by Amanda Young
The Eastern Ridge, a group of mountains that ran from the coast, all the way up to just east of Aleria and Suriax and farther north, could prove the best option. If they could make it to the caves, they would have cover, possibly enough to hold out for reinforcements. But the ridge was not without its dangers. To get to the protective cover of the caves, one must pass through thick, bramble filled forests, rough terrain, the howling foothills, known for strong, cold winds coming off the mountains and the occasional rock slide. It was not an ideal place to lead a group of ill dressed women and children, but it was their best option.
The scenery for most of the first day was pleasant, and Kern found himself fall into an almost meditative state of awareness. Grass and acorns crunched underfoot. There were no walking trails here. The trees were thick, growing denser with each hour they walked. Kern stepped over a large fallen tree and reached back, lifting the children one at a time over the obstacle.
They were tired, quiet. Hearing moving water, he called a stop and went to refill the canteens, forage some food and hunt some small game. While their little band of refugees recovered their strength, Kern sat by Lynnalin in the shade of a hill and took a hand full of berries. His stomach growled for something more substantial, but the children needed the energy and nutrition from the meat more than he did. “So, part of a Cinder Unit on assignment for the queen. How did that happen?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Lynnalin answered, taking her own share of the berries.
“Seriously?” he asked
“Seriously? The fire hit, and everything changed. I was at the stadium, watching the tournament like everyone else. I used my magic to help where I could. Apparently I made a good impression on people.”
Kern could believe that. She exuded confidence and strength. The way she followed her ears to the survivors in Breakeren was evidence of that. He had yet to see her fight, though. A lot could be learned about a person by seeing him or her in battle. He wondered, if it came to a fight, how she would fare. But then, she was Suriaxian. Perhaps he should not be so worried.
The wind shifted and Kern caught the faint smell of smoke. Kern climbed up the hill to their right and jumped up, catching hold of a low hanging branch, using it to swing higher in the tree growing there. Dark plumes of smoke billowed over the hills. The rolling terrain made distance difficult to gauge, but it was close enough to pose a threat. Kern jumped down and dusted off his hands, looking at Lynnalin and Zanden, who had joined them.
“What did you see?” Zanden asked.
“There is possible trouble up ahead. I saw a fire, maybe a few miles north.”
Zanden waved the others over. “Rand, Casther and Lynnalin, I want you to lead the group to the mountains. Kern, you and I will go investigate the source of the fire.” Taking two hounds, they travelled as quickly as possible, only slowing as they came close to their destination and began to hear the screams. Creeping over a low hill, Kern saw his fears realized. A small settlement, nested in the crook of the mountain lay decimated, bodies tossed everywhere, blood, ash and rubble covering the ground. Monsters wearing scars, and weapons shoved into tortured, mutilated flesh, hacked defenseless farmers and women. One busted a small shed with his fist. The rickety structure collapsed under the single blow. Children screamed, running from the remains of the structure. A woman pulled herself from the rubble and ran after the children, putting herself between them and their attacker. A piece of wood from the broken wall was her only weapon, but she wielded it with all her strength raising it to block a blow by his battle axe. The axe splintered the wood and dug into her arm. Flinching in pain, but not saying a word, she took the broken wood and stabbed at the man.
Kern slid down the hill and ran toward the woman. If only it were that easy. He watched with one eye as she took hit after hit, refusing to back down or abandon the children who cowered behind her. With the other eye Kern watched for his own safety, fending blows from every raider in his path. He struck out in all directions, cutting tendons and opening arteries to bleed out. There was no time to personally dispatch each opponent. The woman dropped to one knee, her other leg broken by a rebounding blow from the back of the axe. A child cried behind her. The man’s attention shifted. The woman saw his axe lift and aim at the child, a small girl no older than five. With nothing left to do, she threw herself on the girl, determined to take the hit herself.
Just as it came within inches of her head, the axe stopped, held in place by the force of Kern’s sword. Kern pushed on the axe, throwing the man temporarily off balance. Pressing his advantage, Kern followed through, stabbing his chest and piercing his heart with a single blow. The man staggered back, still in shock at the unexpected resistance and turn of events. He tried to strike again, but his body was already dead. As his brain finally ran out of blood, his eyes closed, and his body fell lifeless to the ground.
There was no time to celebrate, though. Five more men came up in his place, and they would not be taken by surprise. He heard the children crying. The woman said words of reassurance, quieting their fears and pulling them to her. Her body was all but useless. Still, she used it as a shield. Determined not to allow her sacrifices to be in vain, Kern took a centering breath and launched his attack. He hit their weapon arms first, severing the ones he could, disabling all the rest. Blows that would have crippled other warriors caused barely a flinch. Where one arm was gone, they used the other. Kern took a heavy punch to the jaw, followed by a hit in the gut that left him winded. But if they could press on, so could he.
Taking advantage of his doubled over posture, Kern rammed the man closest to him. He didn’t expect to move him far, but he did not need to. Once in close, he shoved his short sword up under the man’s ribs, going in from the gut. Pulling the blade out at an angle, he stepped back, twisting out of the way of another attacker. He used his smaller size to slip under the man’s reach and strike up with his blade. The sword went in just below the chin and pierced all the way through the brain. He pulled the sword and sent it straight behind him, into the belly of the next man. Unlike the other two blows, this was not enough to instantly kill the man. He brought his arm down hard on Kern’s shoulder, but that was not the worst of it. The man’s arm was covered in a series of metal shards, standing out like claws or horns on an animal. The shards ripped into his shoulder and neck. Kern took a step to the side, but the man hit again, leaving a trail of gashes down his arm.
Time slowed in that moment. Gathering his center again, he heard the children crying. The woman was silent. Her body was still. He didn’t have long if he hoped to save her. It may already be too late. Across the yard Zanden fought off four large brutes. Blue fire slid down his blade, covering his fists and burning his adversaries. Despite that advantage, the numbers they faced were high. Like Kern, Zanden had taken his fair share of abuse. Kern took another punch to the gut and thought absentmindedly that he ought to worry about saving himself. Pushing that thought to the side, Kern pressed on. They may be fighting monsters, and he did not have the benefit of Suriaxian fire, but that did not mean he would give up. The next time the man swung Kern moved with him, using his momentum to carry the man into one of the other two remaining opponents. The two men began fighting each other, leaving Kern with the last man.
Kern ducked and stabbed, sticking holes into the man wherever possible. Not that the pain would stop him, but he hoped in the absence of a killing blow, blood loss could eventually win out. Too bad Kern was fighting his own share of blood loss. He aimed for the sensitive areas of the wrists and ankles, but the man’s skin was tough and difficult to cut through effectively. Kern dropped and rolled out of the man’s reach, picking up a discarded axe along the way. Giving it a throw, he was rewarded by a solid stick in the man’s forehead. He fell instantly.
From the two men who had forgotten Kern to start their own brawl, a single victor stood. It was the same clawed arm man who caused Kern so much pain before. Not giving the man a chance to attack again Kern swung low, cutting o
ff one leg entirely and the other leg in half. Unable to stand, the man fell to his back. Kern stabbed down, intending to end it all with a clean hit to the heart. Unfortunately, unable to stand did not mean unable to fight. That clawed arm struck out and pulled Kern off his own feet. Kern hit the ground hard. Still struggling to pull air back into his lungs, he stabbed up under the man’s arm. Sharp metal tore into Kern’s forearm with every movement. Kern ignored the pain and pushed the sword in deeper, twisting it until the man stopped moving.
With a deep breath in, Kern crawled over to the woman and children. The children were afraid but alive. Kern lifted the woman off the children she shielded, even while unconscious. Her chest moved faintly with shallow breaths. He pulled a potion from his bag and poured it down her throat. She coughed but did not rouse. Her wounds were deep. She lived, but barely. It could take a dozen potions to heal her damage. Kern looked around the battlefield. People lay dead and dying. Zanden, having dispatched the other Cullers, now walked around handing out potions and doing field dressings.
Kern tried another potion on the woman, but like the first, it did very little to help her. He looked at the hopeful faces of the children she gave everything to save and pulled off his cloak, wrapping it around her broken body. Picking her up, he ignored the bruised and torn muscles of his arms and carried her. The children followed close behind. “Come with us,”
“Look over there,” one of the townspeople called from the top of the hill.
Kern took one look at the man’s face and climbed up to him to see what had him so afraid. Past the tree tops, and the foothills, at the base of the valley, sat a camp, a very large camp. They were too far away to make out many details, but from the number of fires and tents he saw, they were looking at a group of substantial proportions. “Let’s go,” he said, staring at the plumes of smoke and feeling a rise of terror run through him. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“What should we do?”
Traxton heard the mix of uncertainty and excitement in his friend’s question. Bricksben shifted, silent despite the dead grass and leaves at their feet. Martiene crouched beside him, equally quiet and just as excited. His eyes beamed. There were both practically salivating at the prospects of the battle ahead. On the other side of the tree line stood the thing the three of them had spent months searching for. They found the Culler camp.
But it was much larger than they expected. Cullers normally travelled alone or in small bands, quickly reduced by infighting or by people going off on their own. They abhorred order and rules. They thrived on chaos. Cullers were a force that could not be controlled or contained, only temporarily directed. They could never be completely destroyed. Even if every one of them was eradicated today, another would arise tomorrow. They were creatures of instinct, fed by bloodlust, crazed by snippets of knowledge and insights mortals were never meant to have and subjects of a god most of their kind did not know the name of. They worshipped him, not with prayers or rituals but with death and destruction. Their actions spread his teachings, infecting other susceptible minds with its corrupt meanings. They were pawns, used and thrown away as needed.
Yet, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of them here. They were traveling, living and fighting together, if reports of earlier raids were to be believed. And indeed, their own research supported those reports. Smaller groups did split off to plunder the random village, but they then rejoined the whole. It was unprecedented, and reason for pause. Going down there to face this horde would be suicide. While some armies may be tricked or demoralized by the magic clones their three man group often used to make their numbers appear greater, as they had with that gathering of warriors burning bodies at Breakeren, such ploys would not make a difference here. Traxton did not fear death, but to die for no reason, while their enemy survived, was pointless. They needed to learn more and develop a strategy of attack to wipe out as many of the enemy as possible.
“We wait.” He felt their eyes turn on him in surprise and disappointment. Their hatred of the Cullers ran deep, all the way to their gods. The Sublinates followed Randik, a god of war and battle. According to his teachings, conflict was inevitable, but through battle, skilled warriors could tap into the art of sublime combat
Raze gloried in destruction. It was not enough to defeat an opponent in open combat. You must tear their body to shreds, pummel their flesh and spirit, terrorize and break their minds, destroy their homes and families and wipe them completely out of existence. His followers carried these teachings into their treatment of their own bodies. Unlike Sublinates who used magic and training to meld with weapons to become a weapon, Cullers would rip and destroy their own flesh, forcing it to accept the weapons they shoved in their bodies. Instead of designing blades to grow with their bones, they replaced their bones with blades. They were completely out of harmony within themselves and the world.
It was argued by the early Cullers, before they lost their minds to the chaos, that destruction was also a natural component of war. While the Sublinates agreed with that sentiment, they also believed it was not an aspect of war to revel in. War was inevitable. Destruction was inevitable. There would always be conflicts and death. Wars served a purpose, to unite nations behind a cause, free people from oppression and settle disagreements. They were a natural process that allowed life to grow and develop. From the ashes new hope, governments and opportunities could form. By focusing completely on the destruction, they ignored the good and shamefully turned their attacks on noncombatants. It was dishonorable.
The Great War of Wars between Sublinates and Cullers raged on a good three decades and killed nearly everyone involved. Countries evacuated to make room for their battles. Those who felt the call of Raze or Randik travelled across continents to join in the conflict. Finally, lone survivors of various battles moved on, unaware who lived elsewhere. Thought extinct, they faded into the history scrolls, thus relegated to myths. The Sublinates now welcomed the anonymity. Travelling in secrecy, they tracked down reports of extreme cruelness and violence to put down newly awakened Cullers before their madness could spread. It was an endless, thankless task, but it was necessary.
“We can’t wait,” Bricksben argued. They are camped. We are away from any large towns. If we wait, they will continue to raid and grow even stronger.”
“We need to learn more about this moving camp of theirs,” Traxton cautioned. “They are organized. We are vastly outnumbered. We must determine their weakness before we act.”
“Info, got it,” Martiene said, bounding up from his position and slipping through the trees. He was invisible and gone before Traxton could argue. He shook his head. Martiene was one of the few in the world equally skilled in the blade and magic. Not as powerful as a full wizard, he could cast many useful combat spells. His unusual skill set made him impulsive and reckless at times. Whether out of need to prove himself to those better at weapon or hand to hand combat, or from an overabundance of confidence in the ability of his versatile skills to get him out of trouble, he often acted without hesitation or a plan.
Traxton nodded at Bricksben and motioned left. He took right. Moving silently, they circled the camp, taking position should Martiene need assistance.
* * *
Martiene systematically worked his way to the large tent at the center of the camp. It sat clustered in an area of other tents, but this one clearly stood out for its size and the clean, orderly condition of the surrounding area. The inside of the tent was quiet and still. Heavy fabric blocked many of the sounds from outside. Curtains offset three rooms within the tent.
The first was mostly empty, a large receiving room with a wooden bench on the far side and not much else of note. Curtains on either side of the bench led to the other two rooms, including one that served as a bedroom. The cot, nearly ten feet in length, took up most of the space. Beside it was a small table and lantern.
Pushing past the curtain to the other room he found an open chest of maps and notes. Sorting through them he
found cities scratched out all across the plains, down to the coast. There were even a few marks around the cliffs. As far as Martiene could tell, each mark indicated a place destroyed by Cullers. There were a lot of marks.
Flipping through the papers he found another set of maps highlighting areas further north. The marks on these maps seemed to indicate areas well known for skilled or powerful fighters. Checking the other maps, he saw many corresponding marks along the path they took. There was only one explanation he could reason for what he saw. They were recruiting new Cullers. Otherwise why would they travel directly through areas they knew would have the strongest opposition? Cullers loved a good fight, but this group was organized and obviously travelling with a destination in mind. By travelling this path, they weeded out weaker members and took on new people, thereby ensuring their army would continue to strengthen and grow as it moved. It was brilliant, but where were they going? What was the purpose behind everything?
Without warning, a blade pressed in at his throat. Martiene threw back his arm reflexively and hit the person holding the blade. She went tumbling through the curtain doorway, back into the entrance room. Pushing his way through the outside wall, Martiene ran, his caution and stealth lost in the urgency of the moment. He could hear the woman follow him through the camp. Others soon became aware of his presence and followed suit. Still clutching the maps, he pulled his hands together in a series of hand signals and cast his clone spell. Exact replicas ran off in each direction, confusing some of those pursuing him. Fighting his way to the edge of the camp, he saw Bricksben adding cover for his escape. He raised a hand in thanks only to see Bricksben fall mid bow pull by a spear to the chest. He could not see Traxton, but from the sound of battle on the opposite side of camp, he could wager a bet he was over there, too far to be of any immediate help.
