Astren being real.
So mind made up, she kicked dust over the dying fire to extinguish it, grabbed her bow, quiver and knife and gathered the bits of leather twine that were still long enough to be useable.
Before leaving the cave, she dipped her fingers in the cooler ash to the side of the fire and rubbed it onto her face, strapped her knee as she always did before returning to give herself a limp, and left the cave to
head off toward the smoke of the settlement she could see in the distance.
As Maya descended, she wondered how on earth she’d ended up on the east side of the valley in unfamiliar terrain.
Each of the settlement’s four foragers was given a sector. The valley was quite vast, and if a forager got to know the land they worked more intimately, they could better gather, hunt the animals, be aware of the dangers and so on. It made sense.
Now as Maya hastened through the unfamiliar forest, she needed to keep glancing up at the rising sun through the canopy of the trees to orientate herself, and because of that, she failed to see the trap at her feet. Suddenly her legs were swept from under her as she triggered a snare, and the sapling to which it was tied, sprang upright. She landed with a heavy thud on her back the wind knocked out of her.
Despite being stunned, Maya pulled her knife to sever the bindings around her ankles. While sawing through the leather, there was a sound of something crashing through the undergrowth.
‘It came from over here,’ a woman called.
Maya’s heart sank. The voice belonged to Seren, one of the other foragers, and there was no love lost between the two. In fact, all the other foragers hated Maya due to her constant luck, always bringing back more than anyone else.
She’d been assigned to the west of the valley once, and it had likely been the other foragers' bribes that had seen her moved to the barren north. Nonetheless, she’d soon started to bring in more than the others again. There was no beating her, and they were insanely jealous.
Seren came crashing through the bushes like a wild animal. My god, no wonder she never catches anything, except for me, thought Maya.
‘By the gods,’ cried Seren as she came to a halt.
Maya finally loose of the bonds rose to her feet, brushing mulch from her clothing.
More crashing, and onto the pathway came Krispen, one of the other foragers. ‘What did you catch?’ he asked, before any further words died in his throat as he spied Maya.
‘Maya,’ hissed Seren, ‘look what you’ve done to my trap!’ Her face was screwed up angrily. ‘How am I supposed to catch any meat today now?’ she demanded, her eyebrows lifting.