Author’s notes: This is a story from the war between the Dorians and the native tribes of Akretera during the invasion. Knowledge of the specific events is not essential; it can be read alone. For more information regarding Akretera visit my webpage.

Gory and disturbing, of course.

To the victor the spoils

We are all going to die.

Kleron’s knees suddenly refused to support him, and he sank on the ground. He felt old. A deeply rooted sense of duty urged him to conceal his despair. Should the warriors see him lose heart, the remnants of their courage would be seriously damaged. On this cloudy morning, the shaman’s apprentice felt the weight of his duty heavy upon his shoulders. He leaned backwards, rested his back on a tree trunk blackened by fire and his gaze traveled upon the defenders of the town walls.

Leaning against fallen boulders and broken beams, his comrades stole a few moments of restless sleep while the enemy regrouped. Even in rest, the same weary shadow clouded their faces. None could ever doubt their valor; in this forgotten part of the island, however, they were significantly outnumbered. During the past few days, they had watched their homes burn, their kinsmen fall and their families in despair. The jolt of painful emptiness in his gut reminded him of the few food supplies left. As if the fear of hunger had not troubled them enough, the warriors faced great difficulties restocking in spears and arrows from outside the gates, risking their lives every time they sneaked out. Still, their slings and hatchets were of little use against the heavy armored invaders and, by now, they had lost all hope of outside help.

Kleron rubbed his sore eyes. Nobaro, his mentor and the town’s shaman, had been gravely wounded and lay feverish, lingering between life and death, unable to invoke the power of the Daemons against their enemies. Many others also lay dead or wounded, several children among them. As a shaman’s apprentice Kleron did everything in his power to assist them, despite his limited skills. At this grave moment, he regretted he never studied hard, memorizing more herbal recipes, taking notes and harvesting plants, tree barks and flowers. His limited knowledge proved out to be enough an obstacle and a burden, and in addition he could no longer find fresh herb supplies, nor could he rest. Guilt, fear and exhaustion resulted in restless sleep during the past nights.

Before his injury, the shaman heard in the cry of the owl that most clans on the island faced similar threats. The war raged everywhere and the future seemed bleak. Surrender was not an option. In the Old Tongue the word for surrender had an additional meaning; that of shameful death. At this dark moment, death lurked just outside the walls and victory seemed impossible.

Kleron closed his eyes. He tried to focus the way Nobaro had instructed him, in order to send his mind to the misty realm the shamans walked within and request the advice of the Higher Spirits. This is pointless, he thought bitterly. I will never make it, without the old shaman’s voice guiding me through the otherworld. His eyelids felt heavy. If I could only rest for a moment…With no assistance from his mentor and the sacred brews that were traditionally used in such rituals, instead of entering the astral realm he drifted away into a tormented slumber.

In the embrace of a haunted mist he floated towards a ghostly fire. Fleshless lips brushed his ears, whispering in forgotten tongues, and unseen talons reached out to grasp him and pull him deeper into the mists. Suddenly, clear sounds of laughter made them flee, leaving Kleron alone. It was neither the shy giggle of a maiden nor the careless chuckle of a toddler; it was the insane laughter of an ageless being. With his heart fluttering desperately inside his chest, Kleron struggled to escape the grip of the dream. Somewhere between dreaming and waking, while the remnants of his nightmare still lingered on, he caught a glimpse of a surreal scene; under a deadly moon a crooked form stood on a crossroads, its long white hair flowing to the midnight wind.

He woke up gasping.

Trying to still his galloping heart, Kleron realized that in his dream he had found guidance.

The path before him now lay clear.

~*~

Under the cover of darkness, Kleron sneaked out of the walls and made his way to the narrow piece of land that separated the city walls from the invaders’ camp. His saw his hands trembling. I am not scared, he thought. I am not. I am just tired and famished. That’s it, weariness and malnutrition. Not fear. The grace of the Daemons will shield me from hostile eyes.  He clenched his teeth. I will not give in to fear, he promised himself and moved cautiously. Beneath a starless sky, the shaman’s apprentice picked the ingredients needed for his ritual. Soil mingled with blood; the sigh of a dying man gathered in a flask made of human hide; the eyelashes of those who lay dead with their eyes open, forever staring into the abyss. All this and more he gathered, bloodied remnants disgusting to uninitiated eyes.

In his secluded room, Kleron stood before a fire burning and a cauldron bubbling, reciting the forbidden words he heard as a child during Manathana; the celebration of the Death Daemon Sadatix. The rules of his Order forbade apprentices to study or attend this ritual, let alone perform it; for good reason. Unbeknownst by the elders, however, Kleron had sneaked away from his hut and managed to get a glimpse of the fabled ceremony. During the dark of the moon, eerie words reached his ears, strange smells teased his nostrils and a tremor traveled down his spine when he heard the leading shaman speak with another’s voice; the voice of Death. Entranced, he remained still and watched the ritual, its words and tools forever engraved in his mind. In this time of need, Kleron saw no other course of action.

The shaman’s apprentice removed all his clothes and stood exposed before the flames, tossing his harvest from the battlefield into the boiling water. He moved slowly around the fire, inhaling deeply and focusing on the land around him, feeling every man, every leaf, every creature that crawled or flew. His heart beat at the rhythm of the dying, slowly, slowly. Then it accelerated as now his rhythm matched that of the sentries, the men concerned with the safety of their families. Then it slowed down again and the air he breathed in carried the scents of moss and dew, as his mind merged with the forest. The air lashed his face as he saw through the eyes of the owl during her midnight hunt. Unaware of the passing of time and half-conscious of his human body, Kleron noticed that the fire had died out and the brew had cooled down. He then reached inside the cauldron and anointed his skin with the brew from head to toe, leaving not one hair or nail uncovered.

A tingle of fear teased his stomach as he uncorked the flask of human skin and inhaled deeply from the dying breaths.

His mind became a sky full of exploding stars as the Death Daemon invaded his mind, drawn to him by the ancient ritual. The cackle of an insane hag echoed inside his skull as Kleron lost control of his body. He then lost more than that. In a bright flash of pain his muscles turned to decayed flesh; a thick mass of unkempt, white hair now veiled his face. Less than a living being, little more than a shadow, his new form floated just above ground, riding the midnight breeze.

What remained of his consciousness had difficulty in keeping track of this form’s actions. He saw himself, as if in a dream, floating over walls and roofs and coming down upon the invaders’ camp. His gut burned with a different fire now; hunger for life, thirst for living breath. Putrid lips kissed the faces of the sleeping enemies, fleshless fingers caressed the eyelids of the resting foes. Through eyes not his own, Kleron saw them stir in their sleep. Some raised a hand as if to rid themselves from an unseen insect, yet nothing could guard them from the song of the dead breathed upon them. Some grimaced, feeling their blood infiltrated by a deadly poison, but none of them woke up.

None of them would ever wake up again.

~*~

One of the Dorian invaders did wake up. By the favor of some capricious Spirit he rose from his sleep to find every one of his comrades dead. Merciful Lathrys, he thought, what has happened here? No answer came from the Moon Goddess, as he walked among the corpses littered around the camp. The Dorian was no stranger to death, battlefields and mutilated bodies, but this sight made his vision momentarily blur. His eyes burned, almost shut by dried secretions. The Captain of the Guard, his brothers in arms, his blood and his kin had perished during the night. Evil magic is at work here, he thought. A throbbing pain inside his skull and the stinging in his eyes made daylight unbearable, so he retreated inside the nearest tend, only to face even more death. His heart clenched with anger and grief at the sight of the strong, virile bodies that had somehow turned to corpses, their flesh and skin eaten away by deep, purulent ulcers. Then the sudden itch made him scratch his lower back. Even through his sore eyelids he saw his bloodied fingers.

Decay claimed his own body as well.

This has to be the doing of the native savages, I’m sure of it, he thought. Only a horrid gurgling sound came from his throat, as he tried to curse them. The last of the Dorian troops brought is fist down on a table, howling in despair. The shooting pain up his arm drove him to his knees. He lay there crouched, drenched in cold sweat, aware that he would soon join his comrades. As his life drifted away, hatred fuelled his blood for one last act of vengeance. They will not live to gloat over our corpses, he vowed. I will see to that, even if it’s the last thing I do.

A soul-tearing pain made him gasp as he tried to stand up. He stubbornly tried to ignore it, but his body refused to comply. Instead of walking, he started to crawl, each movement tearing away a part of his skin and a part of his soul. For my brothers in arms, he chanted in his head. For those Death took in their sleep and not in battle, as their deserved. The pain only added to his determination as he slowly made his way uphill, above the natives’ town, leaving a fetid, bloody trail in his path. For my Captain, the greatest man I’ve ever known, whose skill with the sword was unmatched. Scraps of his flesh were caught on the bushes in his passing, but he had long crossed the threshold of pure hatred. For my Lord and my honor. Pain lay beyond him.

His vision blurred as he reached the mountain spring on the hillside. During the past few days, all attempts to stop the water flow and thus cut the natives’ water supply had failed, due to the unfriendly terrain and the narrow, snake-like trails. In this spring, though, he saw the means that would ensure his vengeance and his victory; even in death. Clenching his teeth, he rose from the ground, determined to die on his feet and not on his stomach. The last of the Dorian war party could see nothing by now; he still heard the crystal sound of waters beneath him.

Raising his hands as wings, he let himself fall.

His spirit had long left his body when he hit the rocks below, his half-decayed flesh opening up and breaking to pieces. Black blood smeared the rocks and dripped slowly into the laughing waters. Torn limbs fell into the stream, turning the water lethal and carrying the dead man’s revenge to the town below.

~*~

Kleron regained consciousness in a dark, cool room. The smell of a long cold hearth told him that time had passed; how much was unclear. Is it over? He heard no sounds of warfare, of weapons clanking and people dying. Spirit of the Crossroads, is it truly over? His muscles still ached and his senses were numb after the Daemon’s invasion. The hope of victory lifted the burden from his heart and his sore body seemed nothing more than an inconvenience in the anticipation of the joyful celebrations. Gathering all of his strength, he pulled himself up and stepped out of his hut to see the aftermath of his forbidden ritual.

The siege was indeed over.

No one celebrated in the streets of the small town. No children laughed and danced, chasing each other with wooden swords. No maidens sang, no warriors and hunters feasted on freshly killed game and ale, sharing tales of valiant deeds. Kleron, in horror, walked through the silent streets, among the corpses of the people of the town, stepping over the horrid remains of the women and the children who had died in agony; the people he had sworn to protect.

Sweet Mother of Dolphins, the children!

Dead, by his hand. Dead, by his doing, still clutching their wooden toys as talismans against a foe they could not fight. Their blood soiled his hands. I only wanted to save them, he thought desperately. I never meant to harm them. Only then did he realize that some rituals lay beyond his reach for good reason.

What have I done?

Despair and guilt overwhelmed him and unlocked his mind’s door to insanity. Howling like a cursed soul, Kleron ran through the streets and to the hills, his feet covered by the blood of the people he had sworn to protect.

Legend has it that on the hills at the NorthShores of Akretera a ghost town can be found. No living creature ever walks on its streets; no bird nests on its trees. Above the town there is a spring of laughing water. A hooded figure is often seen there, a man with haunted eyes who invites the unaware travelers to rest under the trees and share with him a cup of fresh, clear water.

Woe to all who accept their offer, for they are never seen again.