Groundborn

by Scott Moore

  He fought steel to steel with some guard. The sound melded into the cries and screams. The youth fought well, but the city streets were too crowded for shows of footwork and skill. The guard’s blade fell at his feet; his own blood covering the hilt. He lay dying choking on blood and drowning in his own vital fluid.

  With no time to marvel at his work, Miles moved on. He swung and maimed men and women alike. No time to discriminate. If a woman wielded a weapon, be it metal pan, or rolling pin, he killed her, same as a man with a blade. Some other rebels had caught up to him. They must have tired of menacing the poor. The real loot lay in the stone houses, not the wooden hovels and dirt coverings. Miles pushed them from his thoughts. He wanted to dwell on the revenge. Wanted to remember this like he remembered the lies they had spilled. He hated them for that. Hated that they had promised him a happy life and then sent him to murder a child. The thought made him cringe. The anger swelled through him, and he clenched harder at his sword.

  Around him the city burned. The horses had been freed from the stables, and trampled everything in sight, women and children ran for the gates, but met the rebels. He didn’t want to harm the innocent, but he couldn’t pick and choose during battle, he couldn’t fight for them, and kill those he loathed as well.

  Miles moved around a large haystack blazing with the heat of the sun. A horse tied to a hitching post stood too close, its chest smoked. As the smell hit his nose, it made his stomach heave. His head turned away, along with his feet.

  He met another knight. This man he knew. Yugin Hemil. The brute stood over six feet tall, but couldn’t fight with a sword any better than the idiots he had at his back. The man swung the sword as if he were chopping a tree, and for the merchants he preyed on this had always been enough, for a trained knight it was child’s play. Miles dodged out of the way with a subtle duck. He came up in Yugin’s guard and smacked him with the hilt of his sword. He could have killed him, but he wanted the bully to remember who killed him.

  “Traitor!” Yugin screamed, nothing he hadn’t heard before. He had now been called a traitor by both sides of the war. The king’s men thought him a coward, the rebels thought him untrustworthy. He thought himself just a normal man. Miles ducked another oncoming blow. It amused him just how slow this lumbering giant showed against a man who knew the sword. Yugin had slaughtered an entire village not a fortnight ago. There were rumors of the rebel camp feeding at their post; the rumors were proved false, but that didn’t mean Yugin gave a damn.

  “Stay still you traitoring[CF2] scum!” Even if they fought for hours, Yugin would never come close to hitting him. So, with a final thrust Miles shoved his blade through the opening of Yugin’s armor. Yugin’s arm slackened. The blade wasn’t sharp enough to pierce all the bone and sinewy muscle of the arm. So, Miles pulled it free. With Yugin’s sword arm dead, his mouth shut. His eyes pleaded, but how many had he killed that had done the same? No reprieve and no pity. Miles hoisted his blade. The rebels were winning the fight. The nobles were fleeing like flies. They would control the third largest city in the kingdom. Finally, a foothold.

  “And so, it ends, Yugin.” Miles meant for his words to be more dramatic, but then again, he had never been witty.

  “HOLY SHIT!”

  Miles turned. All around him the battle ceased. What were these pitiful fools doing now? They had the city on the run. He had half a mind to guide them himself. Until he saw what they had stopped for, the streets were glowing. Shrouds of black smoke rose from the cracks in the cobblestone. He noticed a ball of mist beside him. He reached out touching it. It was freezing. His body involuntarily shivered. He heard the scrape of metal armor. His eyes turned. Yugin fled. Miles couldn’t give chase, he could barely see over the black fog. The city froze in silence. Where moments before had been screams of death and pleas of mercy, were now only dumbfounded gawking’s at the flow of mist from the ground. It only lasted a minute, but it felt stretched and long.

  The mist started to fade. Miles thought it a freak occurrence. If they continued, they could still win the battle and take the city. He opened his mouth to scream the battle cry and rouse them from this madness. Something else beat him to the roar. The creature stood only four feet tall, but the claws on its hands were at least the length of a dagger, and sharper than any metal. It ran its hands across the cobbles ripping them as if they were nothing more than pebbles in a brook. Miles swallowed. He looked down, he hadn’t pissed his boiled leather, but it had been a close call. Men and women froze. Other creatures appeared. Some looked the same, others were bigger, and some smaller.

  Miles lost track of everything around him. He had seen enough. The boots that were hand-me-downs carried him faster than he had ever moved; even in a brand-new pair of boots. The sword burdened his running, but he couldn’t bring himself to drop it. His mind flooded with fear. He didn’t give a damn about the rebels anymore. They could fend for themselves. He booked it toward the hills. He would find a new country to live in. Whatever those creatures were could have this wretched city.

  The fires mysteriously smoldered out all around the city. He turned into the area he had first smelled the burning flesh of the horse. The horse had died, head charred, only ashes remained. A small creature perched above the dead animals and pulled a chunk of meat free with its razor-sharp teeth. Miles almost spewed. The food tasted awful going down; he did not want to bring it back up.

  Miles ran and rounded another corner. The mist here still rose, but it rose in an eerier pale mist. It felt different from the black steam of before. He moved through it, and as he did a single claw reached for his leg. Not quite a full body, just the arm and chest of a massive beast. When it rose fully, it would tower over him easily. He didn’t know why or how he knew it would work, but he swung the sword at where he believed to be the heart of the creature. The roar shook the wooden shacks beside him. A merchant tent blew down the street. A black ichor, that had the smell of death, ran down Miles’ arm. It burned his skin. He let out his own scream at the searing pain. The creature disappeared. A claw bounced off the ground. Miles’ whole body tingled. He had to get the hell out of here. With his head tucked, he ran through the wooden doors. He had only been to the city a handful of times. He didn’t know the surrounding landmarks. He just wanted to get far away from those gray walls.

  The tree’s flowered beside him. He pushed on through them. The woods grew denser. He didn’t dare look behind him. Those damn creatures could still be chasing him, but he wouldn’t be dinner to the ugly bastards. He kept moving until the trees thinned out again. All around him glowed purple.

  Miles had found another shroud of the mist. He cursed himself. He was just as brain dead as those idiots, who were being slaughtered in the city. He didn’t even know they were being slaughtered; he had run like a coward. Those men he had stood beside an hour before looked terror struck, and he had been the one to run from the city gates, with his tail tucked between his cheeks. He didn’t care. He lived, and most of them lay in piles of their own decrepit shit. Be damned if he would join them. Miles turned his eyes back toward the swirling glow.

  His feet moved him along the small dirt path. Grave markers dotted the ground. A cemetery stretched out before him. It had to be older than the city; he knew the people burned their dead here. Unless people were rich enough to find a coffin maker from another city; and even with the riches of the nobility, it only happened on the rare occasion. He moved alongside them. Some were falling apart, the old stones lay in crumbles on the ground, in other areas weeds and brush grew up over the stone. His heart pounded, what a fitting location. Only seconds from death, and here he found himself in burial grounds. Some sick and cruel sign from the gods above. I have lived a decent life. Not a good life, but decent. They have no reason to spite me now, Miles thought.

  Past the falling stones Miles could see another path. He followed it; the cloud of purple grew around him. It felt oddly soothing. Like the power of a sleeping draught. He moved slower. The fear in hi
m faded. He could feel a presence with him. He slowed almost to a stop. There, only a hundred feet away, sat a strange man. Miles noticed right away that the man wore no clothes. His muscular body exposed to the night air. Miles moved, creeping closer and closer. The smoke emanated from the man. The man’s eyes flickered from the moon and landed on Miles. He froze.

  “Who are you?”

  The naked man looked confused, his eyes shifted around the landscape, as if he had never seen it before.

  “Usually people answer questions with words.”

  Still nothing from the man.

  “Fine fuck you too.”

  Miles didn’t need his answer. He needed to get the hell out of this place. Get away from those damn creatures. He needed to get away from it all, the king, the rebels, this naked bastard.

  “Where am I?” The voice of the naked man, soft and calm.

  “Are you drunk?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Not even sure what drunk is. Maybe I am drunk. Mostly I am lost,” he replied.

  “Mostly you are fucking naked in the middle of a cemetery.”

  The man looked over his body and seemed to notice his nudity for the first time. “Where are my clothes?” he asked.

  “I don’t have any damned idea. Who the hell are you?”

  “I don’t remember. I remember a name, but I don’t know if it is mine or not. Sammy is what I remember.” The naked man pushed himself to his feet.

  With his hand on the short sword Miles moved forward but didn’t see any obvious weapons. “Where you from?”

  “I don’t remember,” Sammy answered. “Where is this?”

  “A cemetery outside the city of Blem,” Miles answered. The man didn’t seem any less confused upon hearing his location.

  “Who are you?” Sammy asked.

  Miles pondered for a moment on the question. What harm could a naked man do to him?

  “Miles Tiro,” he replied. Before Sammy could reply, Miles threw out another question. “What is all this fog?”

  In the moonlight, Miles could see that Sammy was much paler than he had first assumed, as if he had never seen the sun. His body, while muscular, had little meat. His facial features reminded Miles of a smaller child, wandering eyes filled with curiosity.

  “Is that what this is?” Sammy said and swiped his hand through the mist.

  Miles felt the chill run up his spine, as the fog cut in half and then melded back together again. It reminded Miles of a living creature which reminded him he wanted nothing to do with this damned place.

  “Well it was nice meeting you Sammy, but I have to run along now.”

  Miles turned toward the road and started off at a jog. It took a moment for him to notice that Sammy followed behind him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Following you,” Sammy said, as if it was the most normal of responses.

  “I see that, but why are you following me?” Miles asked.

  “You know things, plus you seem like you know where to go,” Sammy replied.

  Miles sighed. It didn’t matter if Sammy followed him. He had no idea where to go. He just wanted to get the hell away from here.

  3

  They made it. The nurses said by the hair of the horse they rode in on. Still, they had made it. They rushed Earl to surgery. They would not guarantee he would live through the process. Even less a promise he would be the same.

  No time to think. There would be time to worry later; plenty to worry about. Only one thing he needed to do now. Warn the council that the creatures were amassing. The Groundborn[CF3], they had always called them. To knowledge, they did not live in cities or colonies. They were unlike animals or humans; something completely different; but always in the histories.

  “You did your best,” the woman from the battlefield said.

  “Who are you?” Nov asked.

  She bit her lip and looked at the wall. She would tell him a lie. The signs were obvious. Before a lie, everyone had a nervous tick. Only the best liars could avoid it.

  “I am Alti,” she said.

  If she made up the name, it would have to do. Names didn't matter anyhow. Only the person behind the name mattered.

  “You are, Nov?” she asked.

  Confidence hidden behind a question, but she knew the answer already. Yet, it seemed to be a ploy. Acting as if she didn’t know. Something made Nov feel strange about this woman; different. How had she arrived at the right time? What had caused those lights?

  “Nov is my name, yes. At your service,” he said.

  He thought of throwing in a mockery of a bow. He refrained. For all he knew, she had saved his life. Saved Earl's life; that mattered more. If she wanted to hide her name and the knowledge of how she knew him, he would allow her to keep those secrets.

  “Well Nov, you have work to be done, I assume. I, too, have things to put in order. I will see you again soon.”

  She didn't need an answer and any answer’s Nov could have gotten out of her were forgotten in his swirling mind. No thought of bringing her to the council crossed his mind until he saw her robe flair around the corner. He thought about yelling, but she disappeared around the corner, her robe tails swooping out of the hospital.

  Nov turned his attention back to the present. They always kept this place cold. It reminded Nov of the cold touch of death. The nurses informed him as a boy that they dropped the temperature to stave off bacteria and infection. It still didn't hurt to dress warm after a wound.

  Alti had it right about one thing. He had something to do. The council still waited. They needed information. They had to amass an army; to ready the small number of troops. How many of them would fight? How many would be of use?

  The patrol stole from the best men Earl had. Those men died in minutes. No one cared about sword play anymore. It was ornate. Fancy swords, belts made for kings to hold the metal. A show for them. They never fought. Nov had never fought. No need to climb his high perched tree. Sure, he had killed the Groundborn before today, but he had never warred with them.

  He squeezed his eyes shut hard. He drew in air through tightly pursed lips. Better to get up and go. If he didn't force himself to move, then he would sit there until Earl woke up. Earl would let him have an ear full. He could see the man now, clutching his side and yelling that Nov had failed in his duty.

  The crazy bastard would probably be the angriest at Nov turning away from the battle. Die on the battlefield. He could hear it in Earl's own words now; boots to the floor.

  ...

  Nov’s legs were heavy. His eyes drooped, no doubting the weariness in his bones. Even more than the exhaustion, he worried. Earl should have been making this trip, not him. Earl’s words would be the ones that the council needed to hear. Nov didn’t do well with speeches.

  The bustling streets showed no signs of rumors spreading before him. No one cared to talk about the bloody work of a soldier. It wouldn’t win points with the nobility. It didn’t gain anyone a dollar to stuff in their oversized pockets. The soldier barracks were offset from the rest of the city for a reason. Placed in the poorest conditions. No one cared about the Groundborn. No one even knew what the Groundborn were anymore. The boogieman that mothers and fathers threatened their children with were all that the beasts had become.

  Nov pushed his way through the trading, the shopping, and the social gatherings. No one paid attention, no time for the likes of him to invade on their parade. He had slightly hoped that the blood and filth would make them notice, but their heads were too far up their own asses to notice.

  The walk to the Council Hall stretched Nov across most of the city. The only thing farther than the Council Hall were the nobility homes. When Nov turned the final corner to Council Drive, he could already see the massive building blocking the view of the mansions behind it. The nobility had a skewed idea that they were hidden from the rest of the city. They believed that their walls were stronger, their homes safer, and they would not fall. They were wrong. Whe
n the Groundborn came through, they would kill the lowest and the highest just the same.

  Nov walked the freshly swept street of Council Drive marveling at how pristine a few coins could keep a pathway. No horse shit, no mud, and no homeless. That last one shocked him the most. This is where the money harbored, locked away with the rich and powerful. Yet, not a single man or woman stood on the corners begging. That resigned for the lower districts, the tavern areas, or the soldier barracks. What coin they expected to find there he didn’t know, but they would only find death here. So, they made their choice wisely.

  Nov looked up at the building. For a fleeting moment he wondered what looking at things from the other side would be like. Did the spires of the Council Hall cast them in shadow? Or did it only block the entire city into a dark spot that they pretended didn’t exist?

  Nov made it halfway down the path when he noticed the thinning of the crowd. No traders or merchants were allowed a berth at the base of the Council’s home. A strict policy had been enacted and only those in need would be allowed within three hundred yards of the doors.

  Nov spat on the ground. Some poor soul would be frantic cleaning it later. Maybe the council would flip him an extra copper for his effort. Nov covered his eyes from the sun and looked at the peaks of the building. There—where he knew they were—scouts ran back and forth across the runways. They would be sending messages of his arrival to the council. Earl had already reserved this time for the soldiers. This should have been Earl’s meeting, not his. Nov felt a pang of sorrow followed by a flooding of self-doubt. He would, no doubt, fuck this up.

  Nov took the first step toward the stairs with a hesitance only known by sure failure. In his mind, he knew that the Council Hall had started all the problems. Bleak, towering, and masking the entire city in its presumed importance. It had inspired an entire generation to forgo the soldier training, to laugh at school training, and to only inspire to be a rich pompous asshole.