by A. Evermore
Marakazian tried to turn away from the murderous rage that infected him but could not, he tried to close his eyes against the scene of spreading slaughter but he could not. He could not fight the demon magic, no one could, and the mist spread far, it spread wide. How far he would never know, but all whom it touched succumbed to it.
His knights, the best trained, the most heavily armed, the most honourable people he had ever met, turned upon his own guards, on each other, on the men, women, and children that had gathered to see their beloved king today. Lips snarled, voices cursed and spat, teeth gnashed, fingers clawed as they fought each other with a rage and a hatred never witnessed before. The poison dictated that it didn’t matter who you fought only that you killed them, all of them, man, woman, child, dog, horse. Even the animals were not immune to the demon rage and horses bucked and dogs bit.
But only the king and his knights and his guards had swords.
Those swords rose and fell in the orange gloom and it seemed they could not tire. Two of Marakazian’s own knights turned upon him, their faces contorted in hatred beneath their helmets. He had his shield and sword ready. Raise shield and swipe, one knight fell, blood spurting from his neck. Raise shield and stab. The other screamed as the force of his blow pierced even through the steel breastplate.
He hacked again with a strength he did not know he possessed. His sword smashed through gauntlet and pauldron, breastplate and shield. Rage seethed, blood showered. It ran down his face, it stung his eyes, drenched his tabard. He snarled and howled in victory as the two knights fell.
Ahead there was another knight, fighting two guards. Marakazian lunged forwards. The knight had his back to him. There, under his raised arm where the chain mail was loose. He plunged forwards with all his weight. The sword sliced easily. He drove forwards pinning the knight until his sword pierced the tabard of the guard the knight fought.
Marakazian wrenched his sword violently left then right. The blood coursed from his sword down his arms and onto his chest. So much blood it soaked his trousers through his armoured legs, pooled into his boots. He screamed and pulled his sword back. The guard and knight slumped with a gasp at his feet.
The other guard snarled at him, fearless, rage-filled, mad. Marakazian hacked his sword down in a movement so fast it was a blur. The guard’s helmet fell in two pieces leaving the guard’s face split in two. Marakazian moved on, stepping over the swiftly forgotten knight and guards.
Two villagers, an old man and a woman, punched each other pathetically. Marakazian struck them both down with one blow of his sword. Something jumped on his back, snarling, teeth bit and tore into his exposed ear. He grabbed viciously and tore them off his back. Flung the young woman to the floor. Stab and trample and move on. The broken body forgotten.
The demonic rage dictated that it mattered not who they were, only that they must all die.
The cobbled streets pooled with dark red. Those who had not been touched by the mist looked on in horror and tried to flee but they could not escape. Marakazian saw them trying to flee. It seemed most important not to let them. He was not alone in this and all those infected by the mist surged towards those who were not.
All must die. But it was the armoured and armed, trained and experienced, Knights of the Shining Star and their king that killed all in the end. And the potion made the king strong, made him powerful, just as Karhlusus promised. Death came where he passed.
The mist cleared a little, dimly Marakazian saw his own sword rise, a flicker of silver in the sunlight, followed by red droplets falling like rain from the sky. On and on he struck, he did not stop, he could not stop. For an hour the carnage endured until everything, the castle walls, the cobbled streets, the fallen bodies, were painted red with blood. But no one could kill the king for he had what he wanted, he was invincible.
Eventually the orange gas dissipated, the toxic potion grew weak as its evil magic was spent. Slowly the king’s senses returned and with it horror, despair and that terrible, terrible guilt. Guilt he would be cursed to carry through all his future lives.
When it was done all were dead except him and twenty of his knights. Who knows how many lay slain, the place was awash with blood and limbs entangled. The sun shone down. Not a bird sang or even flew in the air.
The knights all stood there swaying like drunks, covered in blood that was not their own. Some shook, some twitched, all felt the hell they had wrought like a stone lodged in the gut. They turned to look at Marakazian and all he saw was his own horror reflected back.
How did we become this?
Some staggered towards him, bloodied and horrific, wild terror in their eyes. A blond bearded man stood swaying. Marakazian could not recognise him from the blood covering his face. At his feet lay bodies, Marakazian did not want to see. The knight took his sword and swiftly fell upon it. And who was he to say no? It was like watching dominos fall then for eight more followed suit, thrusting their own swords into themselves and dropping beside each other, falling atop those they had slain. Another horror to add to the others.
‘We are damned, damned for all eternity,’ Marakazian shuddered and fell to his knees, ‘I have damned us all.’
They began searching the carnage for survivors but there were none. All about the place were the tabards and flags and banners of the Knights of the Shining Star stained red with the blood of the innocent.
‘What do we do? Where do we go?’ a young woman’s bloody face looked to his for answers but he had none. Oria, that was her name. He couldn’t at first recognise her through the blood. The pain was a tangible thing in her bright green eyes. Eyes longing for this to be just a nightmare that they would awaken from. But there was no waking up from this nightmare.
‘This place is cursed, we cannot bury so many, we cannot stay,’ was all he could think to say. ‘We shall cremate their bodies so their souls might find freedom, that is the least we can do.’
They burned the City of the Star to the ground, turning only once to look at the inferno on the hillside of a once beautiful city. But the fire would not cleanse the earth of the demon curse and in the end the land itself died and became barren. A dusty desert in which nothing could grow again and only the sorrow of those slain sang through the bones of their own skeletons.
Those that had escaped, those few that had been closest to the gates, fled to the villages and towns and from there to the cities, spreading word of the massacre at the City of the Star by the hand of King Marakazian and his Knights of the Shining Star.
Marakazian and his eleven knights wandered cursed and banished with the memories and the pain of what they had done for they had no loved ones to return to, all had been slain. All cities decreed the great deeds of King Marakazian and his Knights of the Shining Star to be erased from books and the scrolls in every library, in every village, in every house. All their statues were destroyed, all their banners burned; for the world sought to erase even their very memory.
Once glorious and valiant the knights and their king were known only for their evil, for murdering thousands of innocents and turning a beautiful land into a wasteland. The truth about the demon wizard Karhlusus and his trickery was lost and long forgotten. No longer were they called Knights of the Shining Star, and from then on history would only speak of the evil committed by the cursed King Marakazian and his Banished Legion.
Marakazian and his eleven remaining knights fled in grief and sorrow south and east across the unknown ocean, far from their homes, far from anyone that would ever know them, until human civilisation was a long way away.
Finally they came to another cursed hot and barren land. The bones of people and animals on the ground and the valley spoke of another terrible thing that happened eons ago. There the knights died but their souls were cursed to relive each day the slaughter of that terrible day.
As the memory returned to Marakon he understood then that King Marakazian’s penance was greater than the knights, for he was bound to be reborn again and again, ne
ver finding the light of Feygriene, never finding peace, always to live a life of pain and suffering and guilt.
My greed overwhelmed reason and I was easily tricked. Demonic rage, that was what the potion was, murderous rage beyond anything he had ever known, even in battle. I remember the dreams of glory, the power, it seemed so real and so attainable then, but now I would not want those things. How funny the soul is moulded through many lifetimes…
All my life I carried this feeling of terrible guilt and of searching for something I could not find. I had thought it were the shame of the elves withdrawing, I had thought it was a commander’s guilt, but now I find its bloody roots.
Chapter 39
Mark Of Woetala
ISSA was awoken by the smell of cooking. She sat up and held her throbbing head in her hands, a groan escaping her lips as she remembered the night before. Maybe I’ll pretend to sleep until everyone has gone.
Peeking through the curtains she could see Asaph was already up and eating breakfast by the fire with Coronos. But on seeing movement and hearing her small groan Coronos stood up with a smile and passed a hot steaming mug to her through the curtain.
‘Purple nettle tea, it’s really good stuff for times such as these,’ he said with a smile in his voice.
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, ‘It might take more than tea to fix it,’ how come he wasn’t hungover, she wondered. He was as perky as ever. Issa smiled weakly, knowing without looking that her hair was probably in the shape of a hedgehog.
‘I used to drink it all the time in my youth, but back then I loved the celebrations just as much you young people do now. Luckily I’ve learnt my limits,’ he said with a wink.
She groaned. He went back to his breakfast.
Issa sat on the bed sipping the hot bitter tea. Was it working? Maybe, some fresh air would help too. She stood and dressed slowly, buying as much time as possible before she would have to pull the curtain back. Maybe by the time she was ready they would be gone. It took a long time anyway to brush out all the tangles in her hair. Finally she could delay no more and pulled the curtain back.
‘Morning,’ she said airily.
Asaph turned and smiled, he looked tired and hungover too. ‘I put a plate of food together for you,’ he motioned to the ceramic plate of apples, jam and bread.
She walked over and sat down beside him, unable to look him in the eye for long. We shouldn’t have kissed, it’s made everything hard work. Did he feel embarrassed? But from what her glances could decipher he didn’t seem to. She tucked into the hot bread and jam, filling her mouth so she could not speak.
A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and Rhul’ynth stood in the doorway. Her long brown hair was plaited and hung over her shoulder and her majestic antlers had flowers interwoven in them.
‘Fancy joining us on the scouting hunt today?’ she asked Issa, a gleam in her eyes suggesting it would be adventurous.
‘Mmhmm, absolutely,’ she replied over a mouthful. Hunting? What could they be hunting if they don’t eat meat? Sounds like an interesting adventure.
‘I wish I could but I promised to help Coronos and Triest’anth this morning,’ Asaph said, clearly disappointed.
Though Issa felt rough she was desperate to be away and try to clear her head. She stood up and brushed the crumbs off her lap, catching Asaph’s eye as she did so. He was still grinning at her and, frustratingly, she began to blush. She managed a ‘thank you,’ for breakfast and a meek ‘good bye,’ before hurrying out of the house with Rhul’ynth. Rhul’ynth was also grinning at her in some knowing way. Had she been watching last night?
‘Nothing happened,’ Issa sighed.
Rhul’ynth laughed out loud.
‘Looked like you had fun though,’ Rhul’ynth said with a wicked grin.
Issa couldn’t help but laugh and rolled her eyes, ‘Far too much evil wine! Anyway, where are we going?’
‘We are doing the usual, scouting for enemies; Life Seekers, Ogres, or any sick beasts, that have been infected by the Life Seekers. The war may be in the north but no sword can stop the sickness of the immortals.’
‘Tell me about the Life Seekers,’ Issa asked. Freydel had mentioned them, numbered them as one of many of Baelthrom’s Maphraxies.
‘Life Seekers, formless undead essences seeking for a living body, never seem to be far away. But don’t worry, we probably won’t see anything after last night’s partying.’
Issa nodded, she didn’t want to think about it really. All she needed was to clear her head.
They chatted about the food, dancing and music from the night before as they left the village. Though older than Issa, Rhul’ynth was in her mid twenties and much closer in age to her than Ely had been. She felt a pang of worry thinking about Ely. I must try and contact Freydel again. I must return to Celene if I cannot reach him.
They came to a stop in a small clearing between the oaks and pines away from the village.
‘Hmm, the others are not here, so let us practice while we wait,’ Rhul’ynth passed her the smaller of two bows she was carrying and a thick belt to which was attached a small quiver. The arrows were also smaller than the ones Rhul’ynth carried.
‘It’s for a child but easier to learn with and it can still kill,’ she explained, ‘and to be honest for you funny two-feet it is not too small after all,’ Rhul’ynth laughed.
Issa stuck her tongue out. She strapped the quiver around her waist awkwardly over her thick blacksmith’s belt she still wore from the storehouses of Little Kammy. The quiver of arrows was surprisingly light.
‘You may prefer to attach it to your back but try it like that for now,’ Rhul’ynth said adjusting the straps. ‘Hitting a target takes practice, practice, practice. See that tree stump over there?’ she pointed to a three foot high, foot wide mossy old stump about ten yards away. ‘I want you to try to hit it.’
Issa nodded and fumbled one of the arrows out of the quiver.
‘You are right-handed so hold the bow in your left and you want your left shoulder pointing to the target.’
Issa adjusted her stance and Rhul’ynth showed her how to notch an arrow. ‘Now, raise the bow so the arrow points at the target then lift it a little above. The idea is to get your arrows in roughly the same area rather than to hit the same spot every time. Your left arm should be straight and elbow a little rotated but not locked, otherwise the string will strike it. Now, draw the bowstring so that you are looking straight down the arrow shaft toward the target. You want your elbow a little higher than your shoulder and out a way from your body.’
Issa drew the bowstring until she could pull it back no more, even though it was a child’s bow it seemed rather stiff.
‘Because this is a child’s bow you don’t want to pull it back too far otherwise the smaller and thinner arrow spine may snap when released.’ Issa frowned. ‘Don’t worry about the technicals right now, we’ll study them later.
‘It is up to you where you draw the bow to. That preference comes over time. I draw to my cheek, others draw to their ears or mouth and nose. Once you find what you prefer then consistency is key. Think about which way the wind is blowing and most of all focus.’
Issa focused on the tree stump. There was a slight breeze blowing from the left, still carrying the smell of the bonfire from the night before. She angled the bow a fraction to the left and then let the arrow go. She forgot to unlock her elbow and smarted when the string smacked hard against her forearm, leaving a red mark.
Through the pain, a delighted squeal from Rhul’ynth told her she had hit the target. Rubbing her arm she smiled, ‘Beginner’s luck I guess,’ she said looking at the arrow that had only just made it to the base of the stump.
‘Are you sure you haven’t done this before? Your stance and judgement was perfect,’ Rhul’ynth said slapping her on the back.
‘Your direction and Grast’anth’s teachings helped somewhat,’ she replied, ‘I remember not doing so well then.’
Rhu
l’ynth looked Issa’s reddening arm and held up her own leather bandaged one. ‘It’s a beginner’s bane, though I still wear one even now!’ She took out a similar strip of leather from her belt and tied it around the red welt.
Issa managed to loose two more arrows, one hit just above the first and the other just missed. Hitting your target from afar was far less frightening and strenuous (and far more rewarding) than close combat sword fighting. But then it was only a tree stump and not a moving intelligent being.
‘Just in case, you should have this,’ Rhul’ynth said and attached to her belt a small dagger in a tan leather sheath. ‘An extra weapon never goes amiss and a dagger is useful tool.’
They turned to the noise of laughing and were joined by three more karalanths, two men and a woman. The other woman was young and slender with dark hair and fur and even darker antlers, she was a stark contrast to Rhul’ynth’s tall muscular fair-haired build. One man was short but stocky and heavily muscled with fair hair and a short trimmed beard. His fur was lighter and had dappled white spots along his back. His name was Palu’anth and he grinned at her. Was he the one who had carried her into the dance? He seemed familiar! She looked away blushing, I’m never drinking that stuff again!
Fris’anth was a stern faced quiet karalanth but his features softened almost into a smile when Rhul’ynth and Issa greeted them. He was tanned and a dark mahogany brown. They all had bows and quivers slung across their chests and backs as well as thick hunting knives tied at their waists.
‘We have Diarc’ynth with us as well, making two willing students!’ Rhul’ynth said. ‘She has come of age to join us now,’ Rhul’ynth put her arm around the young woman who smiled shyly.
‘I have been using the bow for years now, Rhu,’ she said reproachfully.
