By: Christopher Mitchell

Seven

“Peck, do you recognize this village?” Tiberius pulled a torch from the side of his horse, then a small glass vial of some oil from one of the pouches at his mount’s sides. He covered the cloth of the torch with the thick oil and stuffed the glass phial back in his pack.

“I do, Dominus.” The boy waved at the flies, growing thick in the air like a chaotic curtain. He spoke with lips half-opened. Marcus knew he was trying to keep the flies from entering his mouth, as he had done likewise. “It’s the last village before we reach the wall.”

“Numbers Peck.” Tiberius handed the torch to Marcus, who held it up at eye level for Tiberius. Tiberius retrieved a flint and tinder from his pack, striking at the rags until they caught fire.

Marcus spun quickly to see Peck’s reaction as the flames turned green. To no shock of Marcus, Peck’s eyes went wide at the sorcery of it, and Marcus laughed. “Fear not, Peck; you will learn in our travels that we harbor no magic. The alchemy of the oil produces the color. It will keep the flies away.” He pointed at the sudden disappearance of the swarm, noting they still hovered around them, yet did so about three paces out in every direction. “Now answer Dominus’ question: how many reside within the village?”

            “I do not know numbers, dominus.” The boy’s face twisted, pensive. “But there were enough to make it hard to move about in the markets when we last came here in the warmer months.”

            Marcus huffed. “Judging by the number of huts… I’d say at least three hundred, Tiberius.”

            Tiberius nodded. “Then, judging by the number of flies, we should find three hundred corpses.”

            The smell of rot and copper hung thick in the air as they entered the disquieting silence of the village. No noise other than the maddening drone of flies could be heard as Marcus and Tiberius drew swords. Tiberius pulled a pilum from the quiver at Argo’s side and handed it to Peck. The horses were skittish under their feet again, though not as they were when set upon by the Maraughin.

            “Peck,” Marcus grabbed at the reins of Sceppio. “Dismount. I do not wish to see you thrown from Sceppio’s saddle if he grows frightened.”

            “And what of your oldest friend, Marcus?” Tiberius followed Peck’s lead and dismounted as well, grinning at Marcus. “Do you not also care for my safety?”

            “You have long been of one mind, Spear.” Marcus chuckled, waving the torch at flies that came in too close. “To offer solutions would take away your thoughts of independence.”

            Tiberius’ laugh was cut short as he went back on alert, listening for the rustle or scuffling of feet that would be masked by this incessant whine of winged insects. The smell was overpowering, like the carrion of some dead thing, long left in the sun to rot. Streaks of crimson lay about in the thatch and timber of the structures, glistening green as the torch flames reflected from the still slick patches. Marcus knelt and placed his fingers in a puddle of it near his feet, then brought the fingers to his nose; the copper scent of blood confirmed his suspicions. “These people were slaughtered, Tiberius.”

Tiberius nodded, then handed his reins to Peck. “Take the horses and tie them up in the square, Peck. We must be ready if something transpires.”

Peck did as ordered, moving the stallions to the well at the center of the village. Hitching posts were installed close by, along with a trough for drinking. Peck held his breath as he tied the horses to the posts, the flies coating his skin and forcing themselves into exposed body caverns as he left the sanctuary of the torch flames. He noticed, as he finished binding Sceppio to the post, that the horses refused to dip their heads to the water of the trough. The trough’s contents were the vibrant red of a freshly slit throat, and Peck gagged involuntarily.

Between the flies and the smell of decay and the metallic tinge of blood, the boy was overwhelmed, dumping the contents of his stomach in the dirt. The flies that attacked his body now lapped hungrily at their new feast, going after the small remnant of bile he’d produced before the warmth and verdant light of Marcus’ torch drove them off. He held his hand out to Peck, who graciously accepted it and rose to his feet.

“Come, boy.” Marcus inclined his head towards Tiberius, who held a rag over his nose and mouth to keep the flies out. “We must continue our sweep.”

They moved about the village, staying in the protection of the torchlight, looking for any signs of life. There were about twenty huts in the village, and they went through meticulously, calling out for villagers to show themselves and that they meant no harm. They were met with the reply of millions of flies buzzing their ignorance, unable to give them the answers they so wished for. They had just finished with the sixth hut when Marcus caught the glint of metal in a pasture outside the village. The flies were thickest there, writhing about in the rhythmic undulation of a death dance. Marcus nudged Tiberius’ shoulder with his elbow and called to Peck, who had stuck his head into the seventh hut, then nodded toward the glittering object just beyond the rudimentary fence. They set off, Tiberius telling Peck to stay close to Marcus as he moved off to their right. When Tiberius was in position, he waved for Marcus to move forward slowly, and each group moved closer to the site, wary, checking peripherals for signs of movement, until they came close enough to halt their progress.

There was no need for stealth…there was no need for caution at all.

In a manmade hollow in the earth, the sun finally sank over the mangled and melding limbs of corpses piled in heaps.

Marcus’ insides roiled as he descended once again into the memories of Adrianople, into the mounds of piled flesh and rot of man and animal. Peck squeezed his forearm, bringing him out of the flashback, and he followed Peck’s eyes. In the pile of parts, a mother’s hand clung to the disembodied arm of a young child, the arm ending in the small white knob of shoulder bone. Peck let out a cry, and Marcus brought him in close, shielding him from the sight.

“What man could do this, Marcus?” Peck’s voice was close to breaking; the child’s arm had been too much for the boy.

Marcus remembered the first time he’d seen a child butchered by men. Though he was older than the boy he now held, he was sure there was no age at which such a barbarous sight could be withstood. “Men without souls slaughter the innocent, Peck.” Marcus pulled him away, looking down into Peck’s wet eyes. “Remember that what we face are no longer men, and what you see is the work of those we wish to remove from this world.” He held his gaze, putting both of his enormous hands to either side of Peck’s face. “You are now a hunter of monsters, Peck, and you will seek vengeance for these poor souls. We shall not weep until our swords are wet with the blood of those who would commit such fell deeds.” Marcus grabbed at the hand in which Peck held the pilum, placing it over the boy’s chest. “Swear it.”

Peck looked down at his hand, the placement of the spear, and the tears that dripped baptismal over hardwood and iron. He looked up with eyes resolute. “These people will receive their owed vengeance, Marcus. I swear it.”

Marcus nodded, then started at the sound of screaming within the village.

“The horses!” Tiberius’ Latin shook the confusion from Marcus as his friend shot from the mass grave back toward the village.

Marcus looked down at the boy. “Fulfill your oath, Peck; these people’s retribution begins now.” He led the boy by the arm a few paces before Peck shot past him, catching up with Tiberius as Marcus’ words thrummed within the young man’s chest. Marcus did his best to stifle the swell of pride he felt at the boy’s shift from despair to resolve, recognizing a warrior underneath the gangly limbs and soft heart of a young man. The time to revel in growth would be later, however, when they’d bested what now awaited them, whatever it may be.

They arrived back at the square to some twenty shapes being held off warily by their mounts, kicking and bucking at snarling shadows. They appeared no younger than Peck and no older than twenty-five winters. The howls of the young men were inhuman, a mixture of baying wolves and the squawk of crows. The flies no longer hung thickly in the air; these fell things had been catching and eating the flies by the handful. The creatures with orange-yellow eyes had dotted remnants of the flying insects about their mouths.

“I beg your pardon!” Tiberius raised his voice to be heard over the screaming of the horses. The pack of young men stopped their feral swipes at the poor stallions and turned to face the three challengers. Tiberius continued. “I believe those horses do not wish to be ridden, friends.”

The oldest of the young men stepped forward and smiled, long fangs protruding from overly red lips. Dried blood coated the wisps of beard that grew from his delicate features and descended to the front of his white tunic, now stained a brilliant vermillion. He laughed. “You are a fool, stranger! You know not what you face.”

Marcus seethed, recalling the unyielding grasp of a mother’s refusal to let go of a frightened child, now amidst the corpses at the outskirts of the village.

“We face dead men.” He held the torch to the dry thatch of the hut closest to him. It caught like tinder soaked in pitch, lighting the world around them in pure, yellow flames. The men around their leader shrank and narrowed their eyes against the light of the growing fire. Marcus knew, then, they were indeed lamia. He swung his large sword in his wrist, loosening the muscles. It had been ages since they’d done battle with fell beasts, and his sword hungered. “Come now, you doomed abominations. Come and taste the retribution you’ve earned.”

The young leader screeched in that blood-curdling timbre, pointing at the three of them. Marcus moved quickly to his right, dousing the next hut in flames, the thatch catching quickly. The sudden intensity of light and heat caused the approaching lamia to hesitate. “Now, Peck!” Marcus launched himself at the first of the three men, using their hesitation against them. In one wide arc, he cleft through the first three, feeling the tug of the sword as it cut cleanly through each of their necks. “Go for their hearts!”

Peck stayed behind Marcus, his courage still there, but less emboldened by the large man’s first strike at the lamias. The bodies still tried to strike out, swiping at the air, as if separating the head from the body did little to thwart it. Peck plunged the pilum into the body of the first headless beast, and it stilled. He understood his role in this battle and watched Marcus and Tiberius’ flanks as they wove and turned between the lamias, beheading one after another in a wondrous dance. Peck caught himself entranced, frozen, watching the two Soldiers move with precision against their foes.

Tiberius ducked under Marcus’ mad swing and took a pair of lamias, no older than sixteen winters, with dual-wielded sword and dagger, thrusting the sword into one’s neck and the dagger into the other’s eye. They fell. Tiberius screamed. “Quickly, Peck! Do not let them rise!”

The lamia’s eye was reknitting itself, black blood oozing from the site, expelling the gelatinous residue of the ruined eyeball. Peck shook off his bewilderment and drove the pilum first through one lamia’s heart, then the next, before they could regain their feet and attack his protectors. The eye stopped healing, and the boy-creature stilled.  

Marcus took the teeth of two lamias in the soft parts of his sides. He roared, dropping his sword and torch, and grabbed the two boys by their hair. He pulled in the direction of the curvature of their teeth, preventing the tearing of his flesh. They screeched, grasping and clawing at his hands, then Marcus bashed their heads together with enough force to crush the skulls, throwing them to the side and allowing Peck to plunge the pilum into their chests. He picked up the sword and torch. “Peck, take this!” He thrust the torch into the boy’s hands. “Follow me and light the roofs!” Marcus led Peck in a wide arc about the square, fending off the last ten of the lamias, swinging with precision to prevent Peck from catching the momentum of it.

***

Tiberius looked for openings, when one lamia would jump back far enough from the pack to pick it off. He would immobilize with the sword, then stop the heart with the dagger. He took a set of fangs to the shoulder before he could let the dagger strike true into the lamia’s chest, connecting slightly too low in the body cavity. Feeling the teeth sink deep, he wriggled the dagger amongst the insides of the boy’s soft, dead flesh until the dagger pierced the heart, and the jaw shuddered and released. The lamia sank to the dirt, no older than fourteen winters. Another child to add to his guilty conscience.

Tiberius…

Tiberius ignored to cooing of the Maraughin and the gnawing hunger he felt for her. He chopped the hand off one lamia as it came down in an arc, swiping madly at his jugular. This one was about twenty winters old, still young and vibrant, the orange flare of its irises standing in stark contrast to its beautiful, angular face. He could have been a prince to these people someday.

You can save them, Tiberius.

Tiberius found himself outside the protection of Marcus and Peck, who were lighting the remaining roofs on fire, those lamias near them shrinking back toward the well. Tiberius’ isolation was tracked by the young leader, who pointed in his direction. Five of the boys descended upon him, driving him to the ground. He kicked and thrashed violently, unable to call for help as one held an icy hand to his throat. The lamia’s flesh felt like the necrotic flesh of their mother—cold and rigid.

Tiberius awaited his death, closing his eyes, feeling the heat of the nearby flames and the rancid smell of death and rot on the breath of these children. He felt at peace. It was finally over. He would no longer have to take the lives of boys barely out of their transition into manhood.

You could be their protector, Tiberius.

Tiberius opened his eyes. The boys looked at him with eyes like Peck’s were, when looking to Marcus. He yearned for that feeling.

They could be yours, my Spear. You could keep them safe.

“How?” Tiberius spoke into the wind, peering at each of the boys’ faces, no longer feral, all looking lost and in need of his tutelage. He craved to protect them.

Come to me, Tiberius, and be remade.

It sounded so perfect. So simple. He—

In that instant, Tiberius was sprayed in black ichor, Peck’s spear driving through the back of the lamia above him.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED! STAY TUNED FOR MORE FROM THE NINE SHADOWS!