by Pete Kahle
In the Low Countries, where children had been crucified in the name of God, he had heard whisperings, mutterings from the superstitious ones who believed only demons could inflict such barbarity upon a human being. A professional soldier scorned such fancy, knew only too well what a man – and indeed, a woman - was capable of.
This war between the King and the Parliament has been comparatively free from atrocity. That would change now.
There was no denying the unholy butchery that he heard behind him. Impalement, a technique that had reached its infamy in the Wallachian states under Prince Vlad over two hundred years ago. Since then, a favoured means of execution amongst these spirits of war, spirits that stripped every semblance of humanity from those engaged in battle.
There was no denying what faced him. The trooper stood still, motionless save for the writhing of the baby’s skin-sash.
“The Wrathful Ones,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “So, you do exist.”
“You know of us.”
He swallowed, felt fresh sweat break on his brow and chill in the cold mist that caressed his skin. He heard the sounds of a hole chopped out of the ground behind him. It would not be long before he took his own place amongst the impaled ones.
“How did you come?” The words came to him unbidden, a soldier’s fast reflexes powering speech in an attempt to prolong his life. “What brought you here?”
Its gauntlet indicated the sash and the screaming face of the child. “Your enemy made the offering.”
“Impossible!” Lambert took a sharp breath. “None would perform such an abomination! They are English soldiers, they fight with honour! You lie, demon.”
The soughing became a laugh. “You do underestimate your enemy, Captain! Not all fight with pike and musket... not all differentiate between regiment and rank. King or Parliament, Catholic or Protestant... the cause, the standard under which the battle is fought... it matters not to us. To she who summoned us, maybe. But not to us.”
“She?”
Unseen hands pulled him to the ground and held him, pinned by wrists and knees to the cold mud. Staring up at the moonlit clouds, Lambert saw the bodies of his former comrades, writhing upon their pikes. He felt the sting of a blade cut into his breeches.
“She summoned us... but it is human wrath that keeps us with you. We have waited long for this war. We will turn the fields and towns of your country into the same Hell we turned the Low Countries.”
The pain ceased. He held his breath, each second an eternity as he waited for the agonising incision that would precede impalement. He finally opened his eyes.
The three harquebusiers stood before him. The farthest one held in his formless hands the wobbling hunk of meat that had been Meekings’ torso. Its companion held aloft the butchered remnants of the ensign. Apart from the fat of the former, the two torsos were remarkably alike in the ferocity that had been visited upon them. Now they were held side by side, and Lambert saw the injuries were identical. The limbs had been severed at exactly the same junctures, the ribcages crushed and piercing the flesh.
The empty, faceless helmets with their impenetrable darkness inclined towards Lambert, regarding him. The only movement of the Wrathful Ones was the shifting of their hide-sashes in the breeze, the sobbing and keening of the impaled soldiers the only sound upon the battlefield. Even the carrion crows had fled.
“You did this?”
“Aye. What of it?”
“You butchered within your own ranks? You succumbed to the rage?”
Dread settled in Lambert’s gut as the Wrathful One brandished the torso of Meekings. Clotted blood fell in lumps through the mist. By God’s hooks, he thought with self-hatred. Aye, I did succumb to the rage. He suspected what was to follow, and knew it would be worse than impalement
The empty helmets turned inwards. Silent conferring.
Then hands reached for him. Pulled him to his feet.
“You will come with us.”
“You lie, woman! No-one would do such a thing to a man, let alone a child. There - ”
Her head shot round and her eyes blazed. “You know nothing of battle, Master Matthew! How little you know of your own comrades, and what they are capable of!”
This does not feel right, he thought, regarding her with a cold – yet fearful – appraisal. Her loathing of my comrades seems... false. In truth, what is she really?
Wood crackled in the fires by each of the doors. An occasional flame reared higher than the others and licked the stones of the nave, but no gusts of wind caused this. Now he had begun to recover from the horrific sights outside, he was more aware of his surroundings.
Yes, we did smash all the pews. But to make cots from, to sleep upon. Where are they now? I see naught but firewood.
The “Leaguer Ladies” had come here nightly, to offer their services to the men. He had partaken – who had not? – and this very morning there had been signs of their habitation. Indeed, some of them had still been abed when their clients rose and readied for battle.
Now, nothing. A log slipped from a cluster of smaller sticks on the nearest fire. His nostrils wrinkled with the smell of burning fat and skin, and...
‘Tis no log! He stared at the charred stick that had fallen, no longer held to the blackened ribcage now the tendons had burned away. He looked back to the Leaguer Lady. She smiled.
“When you fight a war you have many enemies, Master Matthew. Enemies you do not always see... enemies you do not realise you had made.” Her smile hardened. “Your comrades paid the price for what they did to my people in Ireland. For what they did to me here.”
Revulsion filled him more than fear. He saw the size of the bones in the fire, how small they were. “For your people? Or for yourself? And what price did you pay for your vengeance, Máire? The children, the wives you offered to these... these things. What did they do to deserve being dragged into your war?”
“’Deserve’ has naught to do with it.” She moved forwards to kick the child’s femur back into the fire. It roared at the disturbance, before settling down quietly to feed. Her emerald eyes gleamed in the firelight as she turned back to Matthew. “But why did they spare you? You were a’slumber when they did hoist your comrades into the sky. Mayhap they have a fate far worse in store for you…”
The fire roared once more, but Máire’s smile was frozen. This time, air fed the flames. Air from the doorway of the nave, carried by the four new arrivals and their burdens.
Matthew Collier stared in horror. The man in the centre of the group looked familiar, an infantry captain on the Royalist side. His facial scars and cold grey eyes spoke of an experienced – and disillusioned -soldier.
The captain lifted his head and stared at Matthew. Recognition flared in his eyes – and Matthew knew it was not just the memory of witnessing his slaughter of the Royalist ensign.
‘Tis almost as though he recognises a kindred spirit. Am I as he once was? He had seen grizzled soldiers like this one before on his own side, and until today had wanted to become like them. Professionals, experienced killers, fighting for a just cause.
He had not paid much attention to the cold, detached gaze they bore, nor the lack of delight they took in killing. But there was more than detachment and weariness in this man’s eyes. There was despair, a sense of helplessness. Resignation to a hideous fate.
He was clearly the prisoner of his comrades.
The three harquebusiers who surrounded the Captain brought a fresh chill to the church. The firelight flared in greeting, but did nothing to dispel the shifting, liquid blackness that churned and roiled within their pott helmets like dark pools of blackened blood.
Two disembodied torsos were thrown into the doorway. Matthew’s face flushed with the realisation that one belonged to the ensign. He felt the unearthly scrutiny of the three troopers upon him.
Are these devils? Am I to be judged? He glanced nervously at Máire, but there was no comfort to be found in her presence.
She began to shudder, her was
ted bosom heaving and pulsating in the cold. Her face was pale, her eyes bulging with fright; this time, they did not flash like emeralds in the sun. Her voice was a tremor that scarcely raised an echo from the vaulted ceiling of the nave.
“Your task is complete, Wrathful Ones! In the name of the Dark One, I abjure you! Go!”
“You summoned us, woman. But you have not the right to make us depart.”
Matthew was chilled further by the thing’s words. They did not emanate from the faceless helmet; rather, they came from the cracks in the stone walls that allowed the cold night air access. They came from the spitting fat of the fire’s contents. They came from the groans of the dying, impaled men outside. The words spoken were from the voice of cold, of fire. Of hatred and death.
He stared once more at the cracked remnants of the baby’s bones in the fire. Fear turned to hatred as he considered what this woman had done... but she was oblivious to his hate-filled glare. She now had fear of her own.
“What? I have paid with the flesh of babes, as tradition dictates. You destroyed the regiment that murdered my people, as I ordered! Now, you are ordered to - ”
“We will not be banished. We have found this war needs our... direction. These two soldiers have shown the way. They succumbed to the wrath that fuels hatred. They fight their own people, and now commit murder within their own ranks. Truly, this is a war without an enemy. Our favoured meat and drink. Brother against brother, father against son, young against old…
“Just as in Germany and the Low Countries, just as in Ireland, we will ensure that war will tear the land apart.”
Now the Royalist captain and the Parliamentarian trooper stared at each other. A pained look passed the captain’s face.
“No. A moment’s madness, nothing more. ‘Twill not happen again.”
His voice was as gravel, but Matthew could tell there was no mistaking the determination and the self-reproach in his words. The wrath that fuels hatred…
“Captain… did you commit slaughter as I did?”
“Aye, lad. I gave into… wrath. Hatred. Hence, there was no restraint in what I did.” He gave a sad smile. “I had not done so since… since I was your age. I… gloried in it.”
“And it did set you on the road to a full time career in killing?” Matthew’s mouth was dry. For now, the Wrathful Ones were forgotten.
“Aye… but I swore to learn restraint. To kill only when necessary – not to allow hatred and anger to cloud my judgement. And I did keep my oath. Until today.”
Now anger rose in the captain. “And all for what?” His gravel voice struck sparks; flints of fury. “For what cause do we butcher? We fight our own people… and kill within our own ranks! Under what standard do we declare this war?”
Standard… it felt like years had passed since the recruiting sergeant had come to his town. Then flocking to the banner, pride in bearing the colours…
A hiss from the three harquebusiers echoed along the porch of the nave. A hiss of fear. Matthew Collier broke his gaze and stared at the Wrathful Ones.
There was agitation in their movements, a fidgeting, restless twitch of limbs – the restlessness he had experienced and witnessed among his own troop before battle.
’Tis a human reaction! To what? His mention of ‘standard’…
Then he knew. The object that had inspired such bloodlust in him – the colours of Lord Meekings.
The regimental flag. The banner to rally the troops – the cause of his demonic bloodshed.
The Royalist captain’s eyes follow his to where the flag lay, in the blood and soil it had collected from the battlefield. A weary smile played on the scarred lips of the captain as their eyes met once more and understanding passed between them.
“My commanding officer did order me to retrieve those colours – and to kill you in the process.”
“To do to me what I had done to his ensign,” Matthew said with a grim smile. “An order you disobeyed, sir.” He moved towards the flag, bent down and held it to the fire. The flames allowed light to pass through the heavy material, revealing the full glory of the insignia and colours.
The hissing from the creatures Máire referred to as the Wrathful Ones became louder, more piercing. She had started to mutter words he could not understand: perhaps a reversal of the incantation she had used to summon them.
“Your rage has been harnessed by us. You are ours to command.”
The harquebusier lifted a gauntlet above the fire and pointed towards Matthew. A wall of heat slammed into him.
An unnatural heat, a fire that burned yet did not displace the cold that froze his very core of being. A fire that brought a thin veil of red across his eyes, a scarlet mist.
A red mist of rage. A desire to kill, to butcher.
NO!
The mist dissipated, just long enough for him to see the Royalist captain’s eyes burn with hatred, his sword drawn, before it came down upon his vision once more.
To kill, to slaughter… but that is what THEY desire, not myself!
His thoughts were drowned by an internal screaming, a howl of rage, fury and hatred that was not human. A last-resisting part of him finally recognised the howling as his own.
He was aware of a presence before him, one that danced in time with the fires, matched his sword strikes blow for blow; experience and rage more than a match for his youth and wrath.
The colours!
He still had the flagpole in his left hand. He knew now what to do.
He fell to the floor, felt the captain’s blade carve the hot air above his head, and twisted. His sabre cut deep into the Royalist’s left boot and the flagpole swept around, into the fire that the captain, bleeding and disorientated from the wound to his ankle, fell into.
The colours of Lord Meekings erupted into flame, imparted a fearsome heat that was more scarlet than the crimson mist of his vision. The flag was a sheet of fire that enveloped himself and the captain, who still hacked away at him with his sword, regardless of the super-heated metal that fused the mortuary hilt to his knuckles.
Pain swept through Matthew, a purifying, human pain that diminished his fury. The howling of his inner demon of rage was replaced by the vanquished screeching of the three Wrathful Ones.
He heard howling from the woman who had brought this unholy visitation upon them; a scream of pain and physical agony, accompanied by the wet, meaty sounds of tearing flesh and muscle. Blood sizzled as it dripped from the vaulted ceiling into the fire that consumed himself and his opposite.
He knew then that the Wrathful Ones were articulating their frustration and fury at being denied their two champions who would have heralded unprecedented rage and atrocity on this land.
Through the agony, through the fire, the young Roundhead trooper thought he saw his opponent – an officer and a Royalist – smile in approval at his actions. The Wrathful Ones would return, they both knew that; and next time they would probably not need a crazed witch’s incantations to bring them to life. Man’s hatred and brutality alone would suffice.
But that is for future wars, he thought as he looked to the man who should have been his enemy. That is for other generations of warriors to deal with. Pray God they do not give vent to rage and hatred in war and abandon their humanity as we once had.
As his young life slipped away, Matthew saw the sadness in the captain’s eyes before they bubbled and melted into the fire. It was a look that intimated his prayer would not be heard.
Adrian Chamberlin is a British writer of dark fiction and lives in the small south Oxfordshire town of Wallingford that serves as a backdrop to the UK television series Midsomer Murders, not far from where Agatha Christie lies buried, dreaming in darkness. He is the author of the critically acclaimed supernatural thriller The Caretakers as well as numerous short stories in a variety of anthologies, mostly historical or futuristic based supernatural horror. He co-edited Read the End First, an apocalyptic anthology with Suzanne Robb (author of the acclaimed thriller Z-Boat) and
has many other projects in the pipeline.
His next release will be “This Envious Siege”, a Lovecraftian account of the Battle of Trafalgar, in Exaggerated Press’s Darker Battlefields, a collection of supernatural warfare novellas scheduled for October 2015.
He is aware of the concept of “spare time” but swears it’s just a myth.
Further information can be found on his website, archivesofpain.com.
MONSTERS
by Jeff Carlson
His name doesn't matter. He had a job in which he invested forty-odd hours of his life each week, a car that was only two years old, and a small apartment with a view from the kitchen window of an undeveloped hillside where the sun came up. Because of this, he usually breakfasted standing at the kitchen sink, whereas he ate most of his dinners in front of his girlfriend's TV. His days passed with little adventure or romance -- a speeding ticket here, oral sex on the hall carpet there; hardly the stuff of legends -- and he was content.
As he pushed through the theater's heavy door with his shoulder, protecting an armload of popcorn and soda, some kid in the front rows yelped like a puppy. He barely noticed. His girlfriend jammed a finger into his ribs as she brushed past, even though it was her snacks that he'd drop, and he said, “The whole thing's designed for us to sit dead-center. The picture, the sound system...”
She flashed her wild smile and shook her head. “Some tall dork always plunks down in front of me.”
“No one's even here.” He didn't much care what his vantage point would be for this "sweeping Victorian epic," yet by appearing to give in now he was more likely to win a later dispute. He'd already racked up big points just by agreeing to see a movie completely lacking gunfire or killer asteroids.
In front, the kid who'd yelped was on her feet, rubbing her butt and talking in a squeal. The woman beside her said two short syllables in an embarrassed tone. The kid shook her head. The woman growled something that sounded like okay fine and they moved over a couple seats. That was all.
