by Kim Bowman
“Marek is right, lads,” added Ronan. “We need to show this Lord Westmore that we are not going to let him take our people and destroy our homes any longer.”
“I say we gather some fighters and intercept the Engel… show him what Archaeans are really made of, and that he will not win against warriors blessed by the gods! He may be able to defeat a village filled with women and children only because he has yet to face true Archaean warriors!”
With much convincing, the villagers finally allowed Marek to take a group of warriors and ride to Cairn to speak with their elders.
The very next morning, eleven men rode against the rising sun to the costal stronghold of Cairn. After a long and hard ride, they arrived as the sun descended. Villagers paused only momentarily at the sight of their arrival before hurrying to finish the day’s work. Cairn seemed to be in a steady decline. The village elder, Connell, cared more for his stronghold than he did his own people. He was glorified in battle as a young man, adopting the mindset of being impenetrable, slaughtering his enemy with the power of the gods.
Marek wondered how such a man could be so ignorant as he passed the crumbling wall surrounding the stronghold.
Marek and his men were directed to the common room where they were greeted with food and wine. Many chatted about current events and old pastimes, it having been many years since the two clans had mingled. But still, the two clans kept a wary distance. Marek and his men had been greeted with smiling faces, but the tension could be felt by all.
It was Connell who finally spoke above the thick curtain of unease. “You are a man now, my boy. If I didn’t believe my eyes, I would swear on my soul your father sat before me. A great man, your father. It was my honor to fight beside him in the battle where he fell.” Connell embraced Marek as if he were an old friend and poured him a mug of wine. “So tell me what this is all about, lad. Why have you brought so many fine warriors into my home at such a late hour?”
“I’m not going to pitter around the reason I am here. I want command of your warriors, Connell.”
Connell sputtered on his wine. “What would a boy like you do with my warriors? I suppose lead them into some great battle?” He gulped from his mug, still chuckling.
“I know you have word of these raids. My village was burned to the ground by Westmore, and I aim to put an end to it — to him — but I need men. Strong men. Men willing to fight. Our village is on the verge of decimation as we speak.”
“I have no quarrel with this Engel. I am saddened to hear of your village, but my—”
“Enough!” Anger filled Marek. “Do not tell me how invincible you are. I have seen what destruction this man brings, and I have seen your crumbling walls. Your people won’t stand a chance against his army. He recruits Archaeans to fight for him, promising those who join him lands and more women than their arms can hold. Promises like that are quite hard to refuse. And those who don’t follow…” His voice quieted as his mind uncontrollably drifted to his wife and son.
“This army does not pose a threat to us. Taking this—” Connell boisterously grinned, outstretching his arms to show off the wealth that surrounded him. “—would be quite impossible.”
Marek slammed his fist on the table. “You are not listening, Connell! I beg you, give me some men — any men. We will ride out and intercept this Engel before he has the opportunity to spill more Archaean blood. Our people needlessly die because of men like you, who won’t stand up and fight for his own people!”
“Now listen here, boy.” Connell’s voice turned sour.
Rising to his feet with his fists clenched, Marek gritted his teeth and addressed the rest of the men. “How many more tears must be shed over the graves of too many who have died? How many more of our children have to fall? Listen to me, brothers. I know ruin lies before you. There is nothing but bloodshed if you don’t act now, while there is still a fighting chance!”
“Sit down, Marek! There will be no warriors and there will be no raiding party! I will offer you and your men shelter this night, but there will be not a word more spoken about this nonsense. Is that understood?”
With a quick side glance to his brother, who nodded in approval, Marek snapped, “Aye.”
“I shall have someone escort you to the lodgings. Eat what you like, lads, for I am off to bed.” Connell gave Marek a firm pat on his shoulder and muttered, “I like your spirit. You remind me so much of your father. Save that fight in you for another day. We won’t be needing it here.”
Marek couldn’t settle in the terribly small lodging that he, Ronan, Aiden and Gavin shared for the night. The one-room shelter was lit with a single lantern and devious shadows danced along the walls. While his men entertained themselves with stories and a rowdy game of dice, Marek traced his finger along the lines of Brynn’s charm, trying to envision her radiant smile to warm his chilling body and calm his ill-fated temper. A memory of her laughing at one of his Engel-speaking mistakes came to mind and he smiled, imagining it over and over again, clinging to it as if his very existence depended on it. He wondered if she ever recalled his face just as he so often did hers. Alone, his mind was as restless as it had ever been. What a wandering soul he had become.
“Marek…” Ronan’s hushed voice stirred him, bringing him back to the present dark hour. In barely more than a whisper, Ronan breathed, “Did you hear that?”
Tucking away the charm, Marek cocked his head to the side and listened to the stillness of night. Under the thick blanket of darkness a sharp whistling flitted over the thatched roof. “Night arrows.” Of all nights to pick, the night they were actually in Cairn to warn them of impending doom, an attack was occurring. What bloody luck.
The men gathered their gear and armor as another shower of arrows flew over their dilapidated shelter. A few landed in the thinning thatch above their heads, the arrows lodging dangerously close in the rafters above them. “And the bastard wouldn’t listen,” Marek grumbled as shouts from neighboring buildings rose at an alarming rate. “If that fool gets me killed, there will be hell to pay!” he roared while jutting through the doorframe to survey his surroundings. “Stay put for a while, lads, let them waste their arrows. Gavin and Ronan, gather the others. Aiden, you and I need to find a fire.”
The men split up, going their separate ways to accomplish their tasks. Marek and Aiden searched for an extinguished fire pit. Finding one relatively close by, they risked themselves to the naked open to scoop up as much soot and coals as they could hold before the next round of arrows fell.
An arrow cut through the air pummeling into the soft soil only inches from Aiden’s boot, spitting small rocks and debris onto his exposed skin. “Holy hell,” he gasped. He had narrowly missed death. “That will wake a man up.”
Marek exhaled, staring at the arrow.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, aye?” Aiden dug his hand in the fire pit for one last bit of ash as another shower of arrows sliced through the sky.
“Don’t have to ask me twice.” Marek followed Aiden back to the lodging, crouching low in the long grasses. That was all he needed — to be picked off like a mangy wolf near the sheep’s field.
“Here, lads, cover yourselves.” Marek passed the ash to Aiden. “Let Connell take care of the foot soldiers. Spare as many Archaeans as you can, slaughter any Engels, but most importantly…” A smile lingered on his lips. “Don’t get dead.”
Marek found it difficult to ignore the screams of innocents as they dashed past him, intent on reaching the stronghold for safety. Women clutched babes to their breasts as they wailed to the gods to spare them, terrified for their lives. Those blood-curdling screams — the ones that never left a warrior’s mind — they were the worst kind of all.
They edged their way to the tree line and watched as the raiding party descended from the darkness swarming over the land like wild beasts, devouring anything in their path. Marek encountered minimal resistance along the way, keeping to the shadows. The warriors crept up beside unsuspecti
ng guards, slashing their throats in one swift movement. Body after body slumped to the ground as Marek forged his own path closer to Westmore.
He hit a snag before reaching his intended target, his position spotted by a wounded Engel before being thoroughly silenced. Within moments, a horde of fighters was upon them, hurling swords and death blows in their direction.
Realizing his chance to reach Lord Westmore was slipping through his grasp, Marek jumped at the chance to battle him. With his protectors engaged, Westmore was alone. Vulnerable. Marek sprinted between battling warriors, using his sword to clear his way when possible. Ignoring the burning in his legs, he jumped the corpse of a fallen comrade and drove himself faster up a small grassy incline. Two arrows snapped dirt at his feet.
He was close.
Marek gritted his teeth, readjusted his sword, and pressed forward across the raging battlefield. From his left, he heard Ronan’s shouts of encouragement. His breath burst from his lungs. Another arrow cut the air near his head. Pain slashed across his neck, bluntly knocking him back. His palm rose to cover the sting. A warm gush oozed through his fingers. He was still breathing — it couldn’t be that bad. Shrugging off the injury, Marek regained his footing and darted to the side to avoid a charging horse. Veering back on course, he wiped his neck, ignoring the alarming amount of blood, and scanned the area for the Engel. The scene that lay before him was of absolute chaos and he stood in its midst for a moment, trying to rationalize it. Soaring fires stretched toward the opalescent moon. Arrows set aflame arched over thatched roofs, their flames drowning out the screams of those caught in the slaughter.
So many people… so much death.
When would it end?
Rage consumed him and he funneled his hatred into his sword. Hidden by a cloak of soot, Marek charged Westmore’s mount and rendered it useless with one swift upstroke of his blade. As the horse shrieked and reared, Westmore fell beside it, narrowly escaping the crushing weight of the animal. “To your feet!” Marek demanded, eager to begin the battle.
“My my, a gentleman to his enemy even though you have so brutally slain his horse?” Slow to rise, Westmore drew the thin sword hanging by his side. Glancing back at his twitching mount, he frowned. “I rather liked that horse. Choose your enemies wisely, for you have a chance to live this night.”
Marek circled his opponent. “I wish I could offer you the same.” The shrill scream of a woman was silenced close by, momentarily drawing his attention.
“Your village doesn’t have to burn. Join me, and the rest of your people will be saved.”
“You have already burned my village!” Raising his sword, Marek swung at the Engel, testing him. Westmore easily blocked the blow and thrust back with precision. Clearly, this Engel wasn’t the opponent he’d expected. Trained military — there was no doubt about it. Marek swung low, fully engaging himself in the duel. Steel scraped against steel. White sparks danced from one heated blade to the other as the men circled, playing an eerie death song in tune with the rage surging around them.
“You aim to kill me, boy?”
“Aye, I do.”
“And why might that be? Other than the obvious reason that I am… well, me.” Westmore gave a small courtly bow as if he were inviting a lady to dance.
“You above all deserve death, not the poor women and children you have slaughtered!” Marek swung with unparalleled speed. The blade connected with Westmore’s thigh, forcing the Engel to the ground.
Westmore roared in pain, falling to his knees. His palm covered the wound as he scrambled for his discarded sword.
“Pick it up!” spat Marek, kicking the weapon closer to his opponent.
“You really do wish me dead, Archaean.” Reaching for his sword with caution, Westmore moved as if he would grasp it and rise.
Marek gripped his own sword and eagerly waited in his battle stance for the duel to continue.
Westmore shuffled his feet as if trying to stand and drifted his concealed hand to his middle, clutching the handle of a dagger as Marek raised his sword to strike. In an instant, the blade flew from Westmore’s trembling fingers, missing its intended target and planting deep inside the shoulder of Marek’s strongest arm, too close to his ferociously beating heart.
With a thud, Marek’s claymore dropped to the ground. The impact of metal striking bone whipped his body violently against the side of a wooden structure. The thatch burned bright, lighting the night sky above them. Unable to withstand the shocking pain, Marek slumped to the ground. The wall collapsed under his weight sending a support beam crashing down, pinning him.
Fuck. That was all that came to mind. Leave it to his bloody pride to get him in this unbelievable situation. Fucking Engels. Never could fight fair. His body screamed out, furious the blade was still imbedded deep in his flesh. The beam had trapped him well — even shoving with what little strength he had left wouldn’t budge it. Marek grit his teeth and heaved one last time, roaring out the madness consuming his thoughts. Nothing moved, except for the flowing stream of blood etching its own erratic path. Sobering realities edged their way to the forefront of his thoughts. He was defenseless, unarmed and unable to fight — definitely not the way he wanted to join the gods in the afterlife.
Westmore limped forward. “It is a shame such a fine fighter as yourself should die alone and in such a manner. Such a waste. I could have done great things with you in my army.”
“I welcome death rather than fight for you.” A metallic tasting ooze lingered on his lips. “So finish it!” He was dying. There was no sense in prolonging it. Rather than swallow the blood, Marek spit it at the Engel. He furiously kicked his legs, shocked to realize they wouldn’t move. He must accept the fate that lay unwelcome before him.
Westmore stood to tower above Marek. Reaching down, he gripped the handle of his dagger and wrenched it from the highlander’s body, lengthening the gash before wiping the blade on Marek’s tunic. “You’re bleeding, you know.” Westmore chuckled. “You should see to that.” Then the Engel left Marek to die.
Warmth oozed from Marek’s wounds, trickling to the softening mud below. He wouldn’t allow himself to die this morning, not when that man still lived and breathed. He refused it. He would not die.
He sighed. If only he had the choice.
Marek sat alone, left to suffer a slow, agonizing death as his wounds refused to clot. His legs grew numb from the heavy weight staunching the blood flow to the lower half of his body. Thankfully, the burning building behind him had fizzled out long before it had the chance to claim him. Marek focused on memories he could recall in his scattered thoughts, but soon his vision grew too weak to focus any longer and the world around him tunneled into blackness.
Unable to keep himself conscious, his body went limp, defeated.
Chapter Fifteen
Fallen Angels
Ronan paced the ground.
The sun had risen well above the horizon before the people of Cairn started retrieving the bodies of their dead. Those that made it to safety before the attack returned to their homes only to find those who resisted were missing or hanging from rafters. The death toll in Cairn was high, but for reasons unknown, the Engel raiding party retreated.
Six Highland warriors herded together near the tree line, waiting for their leader and further instruction. Marek had always returned victorious; how could he not have shown himself by now? The Archaeans voiced their concerns — had he been defeated by the Engel?
Trudging up the hill were Aiden and Gavin, dragging several bundles of weapons and armor.
“What?” Gavin shrugged, dropping his cargo at Ronan’s feet. “They won’t be needing it again.”
“Aiden, have you seen Marek?” Ronan questioned.
Aiden paused, wiping his brow. “I lost him after the Engels charged last night. I assumed he was with you.”
A lump rose in Ronan’s throat. “Did he… fall?”
“I cannot be sure. We parted ways.”
“Marek w
ould not fall to an Engel,” Gavin scoffed. “It is unthinkable.”
“Let us spread out, leave nothing unturned. We must find him.”
~~~~
“Marek.” She smiled, gently caressing his soiled cheek with her palm. “Marek…” She whispered his name time and time again.
His eyes fluttered and he tried to focus, but the bright morning sun nearly made it impossible to see her shadowed face.
“Stay with me, Marek. The gods do not need you yet.” Her voice was the sweet music his lonely heart longed for. “Marek,” she called to him, rousing him from the cusp of unconsciousness. “They do not need you — I do, Marek. Stay alive. Find me.”
He muttered her name incoherently, desperately trying to gaze upon her beautiful face.
“Shh… I’m here,” she comforted. “Stay with me, Marek.” The woman leaned over his battered body to kiss his forehead before disappearing in between two passing shadows.
A gust of wind cooled his burning skin, carrying with it the hint of heather and lilac, arousing his senses. He heard voices — they were deep and Archaean. Had he finally passed over? Was his Brynn dead as well? Would he now spend his afterlife in a continuous search for her? No, the voices were drawing closer and speaking of Cairn. He was still alive. How, then, had he seen an angel?
“Found another one. Doesn’t look promising, lads,” said a man as he passed Marek. “Such a shame, is not it? If only we were warned of this. Give me a hand, will you?” The Cairn warrior sighed deeply before fishing out another casualty.
As Marek’s body was cleared from the ruble, the warrior paused. “Ronan…” he called. “I found your brother.”
“Let me pass!” Ronan thrust his fingers to Marek’s neck, searching for a pulse. Not finding one, Ronan promptly hushed the others and pressed his ear over Marek’s heart. “Come on,” he muttered, changing positions.
