Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

Daddy

  my home

  my favorite socks

  my favorite red dress

  my special pillow on which I never had nightmares

  Auntie Neko

  Uncle Loran

  our home in the basement of the broken house

  my tail

  Uncle Barras

  my brother Bug

  my mother

  Shadows in the Mist

  Sue Tingey

  We reached the brow of the hill overlooking the battlefield just before dawn. We were too late—it was long over.

  A foggy pall hung over the killing fields, swirling in ghostly, damp clouds, bringing to mind the early morning mists that often covered the churchyards of my homeland; the difference being the lack of birdsong and the stench of death and burned flesh.

  ‘We make camp here,’ Curt said. ‘Get a couple of hours sleep, and once the mist clears, we can go down and see if there’re any survivors.’

  Ragnor spat on the ground. ‘Not much chance of that, I’m thinking.’

  Curt didn’t bother to reply. If our men had been victorious, they would have been here waiting for us and in raucous form. Sadly, they were not, which meant only one thing, they had been slaughtered. Our opponents, the men from the north, weren’t just satisfied with victory, they scoured the battlefields for the wounded and dying and, with a blade to the guts, slit them open, pulled out their innards, and left them to die a slow and painful death. As we were too late to join the fight, our job would be to see the mortally wounded on their way.

  We all dismounted and saw to our animals before curling up around a hastily made fire. We were hungry, but even more tired, though I doubted any of us slept more than a few minutes at a time. Every single sound had us reaching for a dagger or sword. In the end, I gave in and started cooking up some chow. It would be a good breakfast. I’d caught us a few rabbits the previous morning and still had some root vegetables from when we’d started our journey.

  ‘Morning, young’un.’ I started at the sudden barking voice from behind me.

  ‘Kelso,’ I said, flashing him a smile, which was at odds with the dagger in my hand.

  ‘Sorry, did I make you jump?’ he said, laughing.

  I tucked the dagger back under my cloak, close to hand but not obvious. ‘Breakfast will be a while yet,’ I told him.

  He hunkered down beside me. ‘I can wait.’

  ‘There’s some brew.’ I gestured with my head to the steaming cauldron hanging over the fire.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  I ladled some into a mug and passed it to him. He took a swig and closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the honey and herb infused beverage that had ensured, if not the friendship, the goodwill of the other men. ‘Ahh, this is so good.’

  I carried on cooking while he looked on and, from behind us, I could hear some of the others stirring, no doubt awoken by the aroma of cooking meat. One by one they joined us, all accepting a brew while they waited for their breakfast. The sun was warming our backs by the time I’d finished cleaning the dishes.

  We formed two groups. Curt led the main party down to the west of the battleground while the rest of us spread out to the east. Strangely enough, the mist that obscured the valley below us hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had thickened into a grey soup.

  As we started down the hillside, Kelso, who was leading us, raised his hand, drawing us to a halt.

  ‘Is it me or can you see something moving around down there?’

  Drew sheltered his eyes from the sun with his hand and squinted into the mist. ‘No, I… Yes, yes, now you mention it.’ He leaned forward on his mare, peering into the grey.

  ‘You’re imagining things.’ Ragnor laughed. ‘There’s nothing down there but the dead and carrion crows.’

  Kelso’s lips twisted into a sour grimace. ‘Crows you say? Can you hear the cawing of crows? Can you hear anything down there?’

  Drew shivered and hugged himself. He was younger than Kelso and Ragnor. They were old warhorses, but even so, Drew had over ten years on me.

  I stared down the hill, past the main group, into the shifting clouds of fog, and I did see something. I was sure I could see dark shadows drifting through the murk, sometimes stopping to stoop down then rise up again to continue on their way.

  Drew glanced at Kelso, his cheeks pallid and beads of moisture forming on his brow and top lip. ‘You’re right. There is something down there.’

  Ragnor snorted. ‘Something? What do you mean something?’

  ‘I can see shadows,’ Drew said.

  Kelso’s hand dropped to his dagger. ‘So can I.’

  Ragnor raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘This is what comes of filling the youngsters’ heads with superstitious nonsense,’ he said. ‘Come on. We’re falling behind.’ He patted the neck of his horse and started after the others.

  Drew and I exchanged a glance. I shrugged and urged my mare on. We were already a fair way behind Curt and his party. They had become nothing more than blurs within the mist. The further down into the valley we went, the murkier it became. We could no longer see farther than a few feet ahead of us and, within the mist, every sound was muffled.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Drew said, leaning close to me so he wouldn’t be heard by the others. ‘There’s something unnatural about this.’

  I wasn’t about to argue. Now and then, I thought I caught glimpses of movement ahead of us. We reached the bottom of the valley and it wasn’t long before the dead began to slow our progress as we picked our way through them, searching for the living.

  ‘This is pointless,’ Drew muttered after about twenty minutes.

  We’d all dropped down off our horses by then as it was easier to check the bodies, or what was left of them. Never before had I seen such carnage.

  ‘If we find just one poor soul needing our help, it’ll be worth it,’ Kelso said to a grunt from Ragnor.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here but body parts.’

  I kept quiet. I hated the overloud way our voices sounded. It was almost as though the mist was making a wall around us, not letting sound in nor letting it out. Then a voice cried out, a scream abruptly silenced, proving me wrong. I’d heard that all right. We all had.

  ‘What the…?’ Ragnor said but was silenced by another scream and the cries of a panicked horse.

  I glanced at the men around me. They all looked as fearful as I felt.

  ‘Remount!’ Ragnor ordered.

  We all clambered back onto our steeds. ‘What should we do?’ Drew asked.

  ‘Carry on across the valley and up the other side.’

  ‘Ragnor!’ a voice shouted. ‘Ragnor, can you hear me?’

  ‘Curt?’

  ‘Turn back and get out of here now!’ he shouted. ‘Get out while you can!’

  Drew’s scared eyes met mine. He looked as though he was ready to bolt. Kelso stood in his stirrups, squinting into the mist.

  ‘Curt, where are you?’ Ragnor shouted.

  ‘Get out. Get—’

  He never finished, cut off mid-sentence. Then there was silence, the only sounds being our own ragged breathing.

  ‘We can’t leave them,’ Kelso said.

  ‘It was a direct order,’ Drew said.

  Ragnor gave a grunt. ‘Curt would never leave us.’

  ‘But he said—’ Drew started to argue but was silenced by an angry glare from Ragnor.

  ‘Fall in line, draw your weapons, and we’ll head in their direction.’

  ‘We don’t know their direction,’ Drew said.

  ‘They should be ahead and slightly to the west of us,’ Kelso said.

  Another scream rang out, a horse’s. It was a terrible sound full of pain and fear, and it was too much for Drew. He swung his steed around and bolted back the way we’d come.

  ‘For the love of all the gods,’ Ragnor said, and then uttered a profanity.

  ‘Stupid young bugger,’
Kelso muttered.

  I held my tongue. I didn’t blame Drew one little bit, but I wasn’t about to condone his actions either. We were soldiers, we were comrades, and we were family, and I’d rather die than let a single one of our small group down.

  From behind us, came a terrible cry. ‘Help me! Help me… Please help!’ Drew’s pleading ended in a bloodcurdling shriek mirrored by his mare.

  Ragnor and Kelso moved their horses alongside mine. ‘We stick close together,’ Ragnor said and urged his horse on. Kelso and I had no alternative but to follow his lead.

  We rode in a tight line, knees almost touching. We weren’t even making a pretence of searching for any who lived. There was something wrong with this place, and deep in my heart, I didn’t believe we’d ever make it to the other side.

  Now and then, shadows would glide through the mist ahead of us but never close enough to see anything other than dark stains in the milky murk.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Kelso asked.

  We all stopped, sitting up in our saddles and glancing around.

  ‘I…’ Ragnor started to say but was silenced by a moan coming from just ahead of us. His hand went to the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Ahhh,’ another moan.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Ragnor called out.

  ‘Ahhh!’

  Ragnor gestured with his hand that we should move on. We glanced around, searching for movement, listening for the slightest sound or indication of life. Another groan so close we were almost upon him, whoever he was.

  ‘Stay mounted,’ Ragnor said, swinging himself off his steed.

  He walked slightly ahead of us, head bent and moving from left to right and back again, searching. He abruptly stopped and crouched. I heard another moan, but this time I was sure it came from Ragnor.

  ‘Oh, dear father,’ he murmured and, turning his head, threw up.

  Kelso and I exchanged a glance and, as one, we slid off our mounts. Ragnor had dropped to his knees.

  ‘Ragnor?’ I said, moving to his side. ‘What…?’ and then I saw. My throat closed up and, for a moment, the world swayed around me. It was only Kelso’s hand on my shoulder that stopped me from falling. ‘What happened to him?’

  Ragnor staggered to his feet, swiping his hand across his mouth. ‘I told you to stay on your beasts.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ I asked again, unable to tear my eyes away from what remained of the man who’d once been our leader.

  ‘Ahh,’ Curt groaned again, though how he lived I couldn’t comprehend.

  Raw black caverns, rimmed with red, stared up at us from where his eyes had once been. Dark blood, the colour of molasses, coated his chin, and when he groaned again, I could see his tongue was gone, too. And these weren’t the worst of his injuries. His body below the waist was missing. All that remained were the blue-grey strings of his guts spilling onto the mud.

  I felt a tear slip down my cheek as Ragnor pulled his sword. With one swipe, it was all over.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Kelso asked. ‘Go back or carry on?’

  ‘We look for our comrades,’ Ragnor said. ‘We find them and, if necessary, put them out of their misery.’

  ‘What did that to him?’ I asked.

  ‘Northern scum lurking in the mist,’ Ragnor said.

  Kelso and I exchanged a look. The man had been ripped in half. The northerners were big and strong, but not strong enough to do that to a human body.

  We got back on our horses and carried on. Every now and then, we saw movement in the mist. Sometimes dark figures that languidly glided across in front of us and at others shadows, moving impossibly fast.

  Then the whispering started.

  At first, I thought it was a breath of breeze blowing through the valley, it was so soft, or maybe the twittering of birds. Ragnor and Kelso looked from side to side so I was sure they could hear it, too.

  Kelso.

  A whisper slithered through the mist like a snake.

  Ragnor.

  Another call bringing to mind fine, silken spider webs.

  Christian.

  My name followed by tinkling laughter. Like before, we rode in a tight line, so close we were almost on top of each other.

  Ragnor, Kelso, Christian.

  Still they called, and the movement within the mist became more obvious, as did the whispering of our names. Sometimes, the voices sounded feminine, and at others, almost childish. All the same, they filled me with mounting dread.

  ‘It can’t be much further now,’ Kelso said. ‘I feel like we’ve been riding for hours.’

  I turned his way about to agree with him when there was a whooshing sound and a grunt from my other side and when I looked back Ragnor was gone. His horse whinnied and bucked, its eyes wild and scared.

  ‘Kelso!’ I hissed. ‘Ragnor’s gone.’

  ‘What?’ he said, and from behind him, something black reared up within the murk. He was swept off his horse backwards and disappeared.

  ‘Kelso! I shouted. ‘Ragnor!’

  Christian, Christian!

  I drew my dagger, looking this way and that. Then up ahead, a line of dark figures wafted towards me. I drew to a halt. My mare, Shiva, stomped her hooves nervously. The other two stopped, snorting and snuffling with eyes rolling.

  Christian, Christian. Come with us, Christian.

  Arms stretched towards me as the shadows drifted closer and closer. Soon, they’d be upon me and, in my head, I saw mouths full of pointed teeth and hands tipped with sharp talons.

  I slapped Shiva on the rump and leaned forward, screaming, ‘Ride,’ hoping the other two poor creatures would run with me. They did.

  We raced straight at the creatures coming towards us, and I was sure they were creatures now. Humans faced with three fine pieces of horseflesh charging towards them would have scattered.

  Then we were upon them. I felt hands reaching for me. Something grasped hold of my arm and saddle, hanging on. I swiped down with my dagger and was rewarded with a high-pitched shriek. One of the horses screamed, and I felt, rather than saw, Kelso’s steed go down and disappear behind me.

  Shiva raced onwards, Ragnor’s ride, Jet, getting ahead of us, and then we were going upwards. We had reached the other side of the valley. The mist began to thin. I didn’t slow. I didn’t dare. The safety of broad daylight was in sight, but I didn’t dare believe, I didn’t dare hope. Then we powered out of the mist, and I could feel the sun on my face and a breeze ruffling my hair. I didn’t stop until we reached the top of the rise.

  I patted Shiva on the neck, and she stomped her feet, snorting puffs of steam. ‘Good girl,’ I told her.

  Ragnor’s mare trotted back to stand beside us and nuzzled at my shoulder. I supposed, as far as she was concerned, there was safety in numbers. I scratched her forehead as I looked into the mist below us. From the top of the hill, the valley looked like a lake of heaving storm clouds.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ I said. ‘Let’s get away from here.’

  I rode down the other side of the hill and kept going, trying to put as much distance between me and the valley before nightfall. I didn’t stop until we reached a shallow river where the horses could take a drink.

  It was here that I slid off Shiva and reached for the water skin hanging from my saddlebag. I caught a glimpse of something white caught up under my saddle. As I leaned forward to take a look, Jet gave a whinny distracting me. I glanced away—

  —and something grasped my wrist, sharp nails digging into my flesh.

  I shrieked, falling backwards onto my rump. Then I saw the thing holding onto me so tightly, and I screamed as I fumbled desperately within the folds of my cloak for my dagger. Before I could find it, the thing fell from me, dropping to the ground. Long, bone white fingers clenched and unclenched in jerky spasms, as if the hand and severed forearm had a life of its own. I scrambled away from it and jumped to my feet, heart pounding and my breath coming in short gasps.

  ‘Dear God, dear God,’ I heard myself sayi
ng again and again.

  For a few moments more, the hand scrabbled at the dirt, ivory talons gouging the earth in its death throes, as I hoped they were. Then, with a final shudder, the fingers curled in on themselves. A gout of something as black as treacle oozed out of the stump, and it flopped flat on the ground.

  I stood staring down at it while my heart calmed and I stopped shaking. ‘What in the name of all the gods?’ I muttered to myself, and then remembered hacking madly at something that had grabbed at me within the mist.

  I moved a little closer, but not too close. I reached out with my dagger and gave it a prod. Nothing. I pressed the tip of my blade into it. More black goo erupted from the wound and, with a hiss and a puff of smoke, it erupted into flames, burning as bright as the sun until there was nothing left but dust.

  Gradually, I could breathe again without gasping like a grounded fish. When I could, I said a brief prayer for the souls of my lost friends and took the time to look over the horses, checking in and under the saddlebags and saddles. When I was sure there were no more unwanted passengers, I remounted and made my way east.

  I’d had enough of death—I was going home.

  The Art: Post War

  RJ Barker

  It was the Grand Sycophant Oroestes who brought the artist Milon of Honsa across the seas from his faraway land to paint the great and terrible King Hattaran of Murast. What greater honour could there be for the greatest warrior the world had ever known than to be painted by the greatest painter the world had ever known?

  None, of course, and it was the job of a grand sycophant to know such things.

  Now, friend, I have heard of the painting, it is a terrible thing. A picture so real that it feels like Hattaran lives again, that his armies may move across continents, cities will fall in fire and pain, and those who love will find what is dearest to them taken, sullied, and destroyed. But you, to come here across the sands, to pass through destruction and the rubble and to travel up the Shard Road of Murast, you must indeed be a true lover of art. But though you walk now through a wasteland, do you know that we, the people of Murast, were once the greatest art lovers in the known world? Indeed, Hattaran himself brought the best and the brightest artists back to his mighty capital to ply their trade among the gentle towers of our city.