Blackest Knights

by Phipps, C. T.

  “I’ll kill you, bastard!” He screamed, voice cracking.

  At that moment, he understood death wouldn’t be quick.

  Killing’s never ending, like once you start taking a shit, you’ve got to finish. It’s a messy piece of work, sometimes coming on you unexpectedly. The urge impossible to ignore. You feel bloated and sick, and even as you stand over the bleeding corpse, there’s a sense of relief. A hollow emptiness close to euphoria. When I returned home to find no home standing, the urge to take a shit was real strong.

  While I’d bloodied my sword on the blue-painted Calty goat-prickers along the east bank, the bastard Forseth marched up from the south, looting and burning our villages. It had to be Forseth, because he was a cowardly shit, waiting for the warriors to leave before taking everything we had. I came upon the first ruins my mouth went dry, and my skin turned icy. Then a second, and finally my own. Ash and stone and broken bodies scarred the land where farms once stood. Forseth’s men took everything— livestock, grain, women, and children.

  Nothing remained for me except a whole lot of killing to start up again, a whole lot of shit to take care of. I was one man. The last remaining warrior to return to my village. I couldn’t do it alone. Ursoth was to the west. Forseth, more of a mangy cur than wolf, didn’t have the stones to attack a place as big as Ursoth. Murder, pillage, rape, and run to the hills was his style. My sword thirsted for the blood of these cowards. To take back a measure of what I lost.

  Carrying my meager belongings, I took the road west. Moonlight was my sole companion, illuminating ghosts among the trees. The people who once traversed these paths, herding sheep and cattle, carting grain or goods to nearby villages, were all dead. Sorrowful eyes stared out at me. Bodies split apart, limbs missing, and blood-drenched. These silent watchers kept me from straying off the path. The heat of daylight burned them away, allowing me to escape their daunting gaze. By day, I swore to avenge them. Let the soil drink their murders’ blood. I slept away from the road, in the very trees haunted at night, and dreamt of blood and screams, waking sweaty, heart racing.

  One morning the world full of screams bleed from my head into reality.

  I woke and heard a woman’s shriek. Grabbing my sword, I hunted the sound. A young woman darted between the trees, running blind and glancing over her shoulder more often than looking forward. Two men scurried after her, gaining on her until they were a few paces back. I pressed against a tree. Panic radiated off her as she rushed past. I let the first man go, drawing a dagger from my belt. As soon as I heard the second stomp through the brush, I let him pass a step or two beyond, before leaping from behind.

  My blade sank into his neck, driving up through his skull. He toppled, taking my dagger with him. I let it go and chased after the first man. He’d caught the girl by then, wrapping large arms around her and dragging her to the ground. Her head smacked on a root, and I heard her cry out.

  “Got you, bitch,” the man said and laughed. “My, my, you’ll make a fine wife. Hey Gallard, won’t she make a fine—”

  He turned back, and the smile on his face fell away. My sword sliced through his neck, warm blood splattering over my arm and chest. The man’s head thumped against his chest, and he dropped on the girl, spraying her with his life’s blood. She screamed again, smacking his slack face and making the head jounce. More blood squirted over her.

  I grabbed the body and rolled it off her. She rewarded me by kicking my shin, boot heel grinding against bone. “Shit!” I limped back, dropping my sword and holding my empty hands out to her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Wh-who are you?” She dug her palms into the dirt and shoved away from me.

  “The one who saved you from these bastards.” I knelt beside the nearly decapitated man. He had a brand over his left eye— three squiggly lines, horizontal like worry lines, painted in black dye. A Forseth man. I spat on his gaping face. Then I tore his head from the scraps of sinews and flesh attaching it to his shoulders. I drop-kicked it. The head spun through the branches and skidded across the ground. One more ghost to haunt me.

  The woman stared at me in horror.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I owed it to him and the other,” I said. I retrieved my sword and wiped the blood on the dead man’s ass. “They killed every man in my village, took the women and children. They would’ve taken you, too. Made you a wife and sow their bastards in you. Two less now for me to kill.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I have my own problems without carrying someone else’s.”

  “Can you help me get back to Ursoth?”

  I walked away.

  “Please,” she said. “I know some people, warriors like yourself. They can help you, as payment for helping me.”

  Temptation hangs like overripe fruit from the lowest branch for a hungry man to devour. The gods take, and the gods provide. I just didn’t know which this was, but I reached for it anyway. Hungry men have to eat.

  “Fine,” I said. “Keep close and try not to make any sound.”

  I heard her tramping along behind me.

  “My name is Kireth,” she said. “Kireth Danesford.”

  I said nothing. My teeth ground together at the name. Danesford, Thane of Ursoth. Damn bastard sent us to war against the Calty while he sat fat and drunk on his wicker throne. Oh gods! Here I was rescuing his daughter. Low hanging fruit.

  I hooked my bloody thumbs into my belt and tried to ignore her.

  Near dead must’ve been good enough for consumption. Flesh still warm and salted by the heat drawing the last of it from his pours, the raven agreed. Near dead was dead enough. The sun had burned his eyes so he couldn’t see more than a white haze. Alone in his thoughts. Alone as he died with each passing of the sun, though not fast enough. Alone. He took comfort in the raven’s visits. Even if he was slowly becoming a meal, at least he wouldn’t die alone.

  His dark tormentor returned right after sunrise. The festering wounds where the razor wire cut into his arms squirmed and began to stink. Fat, white worms crawled around his flesh, eating away the dead parts while wriggling into the meaty fat cooking under the sun.

  The raven—he assumed it was the same one—landed close to his right hand. He tried to turn his forearm, reach up and grab it by the legs. If he could somehow pinch it between his fingers, he might be able to tear off the thin legs the way it tore off his ear. Might as well will the sun to burst and throw them all into darkness.

  The raven croaked a deep, hungry sound. It danced away from his hands, closer to the trapped meal.

  “Gods morrow, friend,” he said, swollen tongue scraping against his gums. Words hurt, but it hurt worse not to talk. “Here to break fast?” A dry laugh. “Wish I could.”

  The raven’s black eyes blinked. It took a tentative step.

  “You already ate that part,” he said. “Come to the other side. Still some remaining.”

  Another step, shivers running along the razor wire, digging deeper into his flesh.

  “What will it be today? A bit of nose? Gooey eyeball?”

  The raven leaned in for a kiss. Its sharp beak tore a strip of flesh from his shriveled upper lip. He screamed, and the raven’s wings beat against his face as it took flight.

  “Come back!” He tried to cry but his eyes dried up. “Gods! Come back!”

  Blood trickled over his brown stained teeth. He sucked it, waiting to die.

  We arrived in Ursoth after a rather disappointing journey. I had hoped to find more of Forseth’s men, but the closer we got to the walls, the better I understood; I got lucky with the two I did kill. To make the journey even more special, Kireth wouldn’t shut her mouth. She asked about my family, about the war, what it felt like to take a man’s life and on and on. My single grunt seemed enough of a response, and she deciphered it however she wanted.

  The one time I did engage her in conversation was more to sate my curiosity.
r />   “What were you doing outside of Ursoth?” I asked.

  “Running away,” she said and laughed. “Guess I didn’t get too far.”

  Ursoth was a typical town, smelling of sweat, feces— animal and human—grizzly meat roasting, and old yeast. I planned on going straight to Danesford and ask for a blood honor. Escorting his daughter safely back to his hearth should go a long way in convincing him. We got strange stares from the guards, and a woman hurried her child across the rutted path as we approached. Then I remembered we still wore the blood of Forseth’s men.

  “We look like shit,” I muttered.

  “And smell worse.” Kireth agreed. “We need to clean up before going to see my father and get a fresh set of clothes.”

  “I have no coin,” I said, though I carried a small pouch tucked into my boot and another wrapped at the bottom of my pack. If Danesford wouldn’t honor a blood debt, I would need it to hire some men. Good fighting men weren’t cheap.

  “Lucky for us, I have enough.” She smiled, took my hand and led me to the nearest building. A frothing mug was painted on the sign, but no words. Reading wasn’t a priority when thirst and rutting were the only satisfaction one required.

  The inn, Frothing Mug I named it, was empty. A bored woman wiped a rag across the wooden board they called a bar. She perked up at seeing Kireth. Tossing the rag onto the bar and straightening her corset to expose more cleavage, she grinned and waved us over.

  “What can I get you fine—” She cut off, noticing our bloody crusted clothes. “Were you attacked on the road or something?”

  “Or something,” I responded.

  She eyed me, backing away and glanced over her shoulder at the door to the kitchen.

  “We need a room, a tub, and some hot water,” Kireth said, holding up a pouch.

  I cocked my eyebrow at the one room.

  “Yes, Mistress Danesford,” the woman said.

  “And a fresh set of clothes,” Kireth added. “We’ll leave these outside the room, so you get an idea of fitting.”

  “I’ll be sure to send my boy,” the woman said. “Supper will be served at the fifth bell.”

  “Thank you.” Kireth handed her the pouch. “Any more cost, send my father the bill.”

  We were given a room at the far corner of the tavern. A metal tub had been set up, filled with hot water and rose scented lye soap sat on a sponge. I tried to leave the room as Kireth disrobed, but she blocked the door.

  “It’s alright,” she said, tugging on my trousers and peeling my crusted jerkin over my head. She traced a finger along the scar across my chest. Then led me to the tub. The water was hot, turning my skin red as soon as I stepped inside. My muscles tensed and then begin to relax. Kireth stepped in after me, sitting between my legs and handing me the sponge and bar of soap. I began to scrub the dirt and blood from her back and shoulders. The water quickly turned murky. She kissed me as I handed her the sponge. Our skin had wrinkled like dried prunes, and the water was nearly cold by the time we finished and climbed out.

  Furs covered the bed, and we shivered, covering ourselves. Kireth lay on me, and I felt her hand work to stiffen me again. The temptation was too sweet. Her touch gentle and body soft body. I grabbed her firm breasts and slipped inside her. Her mouth worked over my ear, teeth nibbling the lobe and moved onto my upper lip and tongue. As we neared climax, she bit my neck.

  A heavy fist pounded the door.

  “Kir! I know you’re in there!” A voice growled.

  “Who?” I whispered.

  “My husband,” she said and shrugged.

  The doorframe shuddered and then splintered. The man standing in the shattered frame was a full head taller than me, bull-necked and wide shouldered. His jaw worked like he was chewing nails, ready to spit metal. Brown eyes widened, and nostrils flared. He let out a roar and rushed into the room. I shoved Kireth off me and fought the furs to pull free. If I got caught up, I was a dead man.

  “I’ll kill you, son-of-a-bitch.” The charging bull-husband lunged, fingers twisted into claws. I caught his arms below the wrist, twisting, so his momentum carried him over me rather than through me as he intended, and he slammed into the wall beside Kireth. I tumbled to the floor, kicking and scrambling away. Fighting nude puts one at a disadvantage. Fighting an enraged husband, you didn’t know you cuckolded doubles the odds against you.

  “Henrick! Don’t.” Kireth tried to hold him back.

  Henrick turned his rage on her, slamming his fist into her gut. I felt almost relieved. It wasn’t my fault I was a copper piece in a high-stakes card game. Besides, Kireth fought back, clawing at his face. I got to my feet, looked at my exit and my sword belt a few feet away. My options dropped to two: kill the husband or streak naked across town. Neither seemed favorable to obtain Danesford’s assistance.

  Kireth screamed, drawing my attention back to her struggle. Her hands were tangled in Henrick’s hair, and she held on, riding his bucking head, but his mouth latched onto her throat like a dog bring down a hart. Blood trickled down her shoulder. I sighed. He would kill her and then come for me next. Two options dissolved into one. I reached my sword, drew it from the scabbard and thrust the blade into the man’s spine. Blood splashed our sweat glistened bodies.

  Henrick let out a howl and tried twisting away. This allowed Kireth to kick and shove her way from beneath him, while he pawed at the blade in his back. I pinned him to the bed, steel sinking deeper into flesh, tearing muscle the way a knife cuts into warm bread. Henrick bucked again, and I felt the blade slice through the other side. It struck the mattress, blood covered feathers gushing out. Henrick fought it, screamed, cutting his hands badly as he reached for the blade. Then he gave a final shriek before going stiff. His whimpers told me he wasn’t dead.

  “Stop!” Kireth yelled. I don’t know if it was at me or her cuckolded husband.

  I released my grip on the sword.

  “What did you do?” Kireth asked.

  “What did I do? I’m not the one whose husband is trying to kill us both!” I searched around for something to cover myself up.

  Heavy footfalls approached the room, and two guards filled the doorway. They looked at me, nude and bloody, a step away from a sword in a man’s back, then to Kireth, also naked and bloody, more blood seeping from a bite wound to her neck. Then to the man, leaking blood all over the bed.

  “By the gods, what—” one man began to say.

  “He did it.” Kireth pointed a shaking finger at me. “He tried to rape me and killed my husband.”

  ““Oh fuck!” I tore the blade from the cuckolded husband’s back and deflected the blade, swung low and hamstrung the man. The second nearly took my shoulder off, and I rolled to the opposite side, crouching like a nude monkey. “I know this looks bad, but—”

  There was no but. To save my own ass, I had to kill the man who was trying to kill me. As distracting fighting nude must be, fighting a nude man must prove more for the attacker. The man chopped down and missed. My blade didn’t. Blood bubbled from the man’s lips, and he clutched at his throat.

  “Why?” I asked Kireth.

  “You were a dead man before you came to town.”

  I didn’t get a chance to ask her what she meant. I heard more yells and feet thumping on floorboards. Fuck clothes, because they didn’t do a dead man justice beyond being a cover for his corpse. I streaked out of the room. Three more men blocked the Frothing Mug’s doorway. I cut down two and would have killed the third, but a heavy object crashed against my head. Shadows danced, and I spun, catching sight of Kireth’s breasts. Such firm forbidden fruits consumed by a man who should have starved.

  “Where are your friends?” he asked the raven.

  The black harbinger of life and death landed on his right side. The meat probably looked fresher there. He felt baked, ready to close his eyes and never open them again. The raven had other plans. It hopped along the razor wire, nimble as a fucking coal dancer, no wounds or worries. The gods cared for l
ittle birdies and fire walkers more than they did for man.

  “I’ll be your friend, if you let me,” he said. “Come a little closer.”

  The raven’s beak dug into the exposed wound on his arm, drawing out a white worm and tipping back its gullet, swallowing the hapless creature. It dipped in, beak snatching, and ate, sometimes mixing his flesh and the bloated squirming bodies. White bone was visible beneath the black skin.

  “There’s not enough of you finish me in such little bites,” he said and cackled. “Such easy fruits. Beware. It might bite you back.” He snapped his jaw weakly.

  Maybe the raven was a god. Yes! A god was consuming him, carrying him off to the Brightlands one beak-full at a time. He wouldn’t die until the raven had taken the last bit of flesh.

  “Eat me,” he muttered and laugh. “Eat all of me.”

  The raven stared into his glassy eye, and he saw a dark eternity. It made the clucking noise, the strange choking laughter. And took off.

  “Come back!” he cried, throat aching. Words rasped into dusty air. “Let me die. Please. Please.”

  The gods laughed while he suffered. Suffering was part of salvation. Fuck’em. He was damned anyway.

  When I woke, my hands and feet were chained. I wore a stained tunic and some itchy trousers. My bare feet dangled on the floor while two men supported me. Danesford sat on his wicker chair, fat belly sticking out and a cup of foul-smelling liquid in his hand. He tossed the contents in my face, and I vomited. A glance at Kireth, eyes shining and stone-faced, told me all I needed to know. This wasn’t a trial, but a speech before the execution. I despised speeches almost as much as I did being executed.

  “We protect your lands from the Calty and this is the thanks I get.” He leaned over his fat belly, disgust curling his lumpy lips. “You kill my daughter’s husband, a retainer of the north, and try to rape her. What kind of animal—” He burped, and the old yeast smell blew into my face.

  “Forseth burned and pillaged my village while I was gone,” I said, playing a last gambit. “They took all my people.”