Fantasy Anthology: Book Five

1

Dry-Stacked Stone

Cries from dying men faded while the sun rose above the horizon. Those still alive knew they didn’t have long. They knew I was coming .

    The dry stacked stone archway--the entrance to Pollin Church--was all that remained of Township after the battle. It now served as a fitting gateway to the land of the dying and the dead. The church’s four walls had fallen during battle, yet the archway remained. A lone reminder that the gods still looked on.

    Once, the folk of Township crossed this threshold to walk amongst the gods. Now, we shall cross it to walk amongst the damned. Such is the life for a reaper, bringer of mercy to those who ask for it, or not. This is the life you choose?

     Yes, apprentice Jarls said.

    Just like the stones stacked upon one another to create a house fit for gods, the bodies and blood transformed the once lush grounds surrounding the church into a tableau of hell-on-earth, an irony which, in my mind, proved the gods ruled with a sense of humor despite what preachers may say to the contrary.

     Something funny? Jarls asked.

     It’s nothing, I said, not realizing I wore a smile on my face.

     The boy thinks you’re mad, the voice said. He’s a keen one, no?

I ignored him.

Not even a chuckle? I can’t fathom why testing an apprentice would cost you your sense of humor. I doubt he would think any less of you knowing you speak with the dead.

Not the dead. Just you, unfortunately, I found myself saying.

     What? Jarls asked.

     Sorry, I said, just thinking out loud. Recite the three tenets. I hoped to distract the boy, though his sneer told me it was a pathetic attempt.

     A reaper must be steadfast. A reaper must master emotion. A reaper must not compromise.

     And why must we strictly abide to those tenets?

     To rid the world of the condensed.

     Yes, I began, and today will be your first time performing the ritual outside of the coven, yes?

      Yes.

      And you’re aware of the danger involved. What can happen should things not go as practiced?

     Yes.

     Good. Then through the gates you walk, into hell. Into death. Should you become a reaper this day, you will be honored among brethren dating back a thousand years. Should you fail, your corpse will lay among those you save with your blades.

     The boy hesitated his first step, as I did. As we all do. The first step is a symbol, a commitment. An offer of one’s own life as if it were a token to be bet upon a game of chance with terrible odds. The brave and the foolish bear no distinction from the other.

     Jarls’ step beyond the dry-stacked stone archway sealed that commitment. Soon, he would sign it in the blood of his first.

     No matter where in the world a battle happens, no matter the names carried by bannermen, every outcome looks the same. Fire. Scorched earth. Pain and blood, the deadliest of cocktails. Creatures lurking about filling their pockets with treasures from the dead. Beasts lurking about looking for fresh meat.

Looks a lot like Nar Palton, doesn’t it?

The voice was right.

     You remembered to change this morning, Jarls?

     A reaper changes his blades every morning when outside of the coven, Practician.

     In your case, blade, I said. The boy already spoke like he was a reaper, you’ll earn the right to forge another sooner than you think.

     I only need one.

Oh, ho ho. I like him.

Confident, aren’t you? That’s good. But do not let your guard down. Not all men have learned to fear the reapers.

     The scent of festering wounds intermingled with that from the rotting corpses, bile, and shit. It is both the most foul and sweetest smell, for nothing stirred in this mass of bodies. We’d found the pile. The one left behind by those who attempted to honor the dead, only to realize how futile their efforts were. Men are too many these days. So rather than bury them, the pile was left to the dogs and the vultures. Even some brave treasure hunters, though fellow soldiers usually picked these clean under the guise of connecting with the deceased family. This was where we’d begin.

      They will learn to fear us. With my help.

He’s sold me. Where did you pluck this odd feather?

      Where do you come from?

      The boy looked at me like I’d just broken one of the tenets. Does it matter?

      No. I was merely going to suggest you think of home one last time before we begin. I pointed as a writhing mass by a tree.  Always look to the trees first, I said, the dying always go for the trees.

      The writhing mass was a series of makeshift tents, a single man moving between them. He stopped when he spotted us.

      It’s, uh, you… he said, a stocky man, not a warrior. His garb contained the many pockets of a field medic. This way, he said leading us over to a shaking tent. Spreading the flaps revealed a man tied to the ground. A great gash in his belly, judging from the deep red blood seeping from his soaked bandage. I’ve, uh, tried everything and, the man’s hands shook, his eyes pinked, I, uh, couldn’t do... the man had become a slave to his emotions. He was choked by them. Anyth--

      There’s no need, I put my hand on the man’s shoulder, you did everything right, saying to him what I said to all the others. People always wanted to hear that. Helps with guilt.

Poor bastard’s seen all his men slaughtered. I remember my medic.

       I ignored him.

       Jarls, I said, seal it. This time there was no hesitation. Why would there be? The boy turned and entered the tent. A strong whiff of hot iron and seared flesh came with him upon exit. The tent was now still. Thank you for leading us to him, I said to the man. You’ll take us to the others, yes?"

       He nodded.

#

The medic, Hamner told us about the battle. Some lord wanting lands that didn’t belong to him. All because the opposition had fallen upon hard times. Said it was better suited for a more competent leader. Petty squabbles like these were common.  

    Greed ultimately blinds conquerors to the fact that they fight two sides whenever going to battle. The third side has no allegiance to anyone.

    It’s a damn shame, Hamner went on, they’ve always been friendly toward each other. Waste of manpower if you ask me. Those trees are encroaching good farmland. Without the hands to keep ‘em back this’ll all be eaten by forest next five or so years. Another ten before enough able bodies to clear it back. By then it’s too much work. Less grow area, less food, in a time where we need to constantly produce more.

     You’re a farmer I take it, I said.  

     Was. He shook his head, then caught Jarls staring. Your boy don’t say much, does he?

     He’s not my son.

     Didn’t think so, no resemblance. Anyway, here.  

     Out across the field, a hazy smoke rolled into the sky behind bloody stalks of wheat knee high. Hamner stopped at the edge of the field. Have fun, be careful. I’d tell ya both you’re crazy for going over there, but I’ve met enough of you in the past to know I’d be wasting my breath.

     I nodded and stepped into the field, Jarls at my side. Holes in the carpet of wheat revealed the location of corpses matting down stalks. Our steps became slow, and deliberate.

    Look for shifting grass. I whispered. The shallow moans of the nearly dead began to rise as we neared the remnants of carnage. This was likely where the battle began. Tan stalks became marbled red and brown. Rich soil was slick with blood. The stench in the air was worse than the pile.

   There, Jarls said, pointing to a patch of moving stalks not far from us. I nodded, and Jarls took off, moving like a black snake through the stalks. A moment later a wisp of smoke rose from the stalkless area, Jarls returned shortly after.

    I studied his face. No guilt or remorse lay in his eyes. Taking the lives of others for the first time affected everyone in some way, though I’d yet to discover how it would affect Jarls. His face was still as stone, as usual.

    Any signs? I asked.

    None, he shook his head, almost looking disappointed.  

    It’s a good thing, I said. One should never wish the kind of pain it takes to produce a condensed upon anyone. The time for your first ritual will come. Be patient. There’s enough blood and pain in the world. You’ll have your fil.

    How many have you quelled?  

    I’ve lost count, I said, glad the boy was taking an interest, I’ve said the words more times than I care to remember. I’m proud to have done my part to fight the war against the third side.

    Is it true you he speaks through them? Once a condensed takes its host i mean.

   Such a thing is not in any book in the coven, where did you hear such nonsense?

Why must you continue to lie? You very well know he can.  In fact, I think he likes taunting you.

   He shrugged. People.

   Well I’d advise those people to stop spreading falsehoods. The Blood Mage Lincuan has been banished for a thousand years.

Best not to let the newcomers go in with the knowledge of the uphill climb they’re about to face, eh? Best to figure it out themselves?

Soon, upright stalks were no more and the bodies grew exponentially. Groans and cries from an endless choir singing about the woes of endless pain. Scattered limbs and bloody shields. Bent and broken steel like a naked wood made of hilts and bone. The air wore a stink which made the pile seem like potpourri. Crows, both in the air and on the ground, nipped at gaps in armor and the slits on visors. Skulls crushed by a stallion’s shoe. Missing limbs on almost everyone.

   Oil, I said, nodding at Jarl’s gloves, we’ve work to do. I uncorked the glass vial, upending it quickly, then back. I worked it into my thick black gloves into a nice even coating. Then I lit one and two. White-hot, I began sliding the tips of my blades into the skulls of those unfortunate enough to still be alive. My blades were the only aid these men would get. Modern men feared the dying. Rightfully so.

    There, I said, point at ribbons of red rising from a writhing body, floating up and fading as if the body were the remnants of an evening’s cookfire. The early signs. It hasn’t progressed far enough to begin the process. We’ve arrived in time.

He’s staring again.

    Well? I said motioning toward the soldier. Like his step through dry-stacked stone archway, his blade hesitated. It was nothing more than a moment, though it was a somewhat unsettling pause. Finish it.

    Jarls white-hot blade hissed as it sunk into the flesh. No blood for our enemy. There was enough here already.   

    Pushing on, moans bellowed as we were seen, blades hissing, burning flesh adding to the menagerie of putrid stink. Those able to crawl did so, shuffling away as if their existence was somehow worth clinging to.

    One man, leaning upright on a pile of corpses lifted his blade on my approach. I put my boot into the hilt, it squelched, sinking into the mud under my weight. I put two