By Christopher Mitchell

Six

“He’s Mine.”

 Marcus meant the words. This demon would not take Peck; he felt a kinship with the boy. He knelt, fighting a sword from the rigid fingers of a dead Roman. He rose…and sensed the boy’s fear. “Courage, young Peck. You will survive this…” Peck felt him grip the sword tighter. “… even if I don’t.”

Marcus felt the boy’s tension ease slightly, but even Marcus knew—after enduring countless campaigns—words meant little when the fear of dying gripped your throat. He swung the sword, longing for his larger one. “Focus on how I move, Peck. Only on how I move.” He widened his stance, with sword raised overhead. “This sword is small, and my opponent’s is larger. I’ll spend much of the engagement deflecting and dodging. He’ll grow tired, and his form will falter.”

The Blue King’s grin grew savage, white fangs standing out stark on his scarred, blue face. “Ta fect tun mort, Romani.”

You face your death, Roman.

Marcus sneered, “I am no Roman.”

The Blue King attacked, raising the blade high over his shoulder, ready to swing madly. Peck felt Marcus’ muscles tense, preparing to bring the might of his arms down to block the strike, to swing with the free hand and knock—

The Blue King threw his sword, aiming for Marcus, and the large legionnaire deflected it easily. He was too slow to bring his blade back upward, instead choosing to ram the gladius into the Blue King’s midsection.

The Blue King screamed… then smiled, and Marcus knew it was a trap. The tattooed demon grabbed Marcus by the throat and, with his free hand, ripped the protruding sword from his belly. Marcus gasped. Peck cowered in the corner of Marcus’s mind.

The Blue King leaned in close. His breath was a thousand rotting bodies on a hot battlefield.

“Te nect skit wen da, Brennbjorn”

It is not yet your time, Burning Bear.

The Blue King plunged the blade into Marcus’ stomach, and Peck felt it, searing hot against his spine.

Then, Peck awoke screaming. He grabbed at his midsection, trying to remove the sword that—

Nothing was there. It had all been a dream, but it felt so real. He placed his hands where he’d felt the sword enter his—no, enter Marcus’ belly.

Peck scrambled to his feet. “Marcus!”

“It’s alright, young one.” Peck saw Marcus’ hand raise from where he’d fallen at the outset of the encounter with the Maraughin. It trembled, and Peck rushed to his side.

“Marcus! Are you hurt?” The boy tried to keep the fear from his voice, his voice tightening against his will.

“He’ll be fine, young Peck.” Peck swung his head to see Tiberius rubbing at his neck where the Maraughin had bitten him. “I’m also fine, in case you were worried.” He smiled wryly. At least the old witch hadn’t devoured his sense of humor.

Peck flushed, then smiled in relief. “Are you alright, dominus?”

Tiberius chuckled. “I’m well for a man who was partially consumed by a feral witch. Be a lad a fetch the wine skin from the pack.” He shouted after the boy as he ran to the horses. “And the last of the bread!”

Peck delivered the requested items from the horse to Tiberius, then raced back to Marcus. The large man had sat upright, holding a hand to the side of his head. Peck’s own mind seared against its taxation. He’d been forced to eat snow two winters ago when food was scarce; the pain in his head was like that of consuming too much of it at once. He ignored it. “I’m sorry, Marcus.”

“Do not be, boy.” Marcus gave him a wry smile. “Your invasion saved me from dying in that vision.”

“Vision?” Tiberius wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You saw something as well?”

Marcus scowled at the memory. “Adrianople.”

Tiberius laughed dryly. “You were lucky. I saw all of them; Amida all the way to Adrianople… and what do you mean the boy was with you? You dreamt of him?”

Marcus shook his head, switching to Latin. “He’s a tunneler, Tiberius.”

Tiberius stopped rubbing at his neck, where the outline of teeth still stained his skin. His eyes went wide. “You must be mistaken, my friend.” Marcus shook his head, and Tiberius let out a long breath, his fixed gaze on Peck. “They were lost to time, Marcus. The boy is not of that line.”

“I do not like it when you speak secrets in your other tongue.” Peck’s eyes were hard, mistrusting.

Marcus exchanged a look with Tiberius, who shrugged. He continued in the local dialect. “I believe he is, Tiberius, whether you believe him to be or not.” Marcus turned to face Peck. “What do you know of what you did?”

Peck shrugged. “I know it only happens when I’m dying.” His mind descended to a time when Tel had beaten him so savagely, he thought he’d die. Suddenly, he was looking down at himself, holding Tel’s club, somehow inside Tel’s mind, then the woods passing him in a blur as Tel ran for his life from whatever was happening. Peck felt the connection waning as Tel gained distance, then flashed back into his body, racked with pain.

Marcus and Tiberius exchanged glances, a small smirk gliding across Marcus’ face. Tiberius rolled his eyes. Marcus chuckled and continued. “You are what we call a ‘tunneler’—someone who can enter the mind of another and see through their eyes. Not much is known about this branch of sight, but other forms exist within our world.”

Peck felt all the hairs on his body stand upright. “Your world?”

Tiberius laughed. “Oh yes, young one. There is an entire world beyond the borders of this realm, further even than the borders of our beloved Rome…” He canted his arm outward in a flourish toward the heavens. “…and beyond the stars you can see in the night sky.”

Marcus took over, keeping his voice soft so as not to startle this fawn. “There are beasts that roam this world, that are not wholly of it. You have tales of devils in the woods, yes? Of beings that are unlike any animal you’ve ever seen?” Marcus waited for Peck’s nod, then continued. “Those tales are children’s stories compared to what exists amongst the stars. We were sent here, from our homeland, to seek one such entity.”

The large man looked to Tiberius, who was rubbing his neck again. “And I believe we found her.” He looked around. “We should press on, Tiberius; I do not wish to linger in this place.”

Marcus placed Peck on Sceppio; the boy’s headache had worsened in the aftermath of his tunneling. Marcus would rather have Peck ride the horse than risk his collapse on the road. His own headache wasn’t much better. He reached up to touch the scar running down his face, reminding himself of a headache much worse than the one he now endured. They rode in silence for a time, each reliving their encounter with the Maraughin. Though Marcus’ interaction had been brief, it haunted him.

Tiberius had become restless in the saddle, peering about suspiciously, seeing shadows in the rocks and foliage, making his fellow travelers stop every so often to peer in the distance. What he’d seen had obviously shaken the old war veteran to his core.

“Dominus?” Peck cut into Marcus’ thinking, also jarring Tiberius from his ceaseless watchfulness.

“Yes, young Peck?” Tiberius put on a smile, though Marcus knew it to be the one he put on at senate hearings—false, yet endearing.

“Were you afraid?” Peck stared straight ahead, and Marcus was thankful.

“Afraid of what, master Peck?” Tiberius unconsciously rubbed his neck.

Peck looked down, suddenly very interested in the reins he held in his hands. “Of the Maraughin.”

Tiberius let his hand fall from its mindless rubbing. “We call her ‘The Mors’ in the homeland. Her favorite place to walk is among the fallen bodies of warriors slain in battle, where she can lap hungrily at our fetid corpses while we rage and writhe against one another. She has long been a companion of ours, we doomed…” he took a deep breath and sighed. “…though today is the first that she’s shown herself to us.”

Tiberius looked to Peck, whose gaze had picked up to the open country of the Pictish highlands. “So yes, Peck…to answer your question: yes, I was afraid.”

Tiberius’ honesty caused Peck to turn quickly and stare.

Marcus nodded in thanks to Tiberius. The truth had been the right answer. “She’s old, Peck. The grand orators speak as if the Maraughin existed before our world held life. She is a plague; one that we have not been able to conquer.”

Tiberius muttered under his breath. “Nor wish to.”

Marcus glared, switching to Latin. “Do not cloud the boy’s head with your philosophies, old friend.”

Tiberius held his hand to his chest, aghast. “I would never!”

“You’re doing it again.” Peck scowled at both men, causing them both to chuckle. Soon Peck joined in, the three laughing to dispel their unease.

“Alright, alright.” Tiberius held his hand up to stifle their laughter. “Tell me, Marcus, what of this Blue King?” He leaned against the saddle horn, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve never heard of him, and your description is not one I recall the orator’s giving us before we departed.”

Marcus grunted, doing his best to recollect their brief meeting with the Seat of Scrolls. The orator enclave maintained both written and oral archives of all manner of man and beast. It was said their knowledge could fill a scroll spanning the entire length of the aether. Marcus, however, was no scholar—he’d been born and bred for war— so he left philosophy and memorization to his friend. He cast his eyes to the sky. The silver gray of day was waning to the ash of dusk. They had maybe two hours before night fell upon them.

“I know of him.” Peck cut into Marcus’ thoughts and seemed hesitant, as if he would catch the ire of the two men somehow. “I know of the Blue King.”

They waited. “Well,” Tiberius grew tired of the clopping hooves of warhorses as the only answer. “Out with it, boy!”

Peck winced, and Marcus held his tongue; chastising Tiberius would not yield answers.

“It’s alright, Peck; tell us what you know.” Marcus patted Sceppio’s neck as they walked.

Peck looked up toward the mountains in the distance. “I only know what Ert told us when he joined our party.” He rubbed his ribs, and Marcus deduced he was remembering a beating. Peck continued. “He said that a darkness had swept through the north, killing entire villages.” He shifted restlessly in the saddle. “The beasts who eventually made their way to his small town wore monstrous faces, claiming allegiance to the Blue King. Ert said they killed the men and women but took boys that were about my age with them as they burned the whole town to the ground.”

Tiberius scoffed. “Then how did Ert manage to survive? He was the gangly fellow, correct?”

Peck nodded, then narrowed his eyes in thought.

Marcus saved him some time. “He either fled at the sight of them, or he was lying, Peck.” He patted the boy’s leg. “It’s something you come to learn quickly about the tales of cowards; there is always some grain of truth to them, until the teller paints himself the hero. Tell me, did he say he had to fight his way out?”

Peck looked stunned, then nodded. “He said they tried to gnaw at his throat, like they’d done to the other villagers, and he held three off with a flaming torch.”

Tiberius laughed, though Marcus merely squinted, thinking. “He may not have been lying, Tiberius. What do we know that travels in darkness and fears fire?”

Tiberius’ laughter died, and his hand returned to his neck. He unconsciously switched to Latin. “You don’t think…” He trailed off.

Marcus nodded, switching the language back so Peck could hear. “It would explain taking the young men… she prefers them, after all.”

“What is it?” Peck’s confusion was evident in the twisted expression on his face.

“But why the Blue King? What’s his part in all of it?” Tiberius said it out loud more than he said it to either Peck or Marcus.

“Part in what?” Peck’s face grew red.

Marcus shook his head, thinking. “A pawn, perhaps. She wouldn’t need—”

“Will one of you tell me what you know?!” Peck’s shouted words broke both men’s contemplation. They had momentarily forgotten he was there.

Tiberius bowed his head to Marcus, who accepted his role as lecturer. “The Maraughin is a Lamia, Peck. She drinks the blood of the dead, though it would appear she’s taken to fresh blood now. Based on what you’ve told us, we believe she’s turned the Blue King into one of her cohorts; something forbidden and unforgivable in our world.”

Peck went white, and Marcus continued. “There are laws that the watchers of our world emplaced to ensure our survival. The discovery of our realm meant that others would soon follow, and they have walked among us for time immemorial, before mankind walked upright on the furtive landscape you see before you.”

Tiberius stepped in, shooing away a fly that buzzed nearby. “We are young as a civilization, young Peck. The things that moved here when the origin sources became active are waking nightmares that would see the extinction of our species. The watchers established peace, drawing lines in the sand on what these abominations could and could not do while in our realm.

Tiberius pulled the water skin from behind him and took a long pull, then continued. “They called it ‘The Terms’ and so now both sides—those who find peace in the natural order of things, and those who choose chaos and interfere with naturalism—maintain a modicum of balance on this bog of death and despair.”

Marcus glared at his partner’s dour lecture and swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear. “What he’s saying, Peck, is that the Maraughin has gone against The Terms, and has put the eyes of the Grand Orator upon her.”

Peck swatted at a fat fly on the back of Sceppio. “Who is the Grand Orator?”

“He is the king of our lands, though we know him as emperor.” The fly was back, nagging at Marcus’ ear. He swatted at it, a small note of irritation in his voice at its buzzing. “He is responsible for all borders we Romans control, ensuring that a measure of peace is maintained between the conflict of men, as well as that of the things that lurk in the shadows of this realm— what is it with these damned flies!”

Each of the three waved away flies that became thicker as they crested the nearby hill. They reached its peak, and noted the appearance of a small village in the distance, where a torrent of the awful things clung like moss to an oak.

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