Revenant

Chapter 1

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

- Plato

* * *

There weren't always dragons in the valley. In fact, there was a time in which there were no dragons at all. There were no dragons. There were no daemons. There were no undead monstrosities seeking nothing less than the complete eradication of all living things.

But that was a long time ago, centuries in fact, and no one alive remembers such a time.

Lorne was tired. He had experienced enough of war. He had seen enough devastation, and he had witnessed enough death for a multitude of lifetimes. He had been a soldier since his early manhood when the iron-borne sigil was first tattooed onto his shoulder, and now, well, it wasn't early manhood anymore. Well into his thirties, his body wore the scars of a lifetime spent in battle, and his mind retained scars of its own, the near-photographic memory of every man or woman who seasoned the tip of his blade.

Yeah, Lorne had experienced enough of war. He had fought for the Gods of Light since the age of fifteen, first as nothing more than a banner holder, then a pikeman, a swordsman, and finally mounted cavalry. Whenever he wasn't in battle, he was preparing for it. There was a time that he could challenge any other soldier to a duel and expect to win, but now, he was tired and he wanted nothing more than to make it through one more month and to finally go home.

He yearned to reconnect with Marissa, his teenage sweetheart, who he had only twice seen since leaving her for war.

He was no coward, but Lorne hoped that he would be rewarded one day with the opportunity to retire peaceably, and take on nothing more dangerous than a salmon heading upstream, for the remainder of his life.

His home was a fishing village on the Western shore of the Salted Sea named Anchoredge. The small settlement, known best for its smoked salmon, smelled of it year-round, and it took Lorne, who was desperate to leave in his teens, years to finally forget the aroma. Occasionally, however, he would happen upon a smoked fish and be instantly reminded of his home.

The war in which they were entrenched had been brewing for longer than anyone knew. The dark armies, under the command of the Dark Gods, had been amassed for centuries, awaiting the call for their return. The knowledge of these armies and the oncoming slaughter were the very reason for the construction of the four gates, each one placed strategically to keep the armies at bay, each one dedicated to a God of Light.

The gates themselves were more like keeps, immense constructs made of granite and steel, nearly a hundred feet tall, garrisoning more than a thousand men. Lorne had been garrisoned at three separate gates during his time in service and had withstood skirmishes and battles too numerous to count. He had fought against ghastly wights at the North Gate, their oddly shaped, previously human bodies seemingly impervious to all but the sharpest of blades. In the southern desserts at the South Gate, Lorne witnessed giant sand storms and armies of undead, their skin baked to leather and hair in knotted clumps. On the East Gate, the enemies were mostly their own, arising from the earth to swarm the army with a relentless surge, fearless and unwavering in their assault.

Lorne brought his sword edge down through the shoulder of a shorter and thinner man, previously known as Bron. He was wearing second-hand armor, its previous owner taller and heftier, leaving a large gap where his shoulder met his neck. This made for a weak spot, both easily spotted and targeted by a more experienced swordsman.

Lorne may have seen Bron before this battle, and they may have even shared a drink at the fire. They may have shared stories about their homes or the women they left behind. Lorne may have given him advice on how to combat fatigue or how to keep foot blisters at bay during long marches. Bron may have looked up to Lorne like a mentor or even a father figure, as his own was very much a drunkard and a coward. But that would have been some time ago.

The Bron that battled Lorne now was stronger and fiercer - dead a number of weeks from dysentery. This Bron was just a garment worn by some ancient monster, arisen through rage and hate, with a compulsion for wonton destruction and a lust for human flesh.

The monster screamed hideously through his bloodied teeth as his clavicle was fractured by Lorne's blade, and he twisted violently, trapping the blade and ripping it from Lorne's clenched hand.

Lorne gasped and he stumbled over the rocky terrain in an effort to once again gain control of the weapon before it was entirely out of reach, tripping over a rock at his feet. A different day on a different battlefield, facing another enemy, and Lorne would have been counted among the dead right there. But there were no battle instincts left in these monsters. His misstep, though unfortunate and clumsy, would not bring about his end, on that day.

Bron spun, seemingly without thought, splattering thick brown-black blood into the air and onto Lorne, who instinctively rolled to his left and into the legs of Bron, trapping the revenant's feet underneath his own body. He kept rolling and pushing into the monster’s legs until Bron was forced to fall backward. By the time the monster's head crashed against the rocky ground, Lorne had regained his bearings and was upon him, dagger in hand, thrusting it up through the other's neck and into his skull.

Bron’s face became once again his own, placid and melancholy, the possessing demon vanquished to find a more suitable host.

Lorne stood and grabbed his sword, cursing under his breath, and hoping that no one saw his near-death experience at the hands of a mere revenant. He glanced about his surroundings, littered with the carcasses of lost men and the weapons of war, and found himself suddenly, but not at all surprisingly, on the losing side of the battle. He could see none of his company's banners, and in front of him, mounted cavalry was sweeping through the mass of men, leaving a wake of blood and death behind.

Mounted cavalry, void of life and anything human at all, carrying long horseman hammers and wearing suits of boiled black leather armor, seasoned with the blood of this battle and those before it. Mounted cavalry, who fought not like Bron, clumsily and without training, but like battle-hardened and seasoned men. Dragoons, mounted on ghastly war steeds, eyes glazed in white, their slack mouths frothing brown-black blood that caked their throats and clotted in the corners of their mouths.

Lorne bent down and hoisted a round shield on his arm, just as the first horseman arrived, his long cavalry hammer swinging in a wide arc toward Lorne's head.

* * *

Lorne awoke to the cackling of women and the clanging of armor. He opened his eyes but could only see from his right. He was unsure how long he had been unconscious, but his head throbbed and his aching body wanted mostly just to remain motionless.

The women, who sounded to be in their twilight years, were probably from the keep, scouring the battlefield for valuables. They would reach him eventually, and he wasn't so sure he could stop them from taking anything at all. Either that or they were harpies, surely set to feasting upon flesh.

He was pretty sure he couldn't stop that from happening either.

He drifted off into blackness.

* * *

Lorne awoke again to the cawing of a crow. It had landed on his chest and was pecking at the wound on his face.

He wished he could feel it.

He reached up with his left hand and swatted at it, desperately slow and awkward. The bird took to the air, joining the hundreds of other scavengers that have come to the former battlefield, Lorne's eyeball held tightly in its beak.

Once again, he was taken into the darkness.

* * *

Lorne opened his eyes to darkness and a great weight upon him. The smell of smoke and death was inescapable and his movement was restricted.

He worked his arms out from underneath his torso and forced them out in front of him, his hands and fingers replacing his eyes in the darkness. His senses were overwhelmed as he dug through the sickly wet mess that surrounded him.

His fingers felt the coldness of steel and the softness of cotton and wool. His nose could not escape the stench of death, and the darkness was interrupted only by the occasional tendril of smoke.

He forced his way forward and eventually upward, through what he had determined to be a giant pyre of human bodies, collected from the battlefield, being burned to cinder. He pushed himself away from the heat and toward the fresher air.

After what seemed an eternity, first one arm, followed by his other, broke through the surface of bodies and he pulled his body partially through, seeing for the first time the grave in which he had been placed.

The pit was at least a hundred yards long and ten across with an unknown depth filled entirely with corpses from the battle; filled with the corpses of both armies being burned to prevent their eventual return as a revenant. The fire was started in the middle and burned itself outward, reaching about 15 yards from where he had pulled himself out. Along the rim of the pit were pikes, each one decorated with a head, each one also aflame.

Lorne pushed himself the rest of the way out and crawled across the top of the bodies to the edge of the pit, where he then pulled himself out. His clothes, thoroughly wet with blood and excrement clung to his body as he crawled through the tall grasses.

His first thoughts were to find a soldier and determine the outcome of the battle, get some medical attention for his throbbing eye, and then find the rest of his company.

"Don't do that." A voice echoed in his head, quiet but commanding.

Lorne had heard of soldiers coming away from battle suffering ailments such as internal voices, but he thought his extended years on the battlefield had proven him immune to such things.

"You're not crazy." The intrusive voice manifested in his head once again.

Something a crazy person would tell himself, Lorne thought.

"Well," the voice continued. "Crazy or not, if you're caught you'll be killed."

"Why would they kill me?" This time he asked the question aloud and felt pretty silly doing it.

"They considered you dead and were attempting to burn you." The voice said. "What would they think should they see you walking amongst them?"

"They would think me a daemon."

"Bingo."

Lorne considered his next actions carefully, despite becoming keenly aware of the security detail that was on the approach, but still a safe enough distance for him to make his escape undetected.

"You need to move," the voice said. "I really don't want to die either."

Lorne forced himself away from the pit, toward the distant line of trees, each yard more agonizing than the last, the coarse grasses and sharp stones of the highlands tearing at his clothing and flesh. He distracted himself from the pain by talking to the voice in his head. Since he was certain that the phantom was merely an aberration caused by his head trauma, he saw no harm in engaging with it. "Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is of no concern to you."

"What are you, then?"

"What do you think I am?"

Honestly, Lorne had no idea. "Daemon?"

"Damn! First try." The voice mocked him. "I picked a smart one. Lucky me."

"But you picked a living body." Lorne mocked in return.

"You assume you still live."

"Am I stuck with you?"

"Until you die," the daemon snickered.

"So I do live then."

"Yes."

By the time Lorne reached the wood line, he was covered in fresh blood of his own. He looked back to the burning pyre. The flames, fed with oil, reached high into the air, spreading the ashes of the dead across miles of highland scrub and forest. The burn detail stood in silence, as they were instructed, and would stay until the last embers grew cold, watching over the souls of those lost in battle.

"So," Lorne said at last, "it appears, at least for the time being, that we are partners."

"So it seems."

Lorne made his way deeper into the wood until the scent of death and burning flesh was replaced by that of pine and earth. He stopped, covered himself in loose pine needles and branches, and finally lay his head on the ground. He didn't think of his aching head or his lost eyesight. He forgot about the nails on his fingers that had broken and torn in his efforts to escape. He closed his eyes and breathed in the rich smells of peat and moss. He forced thoughts of the battle from his mind and clung to the memories of home, as distant and dim as they were.

And then Lorne slept.