Voluptuous Vindication (2 page)

Preoccupied with thoughts of the upcoming battle, he never heard the movement behind him. A powerful force launched into his unsuspecting back as a voice hissed, “Think to kick me out of your bed, do you?”

Ian reacted, but his response came too late. Caught off-guard and thoroughly intoxicated, he never stood a chance. His feet scraped the stone edging as he cleared the window, the bushes below him rushing up to meet him. Ian landed face first as pain tore through his head. Then, he knew no more.

* * * * *

Ian groaned as a rooster crowed, the sound tearing through his head like a slender, narrow dagger. Pain exploded through his body immediately. His flesh felt like it was on fire, his bones hurting in a way he'd never before experienced.

Forcing his eyes open, the memory of the night before flooded his mind. He was still outside, but not amongst the broken bushes. Instead he was laid out on animal furs, his body covered with them as well. A fire burnt beside him, offering little heat in the bitterly cold air.

Struggling to raise up, he grabbed his head as pains shot through it. After a moment, he slowly eased his hand away, looking up to the window he'd fell from. It was a miracle he'd even survived, the drop at least twenty-five feet. Sending up a quick prayer of gratitude, he looked around for his dad. It was likely he was the one that had rescued him.

Instead of finding his father, he spied a large man sitting on the concrete wall. His features were indiscernible underneath the hooded cloak he wore, but Ian knew he was watching him. He was peeling an apple with his knife, remaining silent, despite Ian's return to consciousness.

The rooster was a different story. Perched on a wooden post, he continued to crow as if his very life depended on it. Throwing it a dark look, he got to his feet. Dismissing the hooded male as one of the villagers, he slowly and painfully made his way to the castle entrance.

The snow was deep, reaching his knees at places. Barefoot and nearly naked, it was essential he reached the castle as quickly as possible. His brow furrowed in puzzlement. He'd been discovered, but he couldn't understand why he'd been left outside.

Ian didn't bother knocking. Instead, he walked in, his body trembling from cold, fatigue, and pain. It was quiet within the keep, but still early. Moving quickly, he retraced his steps from the night before to the main hall.

Expecting to see a roaring fire and servants bustling in preparation of the early morning meal, nothing could have prepared Ian for the death and destruction awaiting him. He stopped and stared, his eyes widening with horror and disbelief.

Body parts were strewn across the straw and rushes, blood splattered across every surface.
None of them had been spared, not master nor servant. Their ravaged bodies lay where they fell, their eyes forever opened and filled with terror. “Father,” Ian roared,  turning in a circle as he stared at the carnage. “Father, where are you?”

His pain forgotten, he ran further into the room. Scanning the dead, he quickly located several of his friends and comrades. In various states of dress, they'd been unprepared for the attack when it came. He swallowed hard in grief, looking away. 

These men had fought hard. They'd also died hard, the appearances of their bodies telling a story he didn't want to read. Some were missing arms, or even legs, their flesh torn painfully. He looked back at the man lying closest to him as he squatted down for a closer look.

It was John, another member of their contingent. A clean cut male, considered handsome by the ladies, he was nearly unrecognizable from the severity of his injuries. Ian frowned, his eyes dropping down his body. John was missing chunks of skin, almost as if something had
eaten
him. 
What in God's name could have done this?

Reeling from shock, he lurched to his feet. The smell of death, and something unexplainable, was thick in the air. He choked, swallowing back the bile. The long, wood table was covered in thick, congealing blood, its surface cracked in places from sword blows. Next to it, lay a pile of headless bodies on the floor. Someone, something, had held them to the hard surface of the table, cutting their heads.
Why?

The castle was silent as a tomb, and that was what it had become. His father was gone. Had he still been alive, his only consideration would have been getting to his son. Dreading the moment he'd discover his lifeless body, Ian forced himself to continue his search. It didn't take long. At the base of the concrete steps, he found him.

Dropping down to his knees, he stared at his beloved father, mindless of the tears dripping down his face. “Oh, Father,” he groaned out painfully, tormented beyond belief by the sight of his ravaged body. The older man's death hadn't come easy.  An ax was buried into the side of his skull, his sightless eyes full of fear.

That destroyed Ian more than anything. Never in his twenty-eight years had he ever seen his father afraid. Gently, he ran his open palm down his face, closing his eyes forever. His dad wouldn't have wanted to pass into the afterlife with a look like that on his face.

His gaze turned to the sword lying by his father's lifeless hand. Instead of the dried blood he expected, the surface was covered in an oily, black substance. Pulling the sword to him, he lifted it up to study it in the light coming through the stained-glass windows.

It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He was certain it wasn't blood, but he couldn't put a name to it. Thick and congealed, it left rough dents in the heavy metal.
Strong enough to corrupt a sword?
Ian ran his thumb across it, hissing at the immediate pain. Rubbing it on his robe, he was stunned to see the burn mark left on his skin.

Ian let the sword fall to his side. None of it made sense. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping forward as he sobbed. How could this have happened? What force could have been strong enough to take a group like this one out, and how was it that he was even alive? Ian knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was none left living within these walls.

His eyes popped up, his expression changing from grief to anger. There was one left living outside the walls, though, and he would have the answers he sought. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed his father's sword and took the stairs two at a time, avoiding the dead bodies as he passed by them. Rushing down the hallway, he ran into the room he'd occupied the night before.

His sword and weapons were lying where he'd left them. Dressing quickly, he collected them. Without a backward glance, he ran down the stairs and out the door. The pain and discomfort of his physical injuries paled in comparison to the pain within his heart. How would he ever be able to stand and face his mother with news like this? It would destroy her.

The cloaked man was still on the wall. When he saw Ian, he slipped his knife back into his sheathe and threw the apple over his shoulder. Hopping down, he waited patiently for Ian to approach him.

The rage inside of Ian bubbled and boiled with each step he took. His anger needed an outlet, and it found one in the hooded male staring at him. “Who the hell are you? Why are you alive when those inside are dead?” Ian yelled out, gesturing toward the castle behind him as he stalked closer. He carried his father's sword in his hand, breathing hard. Coming to a stop just a few feet away, he waited for the other male's response.

He never got it. Instead, his piercing blue eyes regarded him, intense beneath the material of the hood that hung over his forehead. His calmness and unperturbed manner infuriated him even more.

“So help me,” Ian roared, angered by his refusal to speak. He raised the sword, prepared to fight to the death. “If you're responsible for this carnage I'll run you through, here and now, and I won't give a damn whether you've pulled your sword or not.”

“Put your sword down,” the man hissed, snow swirling about his body. “You're irrational in your grief. I don't take lives. I just try to save them.”

“Then you do a piss poor job of it. There's a castle full of the dead behind me,” Ian snarled, but he did lower the sword. Grief and rage filled his body with equal intensity, leaving room for little else. “Including my father. What happened here, and how do you play into it?”

“We don't have time for long explanations, at least not now. I'll try to answer your questions, though.” He grabbed Ian's hand, lifting the sword back up. The blade rested in between both of their faces, the oily substance even more puzzling underneath the morning sun. Ian looked from the blade to the man in curiosity.

“See this?” The stranger asked, gesturing at the sword with his free hand. “This is blood, but not the blood you're used to seeing. It doesn't come from anything of this world. It's demonic blood, originating from a creature straight from the pits of Hell.”

Ian gaped at him, sure the man was delusional. “You expect me to believe demons murdered my father and comrades?” He pulled his hand away, stepping back from his hooded figure. “You're mad.”

To Ian's surprise he chuckled, the sound rich and full-bodied in the silence of the courtyard. “I may very well be by the time I'm done convincing a stubborn ass like yourself, but I'm not there yet. Tell me, how does your thumb feel?”

“How do you know that?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Smell your thumb. Does the stench remind you of anything?”

Ian complied, his lip curling up in revulsion. “It smells like the odd odor in the great hall, almost like sulfur. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Remember that scent. Hell beings always smell like that. The ones inside fought hard, but they would have never been able to defeat the demons that attacked them. There are no mortal weapons effective against creatures from another realm, no matter how powerful they are.”

Ian pushed the tip of the sword into the frozen ground, leaving it there as he put his hands on his hips. He grimaced, his mind racing. “How would you know all this? If you were here, why are you still alive? Why am I?”

“The demons didn't know you were here, due to your mishap.” He pointed up to the window Ian had fallen from. “Last night, a jealous woman saved your life, although that wasn't her intentions. At the same time, a group of demons were passing through, on their way to the upcoming battle. Demons can always be found in war, even if they remain unseen. Anyhow, they were attracted to her jealousy, rage, and resentment, not to mention, her attempt on your life. The maid's intentions were to kill, ensuring that no other woman would have you again. It was like a stimulant to the demons. They attacked, stuffing themselves with the torment and death of the mortals here.”

He stopped and grimaced before continuing, “I wasn't here. Had I been, I would have done all I could to have saved them. As it was, I didn't get word until it was too late. By the time I was sent here, they were dead.”

“Sent? Who sent you?”

“It's not important, at least, not right now. I have a story to tell you, and you have a choice to make.” Turning his head away, he whistled. After a moment, two horses walked over to them.

The mysterious man pulled two carrots out from underneath his cloak, feeding one to each horse. “We need to leave. It's important that we do so now. By the time we reach the battle, there will be a man lying wounded on the snow. He will still be alive, unlike so many of the others out there. With our care, he will survive. One day he will marry, and his firstborn son will be very important to our cause.”

“What cause? How do you know all this?” Ian asked, stunned by the recent events and the cryptic words of the stranger in front of him. “Why on earth would I go with you?”

“Our cause? I fight for humanity... And their eternal souls. So will you, should you agree to the proposal I'm fixing to present you with. It's a thankless, unending job, but should you accept, I can promise you that it will be rewarding. You will save many of the innocent over the years, Ian, and that is priceless.”

“How do you know my name?” Ian's voice was little more than a whisper.

“I know much about you,” he replied mysteriously. “You're a good man, a loyal one, with a faith-filled heart. Your sword arm is true, your reputation well-deserved. Should you join with me, you'll still be a fighter, just not of mortals. Instead, you'll fight ones like those that attacked here, creatures not of this world.” He mounted his horse, staring down at Ian. “Are you coming with me?”