Chapter 5 - Raze

Chapter 5 - Hex 2

The atmosphere within the Magma changes once the brawl has been broken up. At first, I expect it is just a result of fading excitement, but then the first men begin to rise. A strong, quiet type sitting by Aduren peers subtly out the tavern’s two front windows. He does not seem the kind of man to suck up to a brash idiot who has dubbed himself a hero. No, by this time in his perhaps thirty years of life he will have decided himself above the foolishness of childish legend. Both men disgust me.

Then the queer boy I spoke to earlier stands and peers around in much the same way. Perhaps he is more than the scared child I wrote him off to be. Then I hear, or rather feel the trembling of the ground. Not many are more perceptive than I. My hearing is not as sensitive as it once was, for I expect the sense was damaged when I cut my pointed ears from my head. Still, the rest of the miserable people in this tavern have yet to notice whatever bears down on them outside. I hop down from my elevated perch and watch the scarred boy exit the tavern with an older man of similar composure. By the time they scramble about and announce a raid, I am already on my way out the door. I will leave the way I came, via a trench I carved under the wooden wall yesterday with the paws of an overgrown badger.

I turn to give one last farewell to this cozy little town before glancing up at the letters mounted above the Magma, now Gamma’s door. The letters have not been rearranged, for the G is now large and the M now small. The letters’ haphazard alignment is just as it was before. I unsling my lute and quietly strum a sequence of quizzical chords likely to wash away whichever illusion clouds my eyes. I live for mysteries like these.

I am still examining the letters by the time a sparse line of eleven militiamen emerge from Kitford’s citadel in loose defensive formation. Damn it. I meant to be gone by the time the militia arrived. Suddenly, the mystery of Gamma seems to fade as I begin to realize that I have made a mistake. Raiders are almost to the frail wooden gate and militiamen bar my escape route. The only path left to me is back into the tavern. I curse over the rising row of the panicked revellers. As I duck back inside the panic-filled room, the spiked town gate made of Okieh boughs, tar, and a thin rope weave begins to sprout flame.

All around men scramble for weapons. Those without clasp kitchen cleavers, tines, and augers from the adjacent smithy close as they crowd upstairs into a space which quickly reveals itself much too small. After the maximum occupancy of whatever hideout lies above has been reached, there remain just under twenty men in the downstairs room. Brandon, first to notice the threat, but last to react hefts a smooth double-bladed axe. His other hand rests on the shoulder of a young boy who seems ill suited for this kind of stress. Attilan, I think his name was. He takes short, sudden gasps as though unsure when it might be safe to breathe. An older man, yet unnamed by his fellows, turns an old broadsword over in his hands. He exchanges a meaningful silence with another man of similar age. The silent giant sits on the bar, facing away from the assembled array of frightened men. I cannot see his face, but fear is written in every line of his hunched body.

The boar-murderer Aduren sits peacefully praying at the bar, his reveller’s glee forgotten. He clutches a silver crescent moon pendant in his left hand, flexing and unflexing his right while muttering incomprehensible phrases under his breath. Two boys, most likely trainees of the militia brood side by side near the door. Only one brought his weapon to the Magma, and the other holds a long knife in his calloused hand. I have seen men of war in my years of wandering the North, and they do not clutch their blades as these children do. They support them delicately, as one would a stylus in a library. These boys are meant to carry scythes and rakes, not swords and knives. I hope whoever assails this town does not come near the tavern, for they will not find much resistance inside.

I myself am unarmed. I trained once with a deadbeat bladedancer of the south, but I never saw the appeal of carrying a weapon. They always beget more trouble than they can solve. Best not to invite violence when one could simply sidestep it.

Outside, the town gate shudders. The bindings holding it’s component logs together writhe and whither in flame. I watch through a window as the first log bowes inwards. My keen eyes glimpse black horses and riders through the flames. A chant rises among the invaders. They call the name ‘Riland’, as though he were some sort of god. I suspect he is young warrior proving his valor today by breaking first through the breach.

As I suspected, a young man in black rags scrambles through the fissure in the gate. And screams. A thick arrow burrows deep into the right side of his chest, puncturing lungs and liver. He staggers into the burning gate, eyes wide with terror and shock, dropping his crude sword to clutch the lethal shaft. He slides down the wall, vomiting bile and blood upon his comrades as they stream through the breach in battle-crazed mob. Already, he is forgotten. Just like that. So much for heroism. I wish Aduren had observed this. Show him the true fate of heroes.

Fifteen raiders, unarmored and clad all in black stream down Kitford’s dirt-paved main street, howling all the while to inspire terror in the people they can’t yet see. It works. Attilan has stopped trying to breathe, and even the chests of the two veterans by the door rise and fall more quickly than before. On the other side of town, the Kitford militiamen dig into their exposed positions in paralized silence. Then the doors of the keep open once more to let pass four armored men on horseback. Their leader begins the field chant sung in merriment only minutes ago, and the melody becomes a lifeline onto which all of Kitford’s men cling for dear life.

The line of eleven is not nearly dense enough to stay the invaders, and I realize the chant is the only tether keeping these men in line. Another war cry echoes through the field of imminent battle, this one from inside the Tavern. Aduren raises a chant of his own, calling his fellows to arms and stalking towards the tavern door.

‘From sun to dawn to dusk

From sun to moon

No evil shall walk

In lanes secure

For I will watch

My vigil true

And let fall the mace

Of the great Selune!’

Three of his admirers flank him, drawn to action by this shining legend. This stupid, shining, idiot, who is about to reveal the position of every civilian in Kitford for the sake of his glorious entrance. My position. Fucking dumbass. I rush to intercept him as he strides to the door. It is closed and barred with a thick wooden pipe. I am too late. Even if I wasn’t, there is nothing I could do to stop him now. He brushes me out of the way even as I tug impotently on his chainmail.

He tosses the pipe to the floor, and hefts his mace over his shoulder. He grins conspiratorially at his small following, sure the rest of the company will join as well.

“To glory goodfellows!!”

The head of his mace bursts into flame as he bursts through the door and into the street, taking the swarm of oncoming raiders full in the side. I catch Brandon’s eye as he restrains two of his fellows who try to follow in the hero’s wake. I half expect him to follow on his honor or somesuch. I am surprised as he nods at me to do what must be done. To him it is a necessary cowardice to protect his people, for me it is simply the reasonable course of self-preservation. I quietly pull the door closed as metal and meat collide outside. Grinding each other down. I don’t watch as screams rend the inside silence and bloody stains fleck the tavern windows.

A moment later, hoofbeats mark the arrival of the remainder of the raiders and I realize this battle won’t be won. It must be fled. I rise quietly even though the men outside wouldn’t hear a roaring dragon over the screams of the wounded and dying. I slink quickly through the relative darkness of the Tavern towards the stairs. A leathery hand stops me before I reach them. To Brandon, it seems as though I am going to try to lead the people away from the battle. Perhaps out a window or through the roof. We think similarly, but he does not know me. What he does not realize is that I would not bat an eye if the entire sniveling population of this town were ground to dust under the boot of some primordial giant. I would sell them all to escape this place, not because I am better than they are but because they all lack perspective. I would expect no more of them.

Brandon’s sentry-like stoicism is admirable in a fairytale sense. And fairytales make me sick. I brush his hand off my chest as the tavern door suffers a blunt impact. An axehead appears just above the door knob. The wedge of a warhammer shatters the wood at eye level. I peer up the stairs in a panic. Brandon no longer blocks my path, but I see that the top of the stairwell is completely obstructed by Kitford’s horrified mob. I never expected to live past twenty, but I will end my own life myself before accept a death at the mercy of a man. How horrible it would be to die to spite. To greed and vanity. To hate and hypocritical pride. I unstrap my lute from my back and search my mind for the serene lethargy of invisibility. I play the open chords in sequence, but I cannot muster the emotion in time. The fear of failure is too great. I scowl and berate myself internally as the top third of the door splinters inward in a great shower of brown and crimson.

I dash around a large table to position myself behind Brandon, as he prepares to defend his family and home. The other men around me see a monument of bravery, a steadfast defender of their lives and livelihoods. I see a territorial monster, just like the Cerbus. Just like a bear or a lion. But with more malice. Brandon’s face betrays nothing, but I can feel the righteous rage emanating from him. I just hope, for my own good, that he’s a suitably murderous monster.

A large, powerful raider kicks the door down and shoulders in first, taking one of the veteran’s blades in the shoulder. He lunges powerfully with his own blade and spears the older man through the throat, likely not even feeling the shoulder wound. The invader slings both his own blood and the blood of his first victim about the room as he swings again, this time taking the second veteran the stomach. The older man crumples midswing, his ribs collapsing inwards with an arthritic crunch. His guts begin to unspool on the tavern floor as another raider charges in past the first.

The boy I spoke with earlier, the one with the third legion longsword steps forward and crosses blades with the new intruder. His eyes stream with tears and his lips slowly drip blood from the bite wounds he has inflicted upon himself out of stress and fear. His trousers are wet, but still he fights - arms and legs quivering with exertion and stress.

Raving at the elation of his fresh kills, the tall, powerful raider charges towards Brandon and entrance to the stairwell. So he already knows where everyone hides. Why would a raider care about Kitford’s civilians? No lord will pay ransom money for these worthless fieldhands. No matter. Damn that imbecile Aduren for his mindlessness. If he really cared about defending the weak, he would have waited. Just like every other worthless hero, he fights only for his own glory.

I prepare to flee towards the door, as soon as Brandon engages this large aggressor. I plot my path through overturned tables and chairs. I could make it should another raider not join in the fray. Brandon crouches slightly, lowering his center of mass and letting his muscles relax. I could stab and kill him now with the hunting knife in my belt. He is too trusting of those he thinks he defends. Perhaps I could kill him and sell these worthless people out? No. Victory is already at hand in the eyes of the raiders. I wait as patiently as I can for the imminent scuffle. My legs shiver involuntarily, ready for action. I succumb to my own human urges and sully myself along with the brave kid and the dead still convulsing on the floor.

I now realize why Brandon has not moved to meet his assailant. His foot rests intertwined with the legs of a small wooden stool, his quadricep coiled imperceptibly. Ready to release it’s impromptu projectile. The intelligent guardian waits for the raider to begin his backswing before launching the two kilo projectile directly into his opponents groin. He then lurches forward, must faster than I would have ever expected for a man of his density, abandoning his fearsome axe. He buries a carving knife in the larger man’s throat before his stunned victim even has time to swing. One hundred kilograms of menace turned pitiful whimpering clatters to the ground, knocking tables and chairs from their already disheveled alignment.

The whole thing lasts half a second. It is so brutal that I almost forget my plan. I stall one moment too long before turning my attention to the door and my path is blocked by another impostor. He runs at me, warbling his deathly song and I have but two seconds to survey my options. Panic wastes the better part of that time and I am saved by Brandon’s presence behind me. I feel him coming and duck. His axe keens over my head, catching the bandit’s blade near the hilt and twisting it from it’s bearer as it concludes it’s swing. The butt of the axe’s handle follows the head faster than a striking viper, knocking loose teeth and ruining the man’s nose. Before I can stumble out of the way, Brandon pivots behind the man and kicks in his knee. The man’s scream is cut short as the sawing axeblade completes the job. Yet another leaking corpse on the ground. The smell is building like the bile in my throat. I thought the cramp of the indoors would make Brandon’s axe clumsy and unwieldy. I guess not.

To my right the brave youth grapples his opponent, struggling desperately on the ground for control of a stiletto they hold at arm's length. It looks almost like a high society waltz, and I am tempted to help the child. The urge surprises me, for I have not felt companionship since it broke my soul. Instead, Marshall, yet another boy yearning for the glory of manhood, buries a blade clumsily in the raider’s back. Both men on the ground scream and writhe, fearing they have been stabbed, shitting themselves senseless. So much for glory.

Outside, dust falls slowly over the litter of dead and dying, outlining rays of moonlight as they cascade down on the morbid scene. Horses mill about, riderless and frenzied. A melee still rages in the street, but it seems that the main body of raiders has moved into the citadel. The rangy stronghold’s doors stand agape. Their defenders slump against them or lie in the dust beside them. The city gates lie in ruin as well. Escape lies only a hundred meters away.

Someone, something grasps my leg, tugging it downwards towards the wretched creature lying beside me in the dirt. It was once a man. A boy really. Less than twenty years of age and clad in all black. He… it clutches it’s stomach, holding in the intestines and organs that threaten to spill forth. It tries to call out for me. For it’s mother, but it’s vocal chords are lacerated. It’s wounds are that of a shallow blade. Perhaps a spike. Or the tearing ruin of a hand mace. The wound bares marks of heat, but not nearly enough to cauterize the tissue. I almost want to help the boy, if only to spite the devil Aduren who calls himself a god. Instead, I kick the hand away. And set off towards the gate at a sprint. This boy deserves it. It was born and raised to deal this type of punishment, and now it must bear receiving it.

Shadows stir outside the town gate. Large, shifting. Horses. Why would the raiders leave sentries to this helpless little town? Why would they search a tavern for civilians? They can’t be looking for treasure. Then I realize what this all must mean. The raiders came here for a very specific treasure. A man. Perhaps the Carsus official rumored to be in the region. Perhaps the town’s mayor or regent. Either way, this makes escape a much more difficult prospect.

I am about to head into a meatshop when a shadow enters my periphery. He must have been searching the houses for stragglers, and he is very much faster than his fellows. I wheel about barely in time to block his knife strike with a clumsy arm bar. Most men would simply try to overpower me, but fortunately he is just my size. I shift forward, unsure of my next move, and shoulder check his chest. Something is off. This man is not a he at all, but a she. Impossible to tell behind the black cloth mask. Confidence flares within me. I can take on a woman. Perhaps I will escape after all. Her clothes will more or less fit me.

But then she shifts onto her back foot. Pulling me towards her. Instead of wresting her arm from my hold as a normal fighter would do, she simply drops her knife, catching it nimbly in her other hand. I scramble to block the new threat at my waist, but am too slow and too weak. The knife is at my throat, cold steel cooling my jugular in the warm summer breeze. At least I will not die at the hands of man. Ironic how I feared that just moments earlier. Perhaps I should have been more articulate in my goals.

I am not one to feel emasculated at being bested by a woman. Perhaps because I try to see people before gender, variant subspecies, or color. Perhaps because I do not have much ego or masculinity left. The more I learn, the more those two seem one and the same. I have had much too long to contemplate my imminent death. Why does she hesitate?

“You are lucky, little man.” she purrs into my ear. Her accent is thick and unrecognizable, a rarity for someone who has wandered as I have. “We take only as we need. Unlike you. Witless barbarian.”

Her knee rises between my legs in two powerful pumps, rolling my eyes back in my head and forcing air from my lungs. My world is all pain. As my body contracts and convulses in the dirt, I go where I often do when affronted by intense pain. The field outside my childhood home. The field where I used to watch the sunsets, alone with my lute. The field to which I fled after I killed my father.