HE WHO FIGHTS

by Mike Morris

  Nearby was a woman, shredded as if by sharp claws, her limbs missing.

  The voice at the back of his mind urged him to be ready, to draw the sword, because there would be only more dead and demons and who-knows-what devils waiting for him inside. This time Rane listened. As he choked on the stench and passed more mutilated corpses, Rane reached over his shoulder and pulled Kibon free. The difference was immediate. He felt strong. Confident. Ready. He'd faced hordes of Jotnar, snapping and snarling, baying for his blood, and lived. Not just that — he'd sent all of Heras' creatures back to the underworld. Whatever waited for him inside, it would not see another dawn.

  Up close, the mansion certainly looked a miserable place, well suited to its desolate location. The outside walls were stained by the elements and, in numerous places, the plaster was either missing from the walls or in the process of detaching itself from the house. Most of the windows were still shuttered and, by the looks of them, had been for a long time. Haversham may be one of the country's richest men but none of his money had gone into the upkeep of the house. However, despite the run-down nature of the house, it was still a very imposing building, especially for someone like Rane. The manor house was far from the two-room cottage he'd burned in Eshtery.

  By the time he reached the marble steps leading up to the main door, he'd passed more bodies. Too many to count. Some even had weapons in their hands but it had made no difference to how they'd met their end. Men, women and children — they all lay dead, rotting away.

  Rane steeled himself for what he was going to find inside. More bodies by the stink of it. His anger rose. It would be a pleasure to kill whatever was inside, the thing that had caused this misery. It was why he'd been given his powers. Why he'd allowed his soul to be merged with his sword. He’d damned himself for a cause after all.

  He climbed the steps to the main doors, made of ancient oak and carved with the family sigil of a rose wrapped in thorns. Marble columns flanked them on either side, once white but stained by the wind and rain. Rane tried to push the doors — locked. A good kick would open them, but Rane didn't want to alert anything inside that he was coming.

  He skirted around the house, looking for another way in. All the windows were barred from the inside and Rane was about to give up and return to the front of the house when he spotted a door, half-hidden in shrubbery. The wood was old and uncared for, the lock a simple thing. Rane peered through the dirt-covered windows and could make out a kitchen on the other side.

  The door didn't need to be forced. A simple push popped it loose from the frame. The wood was so rotten it barely creaked as it splintered apart, not loud enough to disturb the silence of the house.

  He drew Kibon from its scabbard, the blade singing with joy at being released. If anything waited for him inside, it would soon pay for all the deaths it had caused. His anger soared into rage as he stepped inside, sword at the ready. How he prayed to discover one of Heras' creatures escaped out into the world.

  The manor's kitchen, where once a brigade of kitchen staff would have been busy night and day, was now deserted. A layer of dust covered the surfaces. Cold and dark instead of warm and full of life. No one had used the room in a long while. The servants were probably more names to add to the list of victims.

  Trapped by the walls, the smell of decaying flesh was stronger than ever. It seeped through the floors and the walls, smothering the air in the house. Rane clamped his hand over his mouth and nose to stop him from retching.

  He moved into the main part of the house, taking his time with each room, ensuring they were empty before moving onto the next one. The war had taught him caution and Rane wasn't going to die because he failed to check a room properly. The dark interior provided far too many hiding places as it was. He used skills learned over hard years of warfare, skills that had kept him alive long before a magic sword was put into his hands.

  Rane's heart raced as his body prepared him for action. Somewhere a demon lurked. Kibon led him on, shining in the darkness, filling him full of energy. He found his eyes drawn to it again and again. Killing demons was what it had been made for — what it longed for.

  The house was as much a corpse left to rot as the bodies outside. It’d been built with enough ambition and grandeur to stand the test of time and now it was nothing but a mausoleum. Portraits of ancestors long gone lined the walls bearing witness to its fall.

  Rane tried to imagine what the house would’ve been like with children running through it, staff bustling this way and that and Lord Haversham at the centre of it all. How had Marcus found it when he came here to work, so far removed from the life he'd known at the front? His friend would have been a fish out of water. The thought was enough to bring a smile to Rane's face for the briefest of moments, but no more than that.

  Satisfied the downstairs was deserted, Rane took the central staircase up. More portraits lined the way up the stairs. Generation after generation of Havershams. The men seemed to change little over the years except in fashion and facial hair. They all had the same golden locks and deep set, piercing blue eyes. Rane stopped before one particularly impressive painting, far larger than the others around it, of an imposing gentleman with long hair falling past his shoulders. He was sitting in the centre of a room with three children, all close to adulthood, around him. A small plaque proclaimed the picture to be of the latest Haversham with his children, Edgar, Catherine and Rebecca, each as striking as he was. The artist had managed to give them all the air of the very rich who viewed the rest of the world beneath them.

  Haversham dominated the image though — there was no mistaking the authority in the man. He commanded attention even as a painting. But where was he? Rane had yet to see his body.

  The stairs creaked, echoing through the silence, as he slowly climbed up. The feeling that he was being watched grew with each step. He searched the gloom for the source of his unease but everywhere seemed devoid of life. Only the eyes from the portraits were on him.

  The stench grew stronger with every step, if such a thing were possible. His skin crawled with it, his lungs struggled to deal it. Still he took his time, as he checked empty bedroom after empty bedroom. Finally, he stood before two great doors.

  Somehow Rane knew whatever he was looking for was waiting behind them. The fire of vengeance burned in him. Ready to fight, ready for war, Rane tightened his grip on his sword and pushed the doors open with his other hand.

  Flies shot towards him, angry at being disturbed, and the smell of rot hit him with a force. Only the Gods knew how Rane managed to stand his ground, transfixed by the horror before him.

  A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room. Haversham's corpse lay on it, his flesh barely hanging onto his bones, and a neat gap separated his head from the rest of his body.

  But worse lay on the floor. Every inch of it was filled with the bodies of the dead. In some places they were piled two or three high. All had died violently — whether they'd been eaten, hacked up or ripped apart. Blood, guts and brains decorated the walls.

  With his hand covering his mouth, he stepped into the room. Rane had to force his feet into spaces between the bodies as he made his way through the horror. Each face he looked at broke his heart a little more. Young, old, male, female — there was no discrimination. Just lives destroyed. He only hoped they were already dead before they were brought to this room. To go in there alive and face that carnage and know that your death was imminent was a horror no one should face.

  When he reached the heart of the room, Rane stopped. He stared down at a face he knew only too well. "Marcus."

  Blood streaked his friend's face, far gaunter than Rane remembered. He could barely see any of the comrade he once knew in the corpse in front of him but there was enough left to know it was him. The sword in the scabbard beside him, identical to Rane's own, was only more confirmation.

  He'd failed Kara — again. Grief struck him through the heart. He'd lost his friend. They'd lived, fought and bled togethe
r for so many years, vanquished the Rastaks together — only for Marcus to die in a slaughter pit.

  What monster could have killed him? Marcus was as strong and as deadly as Rane and yet there he lay. The demon must’ve taken him by surprise — it was the only explanation. Blinding rage consumed Rane. Whatever the demon was, it would die that day. It had to be hiding in the house and Rane was going to find it.

  Back in the hallway, slivers of light sneaked through gaps in the shutters reminding Rane that the day was passing outside. Kibon pulsed in his hand, eager for blood. He'd find the monster even if he had to rip the house apart. There must be somewhere he hadn't seen. A basement or an attic... Rane looked up at the ceiling. Yes, somewhere in the roof. It'd want to stay close to its food. There had to be a way up there.

  A hand clamped itself over his mouth and another gripped his sword arm, holding him firm. A cold body pressed up against Rane's back.

  "Leaving so soon?" A voice whispered in his ear. "Please stay awhile at least."

  11

  The creature was strong. It yanked Rane off his feet and dragged him back towards the room of death. Rane kicked and pulled against the demon's grip, but its power was incredible. Even with Rane's magic enhanced muscles, he couldn’t break free. Warm breath tickled his neck as he felt teeth graze his skin.

  But Rane wasn’t going to die easily. He slammed his head back into his attacker's face with all the force he could muster. His skull smashed into bone and the demon released its grip. Rane spun around, swinging his sword at the creature. Let Kibon deal with the monster he faced.

  The blade met steel as another sword stopped it in its tracks. The blades skidded off each other with a clang. Rane looked up — saw his assailant's face and staggered back in horror.

  Marcus stood before him. Blood streaked his face. Other people's entrails hung from his body — a body all twisted and warped as if it had grown out of proportion, becoming pure muscle and sinew in the process. Marcus' sword was in his hand, identical to Rane's — except the blade was stained jet black.

  Rane couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend. "Marcus?" A stupid question but the truth was so unbelievable. What had happened to his friend?

  The voice told him that it didn’t matter. Here was an opponent worth killing. Kibon twitched in anticipation. There was no need to hold back.

  "Hello, brother," Marcus replied with a tip of his head. "It's been a long time."

  "What have you become?" asked Rane. He retreated into the hallway, maintaining the distance from Marcus, looking for space to fight.

  "I've become glorious." Marcus grinned, teeth — no – fangs gleamed in the darkness. He stepped toward Rane. "Let me show you all the ways."

  "I see only horror in you." With a two-handed grip on Kibon, Rane slid his left foot forward and turned his hip turned towards Marcus. He raised his sword above his head, in readiness to strike.

  Marcus dismissed the move with a chuckle and a wave of his own sword. "Put your sword down. It doesn't have to be this way. You should be by my side — not against me. We’re the same, you and I. We’re Legion."

  Marcus took another step forward as if he didn't have a care in the world, but Rane saw the way his eyes moved from Rane's face to his sword and back again. He was wary of Kibon, with good reason. If he was scared of getting hurt, it meant he could be killed.

  "I'm not like you."

  "Come now, brother. Don’t lie to me. You feel the urges, hear the whispers in the back of your mind, demanding blood, seeking violence. The sword requires it." Marcus came on. His voice had a singsong tone to it, like a child's at play. "The sword deserves it."

  "My sword doesn't speak to me." Still Rane retreated but already he could feel the pressure building within him to strike. Tingles spread along his fingers and hands from Kibon's hilt. It wanted to attack. "I'm not a monster."

  "Don't lie to me. I can see it in you." Marcus raised his own blade, black as night. "The lust, the desire. The sword sings with it."

  The man was mad, demented, corrupted. Rane had to stop him. Had to kill him. He couldn't allow anyone else to die at Marcus' hands. He had to kill his best friend. "The sword is just a tool given to us. It doesn’t think. It can’t demand. You've committed this horror. The evil is yours and yours alone."

  "You don’t believe that." Marcus closed the gap between them.

  "I do," replied Rane but the words tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew he lied. He knew the truth in what Marcus’s said.

  Marcus's laughter rang through the house. "Poor fool," he said and attacked. Rane threw his own sword out in riposte. Sparks flew in the darkness as the two blades met. But whereas Rane's sword glimmered with light even in the darkness, Marcus' blade all but disappeared amongst the shadows. Rane countered but his sword slashed through empty space as Marcus moved at speeds too quick to track. He spun; sweeping his sword around and Rane only just got Kibon up in time to deflect the blow.

  Again the black blade came at him and Rane threw himself to one side, rolling out of the way, desperate for some breathing room. But as he turned back, he found Marcus pressing down on him once more.

  The force and the fury of Marcus's assault drove Rane down on one knee. He swept his own sword up from the side, intending to split Marcus in half, but his friend easily blocked the attack. He slid his blade up Marcus' sword, aiming for the neck as he pushed himself back onto his feet but Marcus side-stepped out of the way, leaving him nothing to cut but air. As they passed, Marcus punched him in the side of the head, sending Rane reeling. Laughter chased after him as Rane tried to keep his senses together. Marcus had always been his equal, his brother in all things, but the creature Rane faced was so much faster, so much stronger.

  Sweat stung his eyes as he lashed out with Kibon. Marcus blocked the strike almost without looking. He turned, kicking out at Rane’s legs, knocking him to the ground once more. Marcus hacked down and Rane only just managed to roll out the way.

  Gripping his sword two-handed, Rane swung at Marcus, putting all his strength and speed into the swing. Marcus barely seemed to move and yet stopped the blow with a casual ease that frightened Rane to the core.

  Ever since that night in Candra, Rane hadn’t feared any opponent. The Legion had become deadlier than anyone or anything they faced, armed with blades that could cut the Gods themselves. The Rastaks and the Jotnar had fallen in their hordes before them. But Marcus was so much more.

  Marcus circled him, sword lax in his hand, and a grin spread across that warped face. "Can we stop this? It’s almost time for the hunt. I'm hungry and my prey is waiting. Why don't you join me?"

  Rane lunged forward, thrusting his sword. Marcus swayed out of the way and countered with a side kick, sending Rane flying into the wall. As he struggled to get back on his feet, he didn't even see the punch that drove him back to the floor, rattling his teeth. Darkness flooded into his mind. Death called.

  Rane managed to roll to one side before Marcus could stamp on him, leaving the monster's foot to plunge through the floorboards. He scooted backwards as Marcus pulled his foot free, and wondered how he would defeat the monster that his friend had become. He struggled to his feet, but Marcus gave him no respite, no time to catch his breath. He knew every move Rane was going to make before he did and countered each one effortlessly. His black sword flashed down time and time again. Each blow Rane blocked shook him to his very bones. And each time it became harder to raise Kibon to stop the next assault.

  A swipe of Marcus' foot took Rane's feet away from under him and he went down hard. His old comrade was on him in the blink of an eye, two hands lifting him up off the ground and into the air before he had a chance to recover. Rane dangled like a fish on a hook, with all the air gone from his lungs. Marcus pulled him closer, so they were all but touching nose-to-nose. Soul dead eyes examined him.

  "So good to see you again, brother," whispered Marcus as if to a lover, "but it’s time to say goodbye. I’ve dinner waiting for me in Rooktown." Ma
rcus flicked a wrist and threw Rane through a shuttered window. Glass and wood shattered around him and then he was falling.

  12

  It was dark when Rane awoke. Panic swept through him, fighting with the pain. Where was his sword? He needed Kibon.

  He turned his head, relieved that he still could move, and saw his sword only a few feet from his hand. Not far but far enough.

  Rane tried to sit but another wave of pain hit him with a ferocity that took away what little breath he had left. He closed his eyes, sucked in a lungful of air and tried to move again. Prepared for the agony, he rolled over onto his stomach, and dragged himself along the ground with his hands.

  Rane had to stop several times as the pain became too much to bear until finally he reached the sword. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out with the effort, but his fingers closed on the hilt and he drew it to him. With the sword in his arms, the fear and panic retreated and the pain lost its edge. Even so, he wasn't in a rush to try and stand. He lay back down, clutching his sword to his heart, drawing on its magic while he gathered his strength.

  A wave of despair struck him as he lay there. Marcus had beaten him easily. Rane had been one of the greatest soldiers in the Legion — the best of the best — and yet Marcus, with his new powers, had brushed him aside as if he were a child. All his training, all his strength and speed, had been nothing compared to what Marcus had become. He was amazed he was still alive.

  Suddenly, he realised that Marcus might be watching him lie there on the grass, broken and defeated. He would surely die if Marcus attacked again. Gripping his sword, Rane found some reserve of courage and forced himself to check. He spotted the gaping hole in the window he'd been thrown through but there was no sign of Marcus.

  Slowly, painfully, Rane got himself onto all fours and then on to his feet. He was covered in sweat from the effort as pain shot through his body, but he was very happy to be still alive. Alive meant he still had a chance to put things right — though only the Gods knew how he was going to stop Marcus.