by Tim Marquitz
“Walk away and you may yet survive,” he told them, but there was no conviction to his voice, the words hollow even to his own ears. His legs trembled beneath him and his hands shook, knuckles pale as he held the spear aloft, its point wavering. Thaedus’s blow had done more harm Gryl had been willing to admit.
“That’s not going to happen, boy, and you know it,” Thaedus said, motioning for his men to surround Gryl. “Your scalp is worth fifty gold, dross, and we mean to collect every shaved coin of it.” He motioned to the fallen southerner with his chin, loosing a phlegmy chuckle. “Looks like you just made the split even nicer, too. I guess I’ll thank your corpse for that.”
Gryl ignored him and stared past the circling mercenaries to see the old priest herding the children from the church. He watched as they hurried down the steps and vanished around the burning building, then let out a weary sigh. At least they were safe. He brought his gaze back to Thaedus.
“So be it.”
The men had caught him unaware as he slept in an abandoned barn not far from the village of Caesins. Exhausted as he was from his journey from the north he hadn’t noticed Thaedus and the others camped in the woods nearby, but they had noticed him. They’d likely only meant to rob him at first, but their plans changed the moment they came across him sprawled in the rotting straw, his leathern breastplate and rumpled tunic set beside him. His scars had given him away, and their desire for cruelty had offered Gryl the opportunity to escape. He’d taken it, for all the good it had done him. The men were all around him now, closing in.
“That’s it, Avan, go on and fight us. The bounty didn’t say nothing about the condition of your body, just so long as the wardens can tell you are what you are,” Thaedus said. “I figure all we need is your head. All them scars oughta be proof enough.”
“Get `em,” one of the men called out from behind, stomping his foot and sending up a cloud of dust, but Gryl knew better than to fall for the feint.
He spun and jammed the spear into the chest of another man who’d been foolish enough to obey the order, the scuff of his boots on the packed dirt giving away his intentions. He grunted as the spearhead slipped between his ribs and sank into his lung, driven deeper by his forward motion. There was a muffled clunk as Gryl twisted the blade, and he cursed under his breath as he felt the shaft vibrate against his palms. He’d caught the man’s spine, wedging the spearhead inside him.
Thaedus gave him no chance to work it loose.
His mace thudded against Gryl’s shoulder, missing his head by mere inches as he ducked aside. Bone crunched, and Gryl scrambled behind the falling mercenary for cover. As he did, he freed the sword from the sheath of the dead man with his one remaining arm. The other swung limply at his side while he stumbled back to put some distance between him and Thaedus.
Another of the men came at him first. Gryl gritted his teeth and met the mercenary’s sword with his own, steel ringing out. For all the torment he’d suffered at the hands of his Avan Seer mistress, right then he was grateful to her. While his primary hand dangled from his useless arm, he felt no more than the barest of tingles despite his shattered shoulder. Myr Eltara had bled the pain from him but better still, she had trained him to be deadly with all of his limbs.
Gryl parried a second blow and pushed it aside, twisting his wrist at the last instant, slipping inside the man’s guard. The mercenary’s eyes went wide as Gryl drew the sword across his throat. Blood spewed from the wound and Gryl ducked beneath it to keep from being blinded as the torrent coated him in cloying red. Cloaked in the life of his enemy, he spun to meet Thaedus.
“I’ll kill you!” the man screamed, his mace whistling through the air but his fury had made him careless.
Gryl slipped the blow and lashed out with one of his own, slicing a shallow gash in Thaedus’s forearm. The man growled but didn’t stop swinging. The mace came about and struck Gryl in the side with a meaty thump.
“Gonna take more than that, dross,” Thaedus shouted and delivered another blow to Gryl’s chest, driving him back toward the last of the mercenaries. The air spilled fetid from his lungs and he could taste copper in the back of his throat. His chest burned inside. Thaedus moved in, clutching his mace in both hands. Gryl sidestepped the raging mercenary only to have his wounded leg give way beneath his weight.
It saved his life.
Thaedus’s mace tore through the air above, where Gryl’s skull would have been had he not toppled and fallen to his knees. The man staggered past, struggling to rein in his momentum and regain his balance. Gryl forced himself to his feet to meet the last of Thaedus’s men. Steel clashed, and Gryl could feel his endurance fading. The mercenary pushed him back, blow after blow ringing in his ears and sending shockwaves through his weary, uncooperative body. That was when he spied Thaedus returning to finish what he’d started in the barn, froth bubbling from the corners of his mouth. Time had run out.
Gryl turned the mercenary’s blow to his left and forced his injured shoulder about in a circle. Shards of bone ground inside the joint as his limp arm whipped through the air and crashed into the mercenary’s face. It struck with a loud slap. The man stumbled, more in surprise than pain, but it was enough. Gryl shifted the other way and drove his stolen sword into the man’s stomach until the hilt sunk flush. The man glared at him and she sunk to his knees, clutching at the blade inside him. Gryl knocked the man over with a short kick, hoping the weight of him would free the sword where Gryl’s strength had failed. It held fast.
And then Thaedus was on him again, flailing madly.
The mace caught Gryl in the side, and he felt something give way but there was no time to consider it. A second strike collided with his thigh, just above the knee. There was a wet crack, the sound of a branch torn from a tree in a storm, and Gryl dropped to his back, sharp splinters of white protruding from his leg. Despite himself, he cried out, his good hand clutching to the wound. Wisps of light danced in his vision while Thaedus came to stand over him, a grim smile on his stained lips.
“You’ve made me a rich man, dross,” he said with a hoarse chuckle. “I’ll raise a tankard to you after the wardens hand me your bounty. First though,” he tossed his mace aside and clenched his fists, knuckles popping, “I’m gonna take the death of my men out on your miserable, Avan hide.” Thaedus dropped onto Gryl’s stomach, pinning him to the ground, and struck him in the face. Blood splattered as Thaedus rained down punch after punch, laughing wildly as he did. It was only when Gryl gurgled something he couldn’t understand that he paused.
“What’s that, dross? Are you begging for your life?” Thaedus asked, his grin growing even wider. Dots of crimson spotted his teeth.
Gryl stared at him through swollen eyes and swallowed the blood and bile that filled his mouth. “You…should…” he started, his voice a ragged whisper.
Thaedus leaned in. “Louder, boy. I can’t hear you.”
Gryl shuddered and let out an agonized grunt that did little to cover the brittle crunch at his thigh.
Thaedus stiffened. “What are you—?”
Gryl brought his arm around, clutching to a sliver of bone he’d ripped loose from his thigh. He jammed it into Thaedus’s eye. The man shrieked and fell to the side, clawing at his wound, seeking purchase on the shard buried in his skull. Gryl dragged himself to his knees while Thaedus thrashed about and flopped over on the mercenary, using his weight to hold the man down.
“…should talk…less.”
Darkness gnawing at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to steal the last of the light, Gryl slammed his forehead into Thaedus’s injured eye, driving the bone sliver deeper into his brain. The mercenary twitched and went rigid, and Gryl’s head drooped as he struggled to do it again, his neck unable to hold it aloft any longer. His ear pressed against Thaedus’s mouth, he heard the man breathe his last, a gurgled, sad epitaph, and then he was gone. Gryl knew he would soon follow.
He sank against the deflated corpse beneath him, the last of his co
nsciousness seeping away like the blood from his wounds. Too weak to resist the pull of oblivion, he resigned himself to sleep until death came to collect him.
However, fate offered him no reprieve.
Rough hands pulled him to his back and dumped him in the dirt. He cursed the interruption of his last moments, his words empty murmurs, and stared through the narrow slits of his eyes until he could make out the old priest hovering above him. The children from the church stood at the man’s shoulders, watching as Gryl slipped away. Uncertainty and fear still glistened in their eyes, but they’d chosen to follow the priest regardless his destination, coming to Gryl’s side as he faded. He took solace in their courage and offered up a bloody smile before surrendering to the weight that pressed against his eyes.
The blackness took him then.
Clandestine Daze
Chapter One of Eyes Deep
There’s a war coming.
At least that’s what I’ve been told. I needed to believe it was true, otherwise the boss was about to make me do something real stupid for nothing.
“Don’t kill me.” The handsome fellow on his knees with the pretentious name was Theodor Alistair Crane, but most everyone called him Theo, which was good. Didn’t make it much less pretentious but at least I could say it without feeling the unnatural urge to lift my pinky in the air every time I took a drink. “I have a family. My wife’s pregnant, damn it!”
“I know,” I told him. All that only made it harder to do what I had to, but it didn’t stop me from putting a gun to his head. What does that say about me?
“I have money!” he blurted out, his hazel eyes piercing against the backdrop of his tanned face. “You can have it all, just let me go.”
Next was when he’d tell me he’s a powerful man, that he’s connected. That he could snap his fingers and make shit happen. I knew that, too. It’s why I lured him to the box car cemetery and put a bullet in each of his legs so he couldn’t run away. He would’ve realized all that if he shut his mouth for a second.
“Please.” The word had a sharp edge to it. The shock of what had happened was wearing off. He was almost done begging. Next he’d start to threaten. He’d tell me his associates are bad men who’d find me and make me suffer if I hurt him. There wouldn’t be any place I could hide, they’d hunt me down and gut me, butcher my family and friends, my hair dresser, etcetera ad nauseam. None of that was going to happen, though.
I pulled the trigger and painted the shipping container in shades of red and gray.
Once the echo of the shot faded, and I could hear something besides the blood rushing in my ears, I tossed the gun aside and dropped down beside the still twitching body. That’s when the fun started.
The top of his skull a fractured egg, I reached out and cupped the back of his head, peeling him off the floor while trying not to gag. I’d forgotten how bad the insides of humans smell. The air rattled in my chest as I stared at the sloppy mess in my hand. I drew in a deep breath and leaned in close, the raw scent of blood and brains stinging my nose. It was now or never. I hated doing this.
My knife out, I wedged it into his eye socket and worked it around in a careful circle several times, the orb slipping loose with a wet squish. It leaked down his face like an angry snail. I snatched it up and slipped the thing into my mouth before I could think about it too much. My stomach roiled as the eyeball touched my tongue and damn near revolted when I bit down and chewed. Swallowing was going to be the hard part, but I’d come this far. I was committed. And with a hard gulp, it was all over.
Or more correctly, it had only just begun.
#
Outside the shipping container, the air was clearer, the smell of fresh death locked away behind a wall of corrugated steel. My deed was out of sight if never out of mind. Theodor would live on in my nightmares, but he’d have to get in line.
I took a hard drag off a cigarette and let the smoke settle in my lungs, its bitter warmth a reminder of a habit I was going to have to let go. I wasn’t me anymore, whoever the hell that was. No, from then on, I was Theodor Alistair Crane—God help anyone who dared to string those three names together in my presence—and Theodor didn’t smoke. At least the guy wasn’t a teetotaler. I’d have to kill him again for stupid shit like that.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I plucked it out with a trembling hand that fumbled the buttons. Every movement was like crawling through mud. I hurt. Bad. A side effect of the change that twisted my body all out of sorts to turn me into Theodor.
I’ll be there in a minute.
Jace’s text stared at me from the phone’s screen, just one more confirmation that it was too late to turn back. Whatever misgivings I had about assuming Theodor’s life meant shit all now. There was no running away from the mission. I was him, for good or ill, until the job was done.
I slid my phone back into my pocket amongst Theodor’s keys and personal effects, feeling the weight of them all the sudden. They were my own personal albatross. I took another hit off the cig and held it in until the crunch of Jace’s tires sounded on the dirt. It’d been two hours since I pulled the trigger. Long enough for me to regret it a dozen times over, but what’s a side order of ulcers on top of a heaping plateful of fried guilt?
With a reluctant sigh, I let the smoke out and tossed the cigarette at my feet, then stomped it out. Like the gun and body inside, my old fingerprints scattered everywhere, it didn’t matter. As soon as I hopped in Jace’s car and we pulled away, I knew a cleanup crew would show up to make the mess vanish. No body, no evidence, no questions: no crime.
The Mercedes S-Class pulled up alongside me and the passenger door swung open without a sound. I just stood there. As much as I knew my hesitance was a feeble act of rebellion with only one conclusion—my compliance—I grasped at it like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. To her credit, Jace got it. Her dark eyes stared out at me with stoic patience, first confirming it was really me—something only she’d been able to do, hence her position—and then waiting for me to get the kiddy angst out of my system. We’d been here enough times before, her and I. It always ended the same way.
I got in the car.
The door shut behind me, I sunk into the heated seat while Jace wheeled us away, the soft scent of vanilla and oiled leather welcoming me as if we were out for a leisurely Sunday cruise. I ran my hand through the wild mop of my new hair and settled in for the ride.
Then she ruined it by talking.
“It’s getting easier, Z,” she said, using her pet name for me while tapping her watch, her accent as cultured as her car.
I glanced over at her. A flicker of a smile played across her full lips, her caramel cheeks suffused with her amusement. I could always count on her for compassion.
“Do we have to do this now?” I asked, not wanting to discuss my eroding morality. It was bad enough I killed an innocent guy because the boss said it had to happen, but I really didn’t want to dwell on the details.
She chuckled, a low throaty thing that would have come across threatening if I hadn’t known better. She was just feral, plain and simple.
And with that, we drove off into the red haze of the distant sunrise. Wasn’t much point in looking back. There was nothing but blood and ash that way.
Likely a whole bunch of that ahead, too.
Keep reading to find a new favorite author!
Dying Days: Noah Stern
Armand Rosamilia
Taken from Still Dying: Select Scenes from Dying Days
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida, where he writes when he's not sleeping. He's written over 100 stories that are currently available, including a few different series: "Dying Days" extreme zombie series, "Keyport Cthulhu" horror series, "Flagler Beach Fiction Series" contemporary fiction, "Metal Queens" non-fiction music series.
He also loves to talk in third person... because he's really that cool. He's a proud Active member of HWA as well. You can find him at http:
//armandrosamilia.com for not only his latest releases but interviews and guest posts with other authors he likes! And e-mail him to talk about zombies, baseball and Metal: [email protected]
It was time for a new tire iron. Noah tossed the bent, bloody one in his hands over the counter and walked out of the Cracker Barrel with his finds in six plastic shopping bags.
The parking lot was filled with cars besides the police cruiser he'd used to get here. He wasn't a cop, but he loved driving like one.
Noah was also partial to the police-issue shotgun each car had. Eighteen of them were neatly stacked in the trunk right now, but he needed a new tire iron.
Tabitha was sleeping in the backseat with the windows cracked, wrapped up in a thin blanket and nothing else.
When he opened the door and put the bags on the floor near her she stirred, stretched her arms and smiled at him.
"Put some clothes on," he muttered.
"Why? You don't seem interested."
"What if we get attacked? I killed three of them things in the restaurant. What if more were out here?"
She shrugged and wrapped herself in the sheet. "I don't know if I'd really care at this point."
"Well, decide if you want to live or die before I start the car."
Tabitha grinned. "Why?"
"I could use the room for food and stuff."
"I could just kiss you, Noah. Kiss you all over," she said and fumbled for her shirt on the seat. "Did you bring me anything?"
"Don't I always?" It was part of the game: he'd find a new place to raid and make sure he found something unique inside for her.
