By Christopher Mitchell

Eight

Tiberius heard the Maraughin scream in pain in his mind. The boy crumpled atop him, the remaining lamias scattering as Marcus’ blade swung out above him in those wide arcs. Tiberius screamed below the writhing body of the boy, who screamed as well. Peck had missed the heart, the pilum still protruding slightly from the front of his chest, and Tiberius’ broke, watching the boy cry out in fear and claw at his back, questing to free himself from the spear.

Tiberius scrambled to his knees and held the boy close, not wanting to remove the pilum, lest he heal and attack Marcus. His friend was driving the rest back, and Tiberius held the boy. He was so tired. Tired of the killing. Tired of watching these children fall under sword and spear, wishing to be free of this ceaseless existence.

Come and be remade, Tiberius… Save them…

The Maraughin’s lamenting tone twisted his insides. And Tiberius so longed to save them. To save all of them. “I’m so tired, young one.” He stroked the young boy’s hair, rocking him, the pilum rising further through his back as the pommel dug into the dirt behind them. “So tired…”

Peck was frozen. He’d released the spear, hoping to watch Tiberius spring back to his feet and take up the charge. Instead, Dominus lamented this demon, now stroking its hair, sobbing against its whimpers of pain. Peck could not look away. He felt drawn to it. Compelled to…

Peck’s pale blue eyes locked with the orange irises of the lamia, and its whines rose in pitch. The child was a wild dog caught in a trap, nowhere to run, left to face the hunter’s spear. It could not look away. Something held it there… no, Peck held it there. Tiberius was saying something in his native tongue when Peck’s thoughts descended to darkness.

Everything was black. The smell of smoke and the heat of burning huts no longer invaded his nostrils; they were replaced with the smell of cold, damp earth and stone. Roaring fire and the shrieks of dying lamia transitioned to the hollow drip of water resounding from monolithic caverns. He could not move his arms or legs. He felt bound at the wrists and ankles, but the thrashing and jerking of his limbs did not feel like his own. He’d entered the memories of the boy Tiberius held. All was pitch black about him. He felt a nearby presence, hovering, full of malice.

“Sta nikt, tu mutter’s salva.”

The night, our mother’s keeping.

It was the Blue King’s voice. It did not possess the same fury and timbre as before, but Peck knew it to be his. Now, it sounded like leaves rustling over burial mounds. Peck felt the boy’s fear rising, that mounting dread of inevitability. The boy had heard the screams of his friends, then the shrieks of terrible things echoing from the walls of that cavernous grotto. He could not tell where the sounds originated, only that they were sorrowful, then silenced suddenly. The voice that now spoke over him would scream, and he would be met with the triumphant shouts of other evil things. And he was afraid. The boy’s heart beat so forcefully that Peck thought it would burst from his chest, and he thrashed wildly now, hoping to escape, to—

Something dug into his wrist, sending a bolt of sharp pain up his arm and he screamed. He thrashed harder now, feeling warm blood flowing from the source of the pain in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“De lun, mekt nav lumin.”

“The moon, her guiding light.”

Peck felt the pain again, this time in his other wrist, and he felt the warm blood cascade from the body of the young boy. He felt this child’s pain, his fear, and how the boy longed for the warmth of his mother’s arms. The boy grew weak, cold… tired… he wished to close his eyes… and to sleep.

The Blue King hoarsely bellowed, and his voice reminded Peck of his father’s final death rattle, as Tel’s piercing blade snuffed the light from his eyes.

“Nigh das, mutter’s kenter hala!”

“And soon, mother’s children weeping.”

The boy’s panic deepened as he heard the slicing again, but this time felt no pain. Warm liquid spattered his face, and he squirmed away from the vile liquid; it stunk of wet iron and dead things. Something dug into the meat of his chin, and he was forced to open his mouth. A hand soon covered it, smothering his ability to breathe, to scream, the digging at his chin refusing to allow him to bite at the hand, and the warm liquid filled his mouth.

The boy tried not to swallow, tried to spit out the noxious flavor of warm coins in his mouth, until fingers pinched his nostrils shut and he was forced to swallow. He knew, at his stomach’s violent upturn, it was blood he was consuming. What came up was not allowed to exit. He swallowed again. He longed for sleep now and gave up his thrashing.

“Da phen, tu druphen uf nikt”

“Will birth, the chieftain of night.”

The boy coughed and sputtered, then the metallic taste of the blood transitioned, slowly, to a new flavor. It was one of wild raspberries, fresh from the branch, free of the sharp bite of thorns. It was delicious, and the boy lapped hungrily at the new flavor, relishing the taste of it. He no longer felt cold. He felt awake now… alert… and the once dark cavern began to take on a silver illumination.

The Blue King came into focus above him, outlined in silver-gray mist, eyes sunken and hollow, nothing like the warrior Peck saw in Marcus’ vision. His gaunt visage looked skeletal and close to collapse, but he let the boy lap hungrily until a new strength coursed through his body. His small frame broke free of the bonds that held him, and he bolted upright, seeing the other boys from his village on their knees, eyes glowing with that same silver iridescence that flickered dimly in the eyes of the Blue King. His friends smiled at his transformation, howling into the echoing chamber like wolves at the discovery of a new pup within the clan—another animal to cry their songs to the wondrous moon, whose rays now bathed them in wondrous grey twilight.

High above them, he recognized his mother… Not his mother, no… but their mother, crouching on a rocky outcropping high above them in the grotto, her mantle of antler and bone glinting beautifully from the dancing, radiant moon above, just behind the curtain of cloud cover. The boy could now see everything….

And in the distance… he heard the muffled, thunderous pounding of hundreds of hearts, beating asynchronously, in a village vaguely familiar to him.

And he was so very thirsty.

The Blue King grasped at the bowls below the boy, holding them up to his face and gulping greedily at their contents, which smelled now of sweet raspberries crushed between thumb and forefinger, leaving them red with their sweet juice. But he would not drink this blood, for it was no longer his… He knew—knew because his mother knew—that it was now the reward to the Blue King, for doing what she could not.

Go, my children…

Mother called to them in a sweet, lilting lullaby… It was beautiful… she was beautiful… and, in his mind, he felt her hand stroking his hair… and he smiled.

Return home…

And so, they did… and they did not rest until they’d glutted themselves on all who lived within the village.

Their fathers…

Their mothers…

Brothers and sisters too young to run, who stood still, holding the pale and lifeless bodies of their parents as those they once trusted embraced them…

One…

Last…

Time.

Peck screamed as he left the vision, wishing he had not seen the last… he now knew which mother refused to let go of their child. With some measure of remorse, and very little measure of catharsis, Peck drove Tiberius’ dagger through the heart of the child the Roman legionnaire now held in lamentation.

This was not vengeance… not yet.

For the beasts who’d set these lost children on the errand of decimation still lived, and he would not rest until he’d seen them suffer.

The dagger plunged slowly into the chest of the boy, and Tiberius wept. He knew it had to be done and was glad for the young hands that held the hilt of his own dagger. This was not a task he could complete on his own. It was too sudden, too soon, and the wails of the Maraughin still resounded within his ears. He could only stroke the boy’s hair as the child made one last agonal gasp, reached up to Tiberius’ face, then stilled before the dead hands could caress his cheek. It fell limply to the dirt beneath them, and Tiberius continued to rock him in solidarity.

“I’m sorry, Dominus.” Peck’s voice carried over Tiberius’ shoulder, consolation coating it like a tender hand to the shoulder. Peck recognized these boys for what they were, not what they’d become, and Tiberius looked up from his lamentations. The entire square was ablaze, and he was sweating despite the chill air about him. Marcus waved his sword flagrantly at the few remaining lamias, who fled at the command of their leader. The leader’s eyes glinted against the light of the fire, like those of beasts in the night. The young man bit his hand, drawing blood, then raised it in solidarity to Tiberius. He was unaccustomed to the gesture, but it seemed to be one of honor, and Tiberius remembered the boy he cradled in his arms. He nodded, and the young man followed the rest of his pack back into the night, their shapes disappearing as they passed the perimeter of the bonfire.

Marcus approached, face twisted in confusion at what Tiberius suspected looked like heresy. Though—as Marcus approached—his confusion shifted to a look Tiberius could not stomach.

“I will not accept your sympathy, Shield.” He looked down at the boy still in his arms. His small eyes were closed, and he no longer bore the hideous features of a loathsome beast. He was a child again.

“I offer none, Tiberius.” Marcus knelt, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “I only wish to tell you that I, too, feel the burden you carry.” His eyes rose high above Tiberius. “We will stay in the square until sunrise. You have first watch, Peck.” Tiberius heard the boy’s assent and then footfalls heading to check on the horses.

“I cannot continue this path, my Shield.” Marcus’ outline fuzzed as hot tears filled Tiberius’ vision. He blinked them away and looked back at the dead lamia boy in his arms. “I cannot keep killing children for the good of the aether.” Tiberius choked back a sob that escaped as a laugh. “He cannot be more than what? Thirteen winters, Marcus? I have armor older than this boy!” He gripped the child tighter. This had been too much… entirely too much.

Marcus gently reached in, hoping to take the boy from Tiberius. “And what right…” Tiberius shied back, and Marcus held up his hands before continuing to speak. “…did the Maraughin have to change these boys? The spilling of such young blood is vile, and this boy would have been kept whole… clean… had she not interfered.” He leaned in slowly, crossing the boy’s arms and moving back. “This was not your decision, Tiberius, but hers. Now we must correct it, not for the praise of men who mean nothing, but to salvage the dignity of the people who died here.” Marcus rose to his feet. “Whose lives meant nothing to that monster who still calls to you.”

Tiberius looked up sharply at Marcus, then laughed harshly; of course, Marcus knew, he knew everything.

Marcus nodded. “Rest, Tiberius. I will bury the boys.”

He walked away, and Tiberius continued to hold the young one, wrestling with the ramifications this night would hold over his conscience forever.

Marcus heard Tiberius rise sometime after he’d buried the sixth body. The boys’ small frames and this soft earth made it go more quickly, but Marcus had begun to worry that his friend would be hard-pressed to continue their journey northward.

“Will Dominus be alright?” Marcus looked up from digging.

Peck stood over him, the pilum resting across his shoulders as he watched his mentor shuttle another armful of dirt from the shallow grave.

Marcus moved to drop the soil on the growing mound a few paces to his right and Peck followed, pilum still slung over his shoulders. “Give him time, Peck. Our endeavors have left us…” he wiped his hands on his trousers and looked to where Tiberius lay near the horses. “…broken.” His friend did not move. Marcus knew Tiberius’ dreams were plagued by the same nightmares that consumed his own. So, he looked on for a moment longer before returning to the task of burying the boys.

“I saw them.” Peck was staring at the few remaining bodies Marcus had yet to bury. “I saw how they were turned.” He looked back to Marcus, who leaned against his dolabra, studying Peck’s face.

“You should not stray into the minds of others, Peck.” Marcus dropped the pickaxe and raised himself from the hole he’d dug. “One can become lost in their labyrinths.”

“I do not understand what I do.”Peck bent and crossed a boy’s arms over his chest as Marcus had done in the square. “Let alone how to control it.”

Marcus leaned down and placed a hand on Peck’s shoulder. “I know only some of what you can do. Others with your gift were unknown to me and I’ve little in the way of knowledge provided by the Seat of Scrolls.” Peck rose, looking down the line at the remaining bodies, and Marcus continued. “But what I know, I will tell you when these boys have been blessed and buried.” He looked about the square. It was still smoldering, still bathing the early-night sky in warm light. Peck helped Marcus with the final burials, the light of the bonfires serving as the night’s sentry.

The windows and doors of each hut had long been burned away, leaving them to look on with abject horror at the night’s misdeeds. Those entryways, like the parishioners of some candlelit vigil, observed two figures in stark contrast looking on at the frail bodies of the too-young dead. Marcus taught Peck the funeral rites of the Christ-King, and Peck did his best to regurgitate Marcus’ instruction. Peck was a bright pupil and caught on quickly. He was able—with some minor corrections—to even preside over the last child’s burial.

It was the boy Tiberius had held. He was swathed in an old blanket that Marcus had recovered from one of the unburned huts. Tiberius, whom Marcus had roused before beginning the funeral rites, moved forward to scoop the boy into his arms, placing him reverently in the soil.

Tiberius pulled two coins from his small leather pouch and placed them over the boy’s eyes, then scooped a handful of dirt from the mound and sprinkled it over the corpse. “Child of dust, return now to the womb of the mother. May she embrace you, in death, with all the love and peace she wished for you in life.” He put his hand over his heart and bent his head down in respect to the dead child, then returned to his sleeping mat, rolled in the direction of the well, and stilled.

“What did Dominus say?” Peck’s face twisted, perplexed at the strange rites of his foreign acquaintances. “And why place money over the eyes?”

“He asked the mother of the earth to welcome her child back into the warmth of her embrace.” Marcus crossed himself. “And the coins are a way for the boy to pay his toll to the boatman who will ferry him to the other side of the underworld. It is the old way, Peck.”

“Not your way?” Peck cocked his head to the side, and Marcus shook his head. “Why?”

“It was my way, Peck, though no longer.” He collected his digging instruments and made for the well. “I lost my faith in the old ways at Adrianople. You saw it yourself, as we clawed our way through the bodies.” Marcus let the memory twist Peck’s insides momentarily, to remind the boy that what he’d seen had been real. “I looked upon the stacks of the dead and I realized that my gods were cruel and relished in the killing. I chose, instead, to follow the guidance of the Christ King, who prays for the betterment of mankind through love and acceptance, not at the end of a sharp sword.”

“Yet you still kill, Marcus…why?”

Peck’s question was one that had kept Marcus up many a night, and he was still no closer to an answer. “In truth, Peck, I do not know. Perhaps it is because I have done it for so long, I know not how to be rid of such barbarism. Perhaps it is due to the nature of who I am. I was bred for battle; born to kill. So, I kill.” He looked to Peck. “But, at the heart of the matter, I kill because those I love require it of me. Tiberius sets himself upon missions such as these to absolve himself of the things he’s done in the name of the emperor… in the name of our cosmos… and so I set myself upon his missions so that I may keep him safe. I owe his family much.”

“What do you owe them for?” Peck was pulling clods of dirt from the end of Marcus’ pickaxe and tossing them into the darkness. “What disaster did they save you from that you would bind yourself to masters?”

Marcus could see the hate in Peck’s eyes, and Marcus assumed he was thinking back to his old life, now slightly more than a few days old. “When I was a boy, Tiberius’ father found me on campaign, my family crushed under the retreating cavalry of my people. Antonius saved me from starvation, and he raised me as his son. He disregarded my lineage and chose to provide me with a life that wasn’t perfect but was certainly a shade better than dying in the wilderness of Germania.”

Peck nodded, listening intently to Marcus’ every word. He left Marcus to his thoughts, informing his mentor that he would continue to watch the village while Marcus rested from his burial duties. Marcus thanked him, watching the boy walk off, standing taller than he’d ever seen him stand before. Marcus pulled at the small helping of unspoiled food Peck had collected from the town.

He would share the salt he found with Tiberius in the morning.

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