At Least He's Not On Fire: A Tour of the Things That Escape My Head (16 page)

Umaryn, always the faster and stronger of the siblings pulled ahead as they ran, cresting the hill and seeing the other side many seconds before her thinner, weaker brother. As she slowed her gait and took in the spectacle before her, the fresh summer air in her lungs turned stale. The coppery stench of raw spilled blood turned her belly sour.

Malwynn reached the peak of the grassy green slope and immediately put his hands on his knees, oblivious to the smell of blood and clamor below. A rapid trio of heavy puffs refilled his empty lungs, and he stood fully, immediately matching his sister’s awestruck expression.

War had come to New Picknell.

Evidence showed the battle had only just begun; there were but a few slain bodies on the ground. One man was freshly murdered. His was clad in sturdy leather armor and wore a white and red tunic over it. He had been attacked at the face and neck, and his armor had failed him. His lifeblood was spilled across a swath of the grass in long jets. His arteries had ejected his blood forcefully. His death had been savage, but quick. Two other bodies wore the unmistakable purple collars of the Amaranth Empire to the far north. The dark purple indicated that the defeated were undead in the control of one of the Queen’s Necromancers. If there were two destroyed undead nearby…

The necromancer was adorned in a rich purple robe that told of his importance in his home nation. In Amaranth the color purple could only be worn by those in service to the Queen, to wear it without her consent was a death sentence. Under the dark folds of rich cloth he was covered from head to toe in what appeared to be plates of thick carved bone. He wore it like a massive petrified insect might wear their shell. He wielded a wicked looking mace in his left hand, heavy and threatening in its blunt power. His true weapon was his bare right hand. The touch of a necromancer often carried the brutal necrotic power of their dark magic. The necromancer himself was mounted on a Gvorn. Gvorn were rare here in the rural areas of New Picknell. They were natural to the far north, and were massive war and pack beasts. Each Gvorn stood as tall as a war horse, but had a powerful set of horns that mimicked a ram. They had thick wool as well that protected them from the snow, ice, and frigid winds. The Gvorn the purple robed necromancer rode was grey like the winter sky, and had a thick coat of wool. This mount had brought him here from deep in the Amaranth Empire. Possibly from as far as the capital necropolis of Graben.

The necromancer was engaged in mortal combat with a man mounted on a Gvorn that dwarfed his. This rugged beast was a full hand higher than the necromancer’s and had been shorn of most of its heavy coat, revealing the dark grey skin beneath. Only a Gvorn from the south would be shaved that way. The man held a rugged shield with the crest of Varrland, and wore dark white and crimson robes over a suit of chain and plate mail. He wore no helm, and his long salt and pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail. It tossed violently about as he swung a gleaming steel long sword at the death mage on the opposing Gvorn. The blade bit into the shoulder of the wizard, cutting a chunk of the bone plate away, and tossing his body nearly out of the saddle.
 

“Arrgh!” He spat at the knight.
 

“Invader scum! I’ll send you back to your bitch Queen in an urn!” The knight’s breath was strong. He was barely breaking a sweat in the battle.

At the feet of his massive mount were the rest of the two opposing forces. Things were precarious for the Varrland forces. They were clearly outmatched in numbers. Still standing and violent were a full half score of undead. Their skin was pale grey, the rotting arrested by foul Amaranth magic. They lashed out at half a dozen men similar to the man missing his throat. They slashed out with short swords and decimating fingers that terminated in ragged yellow fingernails. Fortunately the undead were mindless automatons, attacking with only the barest of skill and instinct.

The worst situation was a trio engaged in battle a few horse lengths past the necromancer and knight. Malwynn and Umaryn clutched hands nervously at the crest of the hill as they watched the fatal dance play out. Two men wearing light armor, heavy cloaks edged in a purple fringe, wielding long and wickedly curved battle axes circled a younger man separated from his group. He could be only a few years older than the twins; no more than three winters, maybe four. He had short dark hair, shaved to only the thickness of the razor that cut it. Like the knight riding the Gvorn still battling with the necromancer he wore heavier armor; chain mixed with plate. Instead of the long sword the knight clearly was expert with, the younger man used a warhammer. It was long, almost the length of a grown man’s leg, and had a wicked spike opposite a heavy, hardened steel head. Umaryn admired the weapon’s elegant simplicity as he spun it in deadly circles, hand to hand. The weapon’s balance must have been near-perfect.

Unfortunately, the martial display was just that; all for show, and not for purpose. The young warrior was simply buying time until help could arrive. The two axe wielding assailants quickly had him turned sideways and flanked as he spun his weapon. Finally, after several long, agonizing seconds, the solitary warrior made his move. He looked to one of the two purple cloaked men and suddenly brought the head of his hammer up lightning fast at the other. His eyes bought him hesitation from the man he struck in the face, but he twisted just a few inches too far, and gave his back up for just a few seconds too long. As the Amaranth soldier fell to the grass with his face broken apart by the hammer his cohort struck the Varrland warrior. The foot long smile of the axe slashed down powerfully at the simple chain right beside the red and white clad warrior’s kidneys. Despite the rings of forged steel, the incredible force of the impact ruptured the flesh beneath, sending the man to his knees.

Malwynn’s mind suddenly unfroze, and he slipped his bow from his shoulder as the Amaranth warrior raised his axe for the killing blow. Umaryn watched her brother slip an arrow free from his quiver and let it fly. Spinning like a dervish the arrow flew true, past the knight’s mount only an inch from the creature’s heavy wool coat, and directly into the shoulder of the cloaked invader. The man’s hand reflexively gave way as his downward axe stroke fell harmlessly to the side. He looked savagely towards the twins, his glance threatening them. As Malwynn drew another arrow the Amaranth warrior resorted to a weapon that was still effective: his boots. He kicked the wounded warrior in the back of the skull and flattened his body in the blood stained grass. The warrior lay still as the Amaranth soldier with the arrow lodged in his shoulder came running across the melee at the twins. They had only a few seconds before he’d be up the slope and upon them.

The purple robed necromancer shrieked in joy as the warrior fell, taking his eyes off the knight almost as if a powerful narcotic was taking over his mind. As they watched the murderous Amaranth soldier charge their position the knight capitalized on the necromancer’s exultation. His Gvorn spun round at his command, putting his sword hand a foot closer to the foreign death mage, and he lunged forward, piercing the bone armor under the cloak in a weak location. The smooth blade penetrated the morbid bone armor with a strong thrust, and the necromancer’s high was quickly brought down to earth. He looked over from the fallen Varrlander man to the knight who urged his Gvorn forward, plunging the blade even further in. The necromancer coughed a thick wad of dark blood, and the knight yanked his sword free. His arm cocked back, and he sent a mailed fist into the jaw of the evil wizard, knocking him off the ghostly grey Gvorn. Umaryn and Malwynn watched as the necromancer’s neck twisted disturbingly to the side as he crunched into the ground. His body settled in a manner that planted his dead face into the grass. As his body shuddered the remainder of life inside it, and his throat released the final breath ever taken in, the armor that encased his body suddenly faded from reality. In death, the necromancer’s magic faded.

Their attention switched back to the man almost upon them. Malwynn had another arrow ready and was drawing the string to launch it as the man hefted his axe upwards with his good arm. Umaryn, ever the clever one, stepped instinctively to the side of the man, flanking him almost exactly as the two Amaranth warriors had flanked the Varrlander. Malwynn’s fingers opened, and the arrow bolted off into the chest of their attacker, piercing the chainmail. The arrow didn’t go far though, the chain was of good quality, and Mal had not drawn the string fully. Nonetheless the arrow staggered the rage faced man, and Umaryn struck. She had produced a small hammer from somewhere, Malwynn didn’t know from where, nor did he care. She snarled and sent the hammer at the rear of the man’s head with a backhanded stroke. The forge tool crunched into the base of his skull and Malwynn watched the man’s eyes roll to the whites instantly. He fell down at their feet and twitched several times as the life left his body.

“Finish them!” The knight hollered in his confident baritone. The remaining Varrlander foot soldiers had managed to quell the undead threat with their superior blades and dexterity. The undead were a powerful threat to the common folk, but to armed and armored soldiers, it would take many of the animated dead to be a true threat. Many, or more powerful kinds. As the last undead had its head separated from its body the knight brought his massive war beast over to the twins, clearly surprised at their presence. He had already cleaned and sheathed his blade, and with a silk cloth in his free hand he was wiping away the spatters of fresh Amaranth blood from his face. He stopped his mount a few paces from the panting, adrenaline crashing twins.

“What brought you two out to such a remote place today? If it weren’t for your participation against the Queen’s insurgents I’d suggest you were their allies. Are you locals?” He asked, his tone somewhat thankful.

Umaryn answered. She was calmer than her brother, “Yes… We are from New Picknell, several miles to the south east of here. We’d had a challenging day and wanted a quiet walk.”

The knight smiled, “Not what you expected.”

The twins shook their heads, taking in the carnage and devastation the fight had unleashed. It was as if a bloody sore had appeared out of the ether, and spewed forth dead bodies, and sadness.

“Boy, what is your name? You’ve some skill with that bow.”

Malwynn was lost in his thoughts and frayed emotions, but gathered himself, “I am Malwynn sir. And I’ve little skill with this bow. An ancestor guided my actions, no doubt. This is my twin sister Umaryn.”

“Greetings to you both Malwynn and Umaryn. Your family resemblance is quite strong. My name is Knight Captain Marcus Gray,” the knight said with a smile before continuing. “The dead only assist those worthy of helping Malwynn. Your skill is not to be left out of the equation son. I thank you for joining the fight against the Amaranthines here. You nearly saved Chael’s life. I’m sad to see an Apostle go. Do you know where there might be another Apostle? Is there one by chance in New Picknell?”

The two siblings were floored. They’d watched an Apostle die. Malwynn was the first to speak, “Our mother is an Apostle. Chael was his name? We didn’t know he was an Apostle. I’m... I’m sorry we didn’t save him. I wish I’d drawn my bow a moment earlier.”

The knight dismissed his apology with a sad shake of his head, “He was a warrior too, and when you take your faith to the front lines, you may die for it. He knew the risk and continued forth. He was a good man and died a good death. But now we must ensure that he does not become what he hated so. Can you show us to your mother? We have dead to attend to, and she seems to be our source for the Blessing of Soul’s rest.”

Umaryn and Malwynn nodded simultaneously, as they often did. Together, the Varrlanders gathered up the bodies that needed their souls set free, and they set off back to New Picknell.
 

Quiet, and safe New Picknell.

- Chapter Two -

NORMALCY SHATTERED

“We live in complicated times,” Marcus Gray said quietly the next morning. Around the long wooden table worn smooth by a decade of plates, silverware and elbows sat Malwynn and Umaryn’s entire family, as well as the large warrior. Even out of his heavy armor he was wide and tall. His hair wasn’t in the ponytail as it was the previous day during the battle; it had been let down and hung around the top of his shoulders.

Little Rynne sat in her elder sister’s lap. She was absolutely smitten with the guest, and the best seat was Umaryn’s lap. Umaryn sat directly beside the hulking warrior from the south, and Rynne leaned over her older sister’s arm, her eyes locked onto the relaxed warrior.

Ellioth, the father of the family nodded to affirm Marcus’ statement, “Things are never simple children. Your mother and I have traveled much of this world, and discovered many things, but no matter what you learn, there is always more to find. Always one more stone to turn over.”

“Why are times complicated?” Umaryn asked Marcus simply.

The Varrlander knight finished chewing his modest bite of eggs before replying, “Umaryn, to our north is a nation that has been ruled over by an unbroken line of Queens for two centuries. From each mother to her daughter the line hasn’t been broken once, and the Purple Throne has controlled that nation with an iron fist. In the Empire you pay fealty to the Queen or you serve her in death.”

“You could choose to leave. You could choose to fight her,” Malwynn offered hopefully.

Marcus shook his head slowly, “There is no choice. Graben is too far to walk, and any mounted locals trying to leave would almost certainly be caught by the Queen’s militia, or ancestors forbid, her personal Order.”

“Order?” Rynne asked in her innocent child’s voice.

“The Order of the Purple Flower. A hundred gvorn mounted elite warriors that answer to the Queen alone. They have a legion of undead in the wings for their military actions as well. Many of their numbers are necromancers as well. Necromancers of a much higher caliber than the simpleton my people faced down yesterday. He was of marginal skill, clearly.”