by Jeff Gunzel
Scattered messenger birds fluttered up over the heads of the ghatins, each carrying its urgent message. Alaric expected them to start picking off the birds in order to prevent any neighboring cities from coming to their aid, but they did nothing of the sort. Staring straight into the city with those large pink eyes, they didn’t even appear to notice the birds. Or more likely, didn’t care whether or not they delivered their messages. Let them tell the whole world...whose world this really was.
One of the ghatins stepped forward and raised his ghostly white hand. This was the first time any of them had moved since Alaric had been watching. The rows of white men behind him all seemed to shift at the same time as they began to advance. Although they used their legs to walk like any other beings, they seemed to drift along gracefully as if they were floating, their heads steady with no noticeable movement.
The well-trained soldiers shifted their own stances in response as pikemen moved to the front line, leveling their spears to discourage any head-on charge by the enemy. A hiss filled the air as the line of soldiers behind them unsheathed their blades, shields coming up high to form a steel wall. Bowstrings creaked with notched arrows while crossbows clicked with loaded bolts. Scared but determined, the men were prepared to unleash hell.
“Halt!” ordered the commanding officer, his armor a polished silver with red slashes at the shoulders. To his surprise, the ghatins actually did as he ordered. The drifting wall of white all stopped at once, their bodies swaying in place like windblown weeds. “I order you back to whatever hell spawned you beings of the shadow. Leave this city at once. Obey my command and none of you has to die this day. Defy my order, and we will show you no mercy.” Raising his sword, he acknowledged the white wall with a sharp, sweeping motion. “I don’t know what you creatures are, but your tyranny of our realm ends here today!”
Swaying silently, the wall of white didn’t move an inch as their featureless, puppet-like faces revealed all the emotion of stones. It was impossible to know what they might be thinking. When the commander wheeled his sword sideways, the frontline soldiers all dropped to their knees as crossbows in the back row leveled on their targets. “This is your last chance,” he warned. “Go now, or face the consequences.” Tension hung in the air like a poisonous cloud as both opposing forces squared off. Even with thousands of men and ghatins combined, a cough or sneeze would have sounded like thunder.
After watching the chaos unfold down below, Alaric turned and darted back into the keep. Grabbing the shoulder of the first soldier he saw, he spun him around. “Tell the guards below to empty the prison cells. Give every man or woman a sword and send them out into the streets. Fight for the city and their crimes will be pardoned. You go with this message on my authority. Now go!” After the soldier ran off with his orders, Alaric stepped back out onto the balcony. Part of him didn’t even want to watch, but the other part could not look away.
“Loose!” the commander roared as he lowered his sword. There came a whooshing twang as lines of crossbows unleashed. Whistling bolts hissed through the air, zipping directly into the wall of white. The ghatins’ bodies distorted, rippling the same way a gust of wind might distort a coil of smoke. The bolts speckled the ground behind them, thumping deep into the hard soil. Their misty bodies solidified without the slightest sign of injury. Still, they just stood there like dead puppets, taunting, waiting to see what the humans might try next.
As the mounting panic threatened to consume men, the commander signaled again. They had to hit them hard in order to have any chance, and hesitating would only ensure their deaths. The archers cut loose, their arrows whistling over the front line of soldiers. They streaked right through the ghatins, causing the wall of white to distort briefly, then return back to normal.
Growing absolutely desperate, the commander pointed to the rooftops. A barrage of arrows and bolts came zipping down on cue, each one passing through a ghatin body before thumping into the ground. They kept firing at will, each man reloading as fast as he could. But they knew the results would not change.
That was it, they had hit them with everything they had. Soldiers moved closer together, each locking his shield with the man next to him. Exposed pikemen stepped back, using the shields of their brothers behind them for added protection, but kept their spears up and readied. The men were armed from head to toe, yet still felt completely helpless. Never had they faced a foe like this. So far, the rumors about these ghatins appeared to be true. By all reports they were practically immortal.
One of the frontline ghatins smiled, his impossibly wide mouth splitting his face in a lipless line. He raised his hand, balling his white pudgy fingers into a fist. Up until now it had been little more than a game to them, a sadistic means of terrorizing the humans. But the time for games had ended. It was time to show the humans what they were really up against.
Like a broken dam, the wall of white surged forward, washing over the front line of soldiers. The poor men didn’t even have time to scream. Alaric watched in horror as their bodies were ripped apart instantly. Torsos bent straight back, the skin around their necks snapping open as the backs of their heads rolled up against the backs of their own ankles. Chests opened wide, exposing white ribcages just before the bones shattered, spilling innards along the ground.
The white river never slowed, now flashing straight through the next line of soldiers. Flesh blades shredded with lightning speed, sending chunks of flesh tumbling through the air. Hardened steel protected the soldiers about as well as paper or grass. They might as well have been naked. The back lines of archers turned to retreat, but barely got three steps before the streaking wall of white washed over them too, carving them up into chunks before the first severed finger ever touched the ground.
Bowmen kept shooting from the rooftops, their arrows passing through the enemy only to zip into the ground by their feet, having done little more than draw attention to themselves. Several ghatins stopped their ground assault and turned their focus to the archers.
Flesh blades streaked upward, covering impossible distances to impale several men on the roofs. One archer darted behind a chimney, his back pressed against the stone. Heart racing, palms sweaty, he didn’t dare peek around the corner. This was not about saving the city anymore, it was about saving his own skin. He would flee Redwater the second he saw an opening. Now it was every man for himself.
He heard a loud cracking sound, saw chips of stone roll across the rooftop and bounce near his feet. His eyes darkening, legs going numb, he glanced down at the white spear protruding from his stomach. The blade had actually penetrated the solid-stone chimney? How did they even know he was hiding back here? Strange that these were the dying man’s last coherent thoughts before his world faded to black.
Cottage doors exploded inward, ripping right off the hinges before shattering into splinters. For the first time during this nightmarish scene, Alaric became fully aware of the people’s screams. He watched as entire families were dragged from their homes, sometimes kicking and screaming, other times in bloody pieces. Grown men, women and children, it didn’t seem to matter who they were. All were equally torn apart with little regard for their age or sex.
Alaric could no longer stay in denial. The facts had to be faced. They couldn’t possibly win. In fact, they had yet to prove they could even hurt the ghatins, let alone kill them. They would lose the city, that much was certain. But this was not an enemy who would show mercy of any kind. Even a warring neighbor would have spared the city once the surrender had been declared. These creatures didn’t want power, they wanted the humans dead. Alaric watched as another woman’s head went tumbling along the ground, her final horrified expression still intact. The city was being purged! It was clear that no one would be spared!
Just below, Alaric saw a line of prisoners being herded out into the street, just as he’d ordered. Many tried to get back inside, pounding on the door that had already been locked behind them. Others dropped their weapons and went running th
rough the streets, looking for someplace to hide from the creatures they had no intention of fighting. But there was nowhere to hide. It was just a matter of time before they were hunted down like every other soul in this forsaken city.
Seeing nothing but carnage in all directions, Alaric slowly backed away from the rail. They were not here for prisoners, coin, or resources. They were going to kill everyone. He needed to escape, but how? His survival instincts overriding any chivalrous thoughts, Alaric made a mad dash back into the keep. Shoving crying women out of his way, he practically ran through anyone who stepped in his path. Soldiers, servants, they all cried out for instruction and guidance. They wanted to be told what to do, to be assured they would survive this if they just listened to their wise leader.
But Alaric had no words of wisdom for them, no assurances that everything was going to be all right. If anything, he seemed even more frightened than they did. After thoroughly recognizing the hopelessness of what he had just witnessed, Alaric held no false conviction that they might actually get through this. Those beings were unstoppable and their intent was clear. No, the city couldn’t possibly survive this, but he could. Now, it was every man for himself.
“Out of my way!” he shrieked, lowering his shoulder into an elderly woman reaching out to him. Already teary-eyed, her back slammed into the wall and she fell face first onto the floor. A painting shook loose and came down on top of her, but Alaric was already too far away to notice. Speeding down the steps, bounding over them three at a time, he made his way down to the prison level.
A guard turned as the main door flung open. “Please don’t kill—” he squealed, fumbling with his sword before recognizing Alaric. Other guards stood around the room, each of them with their weapons drawn, wide-eyed with terror. Alaric had never seen his men look so frightened. All the cells were empty and the doors were open.
“You have to hide me!” Alaric shrieked, running up to the first guard, shaking him by the collar. “You can’t let them kill me. If I die, Redwater will have no future. I’m too important to fall at the hands of these—”
Composing himself, he stepped back and cleared his throat before brushing off his shirt. He was the one in charge here and needed to start acting like it. This shameless groveling was not doing anything for the morale of his men. “What are you men even doing down here?” he asked, voice deepening as he quickly shifted the focus back to them. “What do you cowards think you’re doing? Why are you not out there protecting the women and children of this great city?”
An explosion of excuses came at him at once, each seeming to have a completely different set of reasons. “Silence!” Alaric boomed. “I have no need for your sniveling cowardice. You are men! And as men who are charged with the safety of this city, I order you to go out there and fight for our people.” Opening the main door, he grabbed the first guard by the shoulder and pushed him out. Reluctantly, the others funneled through the doorway and up the steps. They would die because of his orders, that much was certain. But that was the farthest thing from Alaric’s mind.
Alaric slammed the door behind them and looked around. They’re coming. They’re coming. What do I do? Left with few options, he dashed into the first open cell and pulled the heavy door shut behind him, suddenly plunging his world into darkness. Unable to see his hand in front of his face, Alaric slowly backed away from the door while stepping carefully. Waving a probing hand at his back, he brushed the cold stone wall. Leaning against it for support, he slid down to the floor.
After a time, his eyes adjusted to the low light. It was still plenty dark, but he could make out the general outline of the cell. He stood up off the pile of straw and looked around, blinking and rubbing his eyes in recognition as an old memory seeped into his mind.
“Well, isn’t this sweet?” came a familiar voice cutting through the haze of sleep. Liam stirred, eyes opening slowly as he started to get his bearings. It didn’t take long for him to recognize his surroundings. Still sound asleep, Viola’s head lay across his lap. “It seems the little freak has clung to a father figure,” said Alaric, looming over them. He leaned down close, nearly nose to nose with Liam. “Or am I mistaken? Perhaps it is...more than that.”
This cell... The was the very same one where he had kept that creature. He could still remember Liam caring for her as if she were a real human with actual feelings. And yet, now it was he who was trapped in this cell. Through the silence he could hear the screams of the dying outside. Pressing his back into the corner of the cell, Alaric sank back down onto the cold stone. Through the open slit on the top of the door, a bit of dim light came filtering into the cell.
Through the echoing screams and the crippling fear, his mind started playing tricks on him. Shadows moved back and forth in front of the door, as if some were coming to peek in at him. Trembling all the while, his mind on the verge of breaking, the harrowing screams went on for hours. As the hours passed, the cries became fewer and fewer until they finally stopped. Dead silence.
His deep breaths echoed in his plugged ears, a hollow, whooshing rasp. He tried to hold his breath but could only do it for a few seconds at a time. Surely his panicked breathing would give him away. If he could hear his breathing, then surely the ghatins could.
Alaric thought he heard voices approaching, but he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. With his mind hanging on by a thread, he could no longer tell what was real and what was imagined. His breaths were rasping in long, steady gasps, his heart pounded savagely in his chest. He could feel its hammering pulse all the way up to the veins in his neck. Then came the unmistakable sound of a door clicking open just outside the cell. He covered his mouth, smothering his breath as best as he could.
“He’s in there, I swear it! See, I even have the key.” Alaric felt his pants explode with a warm wetness, followed by a pungent odor that filled his cell. Shaking uncontrollably, the terror becoming surreal, he closed his eyes and slapped his hands over his face. “I’ve done as you asked, now please just let me go. Wait, no! No!” There came a thud on the outside of the door. He could see the back of someone’s head pressed up against the eye slit, his hair forced through like a bristled handle. “I gave him to you. I gave you what you wanted! Please just—” A white blade erupted from the back of his head in a splash of red, then slowly retracted. What was left of the head jerked away from the slit.
There came a clicking sound and the door creaked open. Unable to scream, to move, Alaric watched in horror as the ghatin stepped in. Its pale face grinned down at him, its pink eyes lighting up like some kind of insect. “Lord Alaric Bournfred,” it hissed, an airy, distant voice as if the wind itself were speaking. “We have been searching for you.”
Chapter 13
Alaric’s feet were moving him, although he was not sure why. He hadn’t chosen to move or even get up, yet he was moving for some reason. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? No, certainly not. Soon, he would wake up from this nightmare safe and warm in his own bed. He would sit down to a plate full of eggs while laughing off the ridiculous dream. Everything seemed hazy, his vision similar to that of a dream. All he could see were the objects directly in front of him, while all his peripheral vision was clouded out in a ring of white fog.
With a ghatin under each arm bearing the brunt of his weight, he felt like he was drifting along with no idea of where they were taking him. Fresh blood ran down the steps like a mountain river trickling over rocks. Thick and sticky, each slow step made a wet ripping sound as he walked. Thoroughly soiled, he was only half aware of the weight of his full pants tugging down with each step. Alaric’s ears whistled with a long, sustained note that bore into his brain like a nail.
This was all just a dream. It had to be.
Bodies lay everywhere, some with their heads twisted around, their eyes still wide open in a permanent look of dismay. Others were headless, their necks severed cleanly with a single stroke. Some had clean puncture wounds clear through their chests, each hole large enough
to push a man’s arm through.
Through his hazy observation, a thought occurred to Alaric as they led him along. He noticed that all the deaths were quick and clean for the most part. The kills were exact, single cuts more often than not. The ghatins had not mutilated any of the bodies the way a mindless, savage race of animals might have. There was an efficient, almost businesslike feel to the slaughter.
Once they led him outside, he stopped in his tracks. It was the first time he had shown any resistance after being dragged along all this time. He would have run if his weak legs could bear any weight at all. He would have screamed if his state of shock had not been so severe. The streets ran red with blood. Bodies lay scattered about in all sorts of contorted positions. Families, soldiers, none had been spared. Where there had been a fierce battle only a few hours ago, now there was nothing but deathly silence. Every door was collapsed inward, every window shattered. But more importantly, there was not a soul left alive. Redwater was dead.
“Am I the only one left?” he asked, the sound of his voice even surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to speak, didn’t even realize he was capable of it until the soft words slipped past his lips.
“Does that disappoint you?” came a voice from his left. “I’m sure that any of these dead humans would have been more than grateful to take your place.”
Like white spirits emerging from fog, a drifting sea of ghatins suddenly came into view. Had they been there the whole time? Alaric had been so focused on the slaughter that he had noticed little else. The white men stood everywhere, spaced out between the torn bodies. They were standing so still, so unassuming, that they were easy to miss in some strange way. Like they blended in even though they looked nothing like their surroundings. How many were there, a hundred, three hundred? A thousand? He couldn’t possibly know for sure, but there was one thing he was certain of: not one of these creatures had fallen this day. A thousand? Hell, two of them could have brought this city to its knees.
