by Tim Marquitz
“The beasts will be here soon.” Lamia gestures to the snarls echoing in the woods surrounding the village.
“They smell the dead.” Mordon wipes the blood from his cheek, its wet warmth smeared dry. “Vorum, go with the men. Have them drag the bodies into the forest. Let the beasts gorge themselves away from our eyes.”
“And what of the chieftain?” Lamia asks.
“What of him?” Mordon steps into the straw hut, amused to find Azara lying on the ground, his hands and feet bound with tattered ropes.
“We have no need for him.”
“Yes, but I enjoy his suffering.” Mordon kicks Azara in the stomach. He wheezes, coughing up spit.
“Kill him and get it over with.”
“Not yet.” Mordon kneels next to Azara, grabbing his long, tangled hair and pulls. “I gave his wife and sons merciful deaths. I took their heads clean.” Mordon slashes the air with his hand. “Was that not kind of me?” He pushes Azara’s face into the dirt.
Pthu. Azara blows the dirt off his lips. “A clan full of cowards.”
Mordon grins. “Look how innocent they act, as if they’ve never spilt blood before.” Mordon bounces the chieftain’s face off the ground. “No,” he says standing up. “The Terradon have a history of brutality that exceeds our own.”
“You speak of days before your people, the Korzak, cursed Britannia.”
“Cursed?” Mordon smiles. “This land emanates fear and hardship. That is nothing new.”
“You brought the void.”
“We brought order and united the tribes.” Mordon draws his long sword. “Where were you when the Gauls attacked the coast? Where were you when Picts invaded from the North?” Azara doesn’t answer. “Here is the true face of a coward.” Mordon presses the tip of his blade against the chieftain’s cheek. “When Britannia needed her warriors, the Terradon were nowhere to be found.”
“Those wars did not fall this far west.”
“Your excuses only prove your weakness.” Mordon pushes the blade through Azara’s cheek and into the ground. The metal chips the chieftain’s teeth and severs his tongue but does not kill him.
Azara squirms, kicking up dust. He moans, his eyes swelling with tears.
“Just let me kill him.” Lamia raises her axe.
“No.” Mordon shoves her. “I decide when he dies.”
“Mordon!” Vorum barges into the hut. “We found a traveler.”
“So? Dispose of him.”
“He wears the same clothes as the merchant.”
Mordon jerks his head. “Where is he?”
“Out near the woods.”
“The two of you wait outside.”
Lamia and Vorum leave the hut.
Mordon squats. He picks up the bloodied tongue and wags it in Azara’s face. “You know, you might think this ends with death.” He tosses the tongue aside. “But you’re wrong.” He sits up. Grasping the hilt, he yanks out the sword. Blood leaks from the wound. “The void beckons for your soul.”
The chieftain’s eyes roll over in terror. He gurgles, unable to cry for help.
Mordon steps on the man’s chest, holding him still. He places the blade in Azara’s mouth. “My father will not be as lenient.” He leans down. The tip cracks the vertebrae, snapping the head from the spine and killing the chieftain.
Mordon withdraws his sword and steps outside without looking back.
“This way,” Vorum says, leading them to the outskirts of the village.
“You monster!” A young girl spits on Mordon.
Lamia swings, smashing the girl’s nose and front teeth with the broadside of her axe. She falls on her back, her face mangled from the blow. The Korzak men laugh and cheer. Lamia grabs the girl’s dark hair and drags her to her knees.
Mordon wipes the saliva from his well-kept beard. “You are Analise, daughter of Azara.”
Her eyes swell, the pain of her loss mirrored in her tears.
Mordon sees her dress is torn. Blood runs down her inner thighs. “Have you enjoyed my men?” Mordon smirks.
Analise presses her dress to her crotch. “Rabid dogs, that’s all you are.”
“Pick her up.”
Vorum and Lamia raise her to her feet.
Mordon sticks his sword in the ground. “Your axe,” he demands of Lamia. She hands it to him.
“Mother,” she cries, her strength fading with her sorrow. Lamia sighs and looks away.
“Oh, child.” Mordon steps back. “You will see her soon.” He hauls back and swings, striking the girl in the stomach. The axe hacks into her flesh with a thud.
They drop her on her knees. Analise grovels in pain, clutching her wound.
“Dump her in the woods.” Mordon instructs two of his men.
“She’s not dead yet.” Lamia wrestles her axe from her brother. “At least finish what you started.”
“Fine.” He looks over at the men. “Pull out her entrails.”
The men reach into her wound, tugging at her intestines.
“Stop.” Analise pleads, her sobs bellowing in Lamia’s ear.
“Enough,” Lamia orders, but they do not listen. Their laughter cascading Analise’s suffering. “I said enough!” Lamia cracks one of the men in the temple with the haft of her axe. The blow gives separation between the two, and without hesitation, she crushes the girl’s skull.
“Weak.” Mordon shakes his head.
“She’s dead.” Lamia stares at the gray chunks stuck to Analise’s hair. “What difference does it make?”
“You felt for the girl.” Mordon walks pass her. “That is the difference.”
III
The man trembles. His hands are secured to his waist, a victim of bad timing.
“What is your name, traveler?” Mordon asks.
“Alistar.”
“Well, Alistar, tell me why you are here?”
“For trade,” he explains. “I have furs in the sash your men took from me.”
“Another merchant.” Mordon sits and crosses his legs. He looks at the man’s clothing; baggy brown pants and a red tunic. Just like the old drunk, he thinks. He even has familiar facial features. A son or nephew perhaps?
Mordon leans forward. “You are not from these parts, are you?”
Alistar shakes his head.
“What tribe do you hail from?”
“The Coriondi.”
“Ireland?” Vorum asks.
The man does not answer.
Mordon grabs his face. “How many more of your people have come this far?”
His lips squished, he mutters, “I don’t know.”
“But they have?”
“Yes.”
Mordon releases his grip.
“Answer me this. What do you know of a seer?”
“The seer? You’re joking.” Alistar looks surprised. “No one seeks out the old crone.”
“Then you know where she is?”
“Yes, but—”
“Tell me!” Mordon grows impatient.
“A small island near my home,” he explains. “But no one dares to step foot on it.”
“Why?” Lamia asks.
“Fear,” Mordon answers.
“She’s not of this world.” The merchant confesses. “She’s plagued by the spirits.”
“Superstitious bastard.” Vorum kicks him. Alistar topples onto his shoulder.
“If you avoid the island, how do you know she is there?” Lamia asks.
Cringing, he says, “It’s not far from the shore. Sometimes we can see her fishing on the beach.”
Mordon crawls over to Alistar. “Where is your tribe?”
“Our lands are in the southeast.”
“Thank you.” Mordon pats him on the cheek. He presses down and uses Alistar’s body to lift himself up.
“What now?” Vorum asks.
“Let the men rest here for the night.”
“And him?”
“Kill him.”
“Wait. Wait,” The man begs.
“Up you go now.” Vorum drags the merchant to his knees.
“I can guide you.”
Vorum pauses. “What do you think?”
Mordon shakes his head.
Before Alistar can plead any further, Vorum lifts his head and slits his throat. He gasps for air and is dead within seconds.
Mordon stares at the corpse. It wavers before falling into a bed of autumn leaves.
“Get food and sleep,” he tells his siblings. “In the morning we head northwest.”
IV
Strong winds press against leather sails, propelling the solid oak vessel through cold, unforgiving waters with the aid of hired mariners. Only Mordon, Vorum, and Lamia have boarded the ship, the remaining Korzak warriors left behind on the shores.
It is late afternoon and the sun begins to set. The sky glows orange in the west, yet darkens in the east. The void follows, giving the falsehood of night. It stretches from the east, a fragment of what the world was before the rule of gods and goddesses, a realm of creatures and demons.
Mordon can sense the void encroaching. He looks at his hands. His blood tingles, scratching at his veins. A reminder of the bond they share.
“Anchor here,” he orders the captain. “We’ll row the rest of the way.”
“If the seer weren’t death wish enough, you dare test these waters on your own.”
“Just lower the boat.”
“As you wish.” The captain waves to his men. “Drop the long boat.”
Roped at each end, the mariners lower the boat over the side. Mordon and his siblings use carved out notches to climb down the side of the ship. One by one, they jump. Mordon and Vorum untie the ropes and use the oars to push off. Lamia sits at the bow holding a lit torch soaked in pitch.
“See it?” Mordon points. “That’s the island the merchant spoke of.”
“You’re sure?” Lamia asks.
Mordon nods.
“Dark waters and no sunlight.” Vorum submerges his paddle in the water.
“Just keep north,” Mordon says. “We’ll reach it before the void.”
Mordon and Vorum row in stride. The bright flame flutters in the winter wind, swaying back and forth. Lamia presses her coat made of wolf hide and fur close to her breasts, blocking out the chill.
“This woman must be mad to live out on that little island,” Vorum says.
“She’s a master of the elements. The winter wind and the frigid waters only indulge her senses.” Mordon gasps in between strokes.
“What makes you think she won’t kill us?” Lamia asks, the island shore growing closer.
“I don’t.” Mordon thrusts the oars into the water.
“The children of Cain will not be subdued by an old wretch.” Vorum barks.
“We shall see.” Mordon lifts his oars allowing the long boat to guide onto the shore.
The boat slides to a halt. Lamia jumps from the bow, her boots indenting the wet sand. Her brothers climb over the sides, splashing the water. Together, they heave as one, pulling the flat-bottomed boat up the shore, free from the currents.
“Now what?” Lamia asks.
“We follow the road.” Mordon pushes her arm forward, illuminating a dirt path leading up to the woods.
“We are not familiar with this territory,” Lamia cautions. “Would it not be wise to let the crone come to us?”
Mordon shakes his head. “We go now.”
“I agree.” Vorum reaches into the boat to retrieve their weapons: two long swords and one war axe.
“You’d agree to eat horseshit if he told you to.” Lamia takes her axe.
“He’s Father’s first, therefore father speaks through him, so I don’t question his authority.” He hands Mordon his sword. “Though I hope eating shit is not in tonight’s supper plans,” Vorum jokes, laughing to himself.
Mordon doesn’t react. He glares at a bevy of ash and birch. His shoulder length white hair sticks to his beard. His narrow lips, dry and broken from the winter air, part just enough for him to breathe.
“She’s out there.” He grins. “I can feel her.”
“But where?” Lamia steps onto the path.
“It’s not a very big island. The woods can’t be that dense.”
Vorum snatches the torch from Lamia’s hand. “Into the forest we go, then.”
“By all means.” She moves aside. “Be first to die.”
“We don’t have time for your fucking quarreling,” Mordon scolds them. “Now move.” He pushes Vorum.
His brother staggers forward. Mordon follows. Lamia, hesitant, keeps a short distance behind them. Arrogant fools, she thinks. This is what the seer wants.
The path leading to the woods stretches only a few hundred feet from where they landed, before coming to an abrupt end.
“Where’s the road?” Lamia asks.
“Hidden,” Mordon answers. “Closed off from intruders.”
“But the trees?” Vorum asks.
“She moved them,” Lamia explains. “Just like Mordon said, she controls the elements.”
“Maybe we should wait?” Vorum steps away.
Mordon grabs his sleeve. “She might control this realm, but let’s see how powerful she is when the void reaches us.”
“That is hours from now.”
“Are you telling me you’re afraid of an old woman?”
“No, but—”
“Then stop wasting time.”
“Right.” Vorum squeezes between the trees first, holding the torch high.
“After you.” Mordon waits for his sister to pass.
“Afraid I will run?” she asks, stepping into the woods.
“Yes.”
Lamia clinches her axe. “You mistake my caution for weakness.”
“Your prudent behavior is reckless in itself. You ignore what has been given to us.”
“A curse.”
“How can you say that?” Mordon asks, surprised. “We are the children of a god.”
“Some would call us butchers.”
“To our enemies we may appear that way, but not to our allies. We give them order and protection, and for that, they worship our father.”
“They don’t know him.”
“Soon, they will.”
“Granted the seer helps us,” Vorum adds.
“We’ll persuade her,” Mordon replies.
“I doubt threatening her will result in useful answers.” Lamia climbs over a stump.
“Wait.” Vorum raises his hand.
“Do you see something?” Mordon stares at the darkness.
“Do you hear that?” Vorum asks. “The waves crashing against the shore.”
Lamia stands still, silencing the ruffling of leaves under her boots. She listens, her head poised back in the direction from which they came. “I don’t hear anything.” She says with a look of surprise of her face.
Mordon peers up at the trees, listening for even the slightest sound. “Is it not strange that even the nocturnal creatures appear to be silent?”
“Silent!” Vorum whacks his own ear. “Are you fucking deaf?”
“What are you talking about?” Lamia asks.
“Make it stop!” Vorum drops to his knees, clawing at his forehead.
“Get up.” Mordon pulls at his brother’s coat.
Vorum falls to one side. His weight nearly takes Mordon with him.
The torch lands on a pile of leaves and dried twigs. Lamia is quick to grab it before they ignite.
“I said get up.” Mordon kicks him. Vorum drools and snores loudly.
Mordon goes to kick him again but Lamia intervenes. “Enough! He’s unconscious.”
“Then we leave him and keep moving.”
“To where?” Lamia asks. “Further into the woods.”
“I will walk from one end of this island to the other until I find her.”
“Don’t you see, big brother, we’re trapped.”
“Not necessarily.” An old woman’s rasp catches their e
ars. “You just need to remember your way home.”
An opening appears to their right, a random circle amid the trees. Tree sap crackles. A fire dances in the center, the silhouette of a woman seen sitting behind it.
“The seer.” Mordon grins.
Entranced, they leave their brother behind.
The campfire roars tall, the woman’s outline visible to them through the flames. They walk around, only to find a rotted log.
Mordon steps on the piece of timber, the weight of his boot snapping it in the center. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t like this.” Lamia steps back.
“Then you should not have ventured here, lass.”
Lamia stands motionless. The warm breath of the crone crawls along her neck. The woman latches on to her shoulders with bony fingers and jagged nails. She presses down with force, pinching the skin under her coat. Lamia winces but dares not to strike back. The blue tint in Lamia’s eyes reflects in the light of the fire. She begs for help without whispering a word. Mordon stares but refrains from any attempt to free her.
The seer’s pupils, trapped inside a milky haze, envelop Mordon. Her wrinkled hands tighten with her grip. “You should not be here.”
“We’ve spent months searching for you.”
She loosens her hold on Lamia and shoves her away.
“I did not ask for your company.”
“Though now you have it,” Mordon says.
“That I do.” The seer smiles, her lips parting from the grime coating her teeth. “Minus one, of course.”
“You’re the one who got inside our brother’s head.” Lamia’s callused palm stiffens with her grip, her axe held tightly.
“That fat hairy beast?” She laughs, the skin jiggling under chin. “I thought you brought an ogre into my woods.”
“Wake him up.” Mordon scowls, the muscles strain in his jaw.
“No” She steps closer, the steam from her breath clinging to his coat.
Mordon turns away, the stench of rot waters his eyes. The seer presses against him, her stained robe sinking into his fur leggings.
She runs her hand up his coat, snatching his face and pulling it down. “Do I repulse you?”
Mordon slaps her hand away. “Yes.”
“You’re a shameful creature.” She walks away, the silver strands in her long, knotted hair, shimmering in the light of the fire. “A beast resembling a man.”
