Bennett strode the well-worn pathways of his encampment, the day was fine but still unusually cool considering the season was fast heading into spring. He idly wondered if the heat would be as oppressive this year, the weather had sure been strange. Dust coated the toes and soles of his once bright, black biker boots and he looked up to the sky with his equally cold blue eyes and sighted a half-eaten moon visible by daylight.
My how he had fallen in the recent year. Unlike many who were just happy to be still among the living, Wezley Bennett always wanted more. Where had he erred, he thought somewhat miserably, as he paced with purpose toward the ammunition storage that was situated close by his own domicile.
Perhaps it was the need for safe water, the desire to cling to its safety and proximity that had been his biggest failing? Not even beginning to question that he was just lucky to still be counted among the living after the turmoil of the war, and the chaos that ensued. Perhaps he should have made more use of the remaining, cars, and motorcycles before the fuel had finally faded. He could see in hindsight that decisions that may have seemed trivial in those early days, would now return to affect him greatly.
The cruel leader realized that he would have to inspire his remaining men who now numbered very few. He had only six men left, and he knew could count on five of them; however, he was not so sure of Sven anymore. The big man had lost his desire for blood, that much was evident. Bennett wondered if it was a product of his disfigurement, or perhaps he had a family and more to lose than the others did. Either way, he felt he could no longer depend on the big man, as his loyalties lie elsewhere.
He didn’t like that thought much, he had killed men for far less. Yet even one as cold-blooded as Wezley felt he at least owed something to this man, that friend who had stood by him so steadfastly for the past eight years. Perhaps when he departed, and he knew he must, he would free Sven from his duty. Leave him behind with the few slave women and his child. They were little use to him after all. They could take their chances here in the wastes, but his future lie further south.
He had originally intended to stay here a bit longer, however, with the escape of Jormugar he reasoned it may well be time to depart this place. He was stalling the inevitable after all. The weather had improved, and there was little excuse not to leave.
He inwardly admonished himself for letting the man abscond, it had been uncharacteristically careless of him. He didn’t rightly know what he sensed, but he felt that staying in this place may bring more misfortune to him. Jormugar had freely confessed to being a bounty hunter, that fact did not necessarily worry Bennett. As far as he was aware there would be no reason for the ‘civilized’ world to level any bounties against any who dwelt here, with the exception perhaps of Gareth. Any and all acts of savagery his men had committed had occurred after the commencement of complete societal breakdown. But the feeling was there regardless.
His meandering stroll had brought him to the doors of a shipping container patched in peeling blue paint and spotted in rust. They were padlocked shut with a sturdy length of chain. He fumbled with black-gloved hands for the keys tucked into the breast of his beaten leather jacket. The lock resisted at first, and Bennett had to tap it roughly to remove the sand in the mechanism. The noise is strident in the silent camp. Begrudgingly the key grated into the lock and the chain slid to the sand.
The door hinges moaned in protest in their un-oiled state, as he pushed wide one of the doors to enter. There the eight gray warheads sat to the fore of the storage, behind them were ammunition crates and an assortment of plastic boxes housing all manner of projectiles. The gold brass of their metal casings shone in the half-light, like that of a pirate trove. Weapons leaned on the sides of the shipping container, rifles standing on their stocks, sharp-bladed axes and knives interspersed with the occasional sword.
His stock in trade, the tools of war. Without which he was nothing. He knelt, pulling off his kid skin gloves, and touched the casings with his rough, battle-scarred hands. It was as though he were communing with death, and his thin cruel lips twisted into an almost deranged smile.
These beauties were the answer to that which he sought, he ruminated, as he caressed the steel bodies of the projectiles like a lover. How though to deploy them? They were made to be dropped from aircraft, there had to be another solution, but no one here in his camp had the technical ability to give him that answer. He had been wracking his brain over this problem ever since he laid eyes on them, yet he had come up empty.
He knew one thing though, they must go back for more. Perhaps he may find an answer to his conundrum if they returned to Wentworth.
*****
Later that very day Bennett had sent Gareth and Dwayne back to the oasis in the hope that some of the horses had survived the winter to be in good enough condition to travel. They would use one of the two drays that were parked on the rise overlooking the camp if they had two strong animals to pull it that was.
He hoped the men would return bearing good news. At times the leather-clad marauder felt as though he was fast running out of options, and he wondered if truly he could take that fortress of his dreams with but a handful of men and a few well-placed weapons? The odds were stacked against him, he had failed miserably last time after all, and after the escape of Renard he had no bargaining chip left with the folk of the farmlands.
In the dark, as he lay next to his slave boy that evening the idea even to him seemed ludicrous. Yet he had to try, for a Warlord with no one to lead would be no Warlord at all. He was afraid of being relegated to a thing of the past. A dinosaur.
*****
Nathan knew that in a few days, it would be time to say goodbye to this cursed valley forever. This place’s meaning had been little more than a backdrop to terror. He had lost so much of himself here, and yet he had somehow prevailed. He was actually pleased they would leave, though he still had many reservations about where they would travel to, and how he would fare. He was compared to the other men lacking in robust physicality. What the frail youth failed to understand was his inner strength was mighty. He knew one thing though as he settled into his Master’s bedroll and warm embrace. He would be the best slave there ever was. His jade eyes closed, and he snuggled against the warmth at his back. He felt the caress of the large possessive hands on him, reveling in it, he smiled, the emotion completely hidden by his now quite lengthy wall of platinum hair. Sleep soon claimed him.
The young man who had suffered much was no stranger to terrible dreams, even his nicer ones seemed to always evolve into nightmares. He had always put it down to the trauma he had experienced both at the onset of the war and during his time as Bennett’s slave. His life always felt precarious, and there were moments he felt he may never live to see tomorrow morning. He never knew if he would eat or not, or suffer yet another cruel and painful beating for the slightest mistake. Naturally in this environment, the young man’s thoughts always turned to the worst-case scenario.
He often had the strangest and darkest dreams that would pursue him into gasping wakefulness. This night was no exception, and yet it was…
*****
All about him was death, nothing but reeking, decaying death. The vile stench of it overwhelmed his nostrils, it was so overpowering he felt the need to vomit. He clutched at his heaving stomach, and wondered how in a dream one’s sense of smell could even exist?
Nathan looked about him, it appeared he was quite alone on a battlefield. The sky above was an unforgiving shade of somber gray, and a light mist fell. Everything was wet, beaded with droplets of dark water mixed with congealing, sticky blood, creating a soup of pestilence. Silver armor and sharp-bladed weapons shone through the grime. All the combatants were dead, absent were the sobs, cries, or screams of the dying. Just a wretched silence, pervaded by a faint indistinct humming barely audible to his ears.
Nathan trod carefully, the earth beneath his feet treacherous, infused with blood, gore, and black water. The soles of his worn shoes slipped beneath him and he threatened to stumble to his knees in the wretched hellscape.
Nathan gazed all about him, corpses of the dead as far as he could see, hundreds, no thousands of slain men littered the ground, reaching all the way about him to the far horizon. So where should he go, how to escape this?
Something slowly crawling caught his eye, a solitary life in all this death. An iridescent beetle not unlike a depiction of an Egyptian scarab. He bent down still holding his torn shirt over his mouth to stifle the stench, though now he had become more inured to its wretchedness, and picked the creature up. It was of a greater weight than he was expecting it to be as he examined it closely in his hand. Its hard carapace almost felt metallic and gleamed with a sickening shade of green, not unlike that of decay.
He held it up and the humming that appeared to just be low background noise was louder than before. Through the noise, he thought he caught distinct words. “You will not understand us at first, but in time our language will come to you...He comes, the true King comes!”
Nathan looked up, shaking the beetle from his hand, it fell with a metallic clank as it hit a fallen man’s rent cuirass, to embed itself in the man's riven and protruding heart. To his terror, he could see an unnaturally tall, black figure in the far distance striding with propose towards him across the sea of putrid flesh. An unprecedented terror gripped him at that moment, he stared at the figure captivated, but he was too afraid to stay...
Nathan came awake with a violent jolt. His actions awoke his sleeping master who did little more than clutch him firmly and fall promptly back to sleep. The young man lay awake, jade eyes staring up into the blackness of the cave's rocky overhang, he was too disturbed to return to sleep.
*****
Bennett was not much of an equestrian, and he did far more killing than admiring the creatures that inhabited his world. However, today as he stood on the sharp rise over his encampment he was appreciative to see the two strong horses that Gareth and Dwayne had returned with. Without them, he would have no workable plan. It was time, time to pack up what he needed and tell his old friend goodbye.
*****
Later that evening after the scant meal had been served and eaten, Bennett sat in his hide-covered throne and gazed about him. If the mean meal had not been an indicator as to how far he had fallen, other factors were. This place had been kind until recently. He had ruled here with an iron fist and forged a life of his own personal design, from the threads of chaos. He was proud of that. He no longer had to feign being someone he was not, if someone was adverse to him they were perfunctorily eliminated. Most things were simple to be solved with violence and threat. He liked that very much, and he wondered if these conditions that he lived by would continue into his new adventure. He hoped so. This was a difficult life to let go of.
His cold-hearted gaze alighted on Sven, he thought about rising from his place but instead took up his cup, he would tell him later of his decision. This was not the place.
*****
When the shadows had grown inky dark, and the moon had finally left the sky, leaving all in blackness, Bennett finally stirred. Most of the men were in their bedrolls, ready for the beginnings of a long march on the morrow. The fire had burned down to coals and the women had also retreated to their sleep. Sven sat alone quietly contemplating the night sky. He turned slightly as his leather and fur-clad leader approached him. However he made no move to rise or look directly at him.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Your heart is not in this anymore old friend.” Bennett said softly. He pat Sven hard on the shoulder, a tap that would have jarred a man of lesser stature.
Sven looked up slowly, he had sensed this was coming, however, he did not know what tangent this conversation would take. He had been dreading this moment for some time. He had been unsure if Bennett would command him to accompany him on this fool's errand, and even more unsure of what his own reaction would be if he was forced to go. Sven had family, and they had become his primary focus. As far as he was concerned it was his duty above all else, to protect them, he couldn’t protect his brother, but he would not fail his son. So he nodded at his leader’s words, letting him do the talking, being carefully noncommittal.
“No need to answer.” Bennett went on, “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have it in you anymore, the thrill of the hunt, the sport of the kill.”
Bennett’s voice was hard-edged, his lips drawn into a severe line, ice-chip eyes cold. Sven did not have it in him to match Bennett's gaze. What the man said was true. Since the birth of his child, and other nameless horrors he had endured, he had not felt the same. He doubted he ever would.
“We will be leaving tomorrow.”
He felt the big black-gloved hand leave his shoulder, he nervously fingered his cup and gazed at its contents.
“This my old friend is where our journey ends.”
Sven stiffened, he was unsure if the words were laced with danger or reprieve.
“It’s been a fine journey Sven, you have earned your retirement. You fought well.”
With that Bennett pat his friend one more time on the shoulder and turned away. Sven finally turned to look after him with bleak gray eyes. It was over, he had been freed of his duty, for better or worse his life was now his own.
*****
The next sunrise Sven stood watching the men ready to depart for good. He had mixed emotions on their leaving, part of him felt abandoned, and yet part of him felt a great sense of relief. He had struggled mentally in the past few raids. He must resign himself to his new life here as protector and provider to those few who remained.
The departure had not been without its troubles though. The men were most unhappy to be leaving all the women behind, especially Gareth. Considering, Bennett had made it quite clear that Nathan would be accompanying the party, citing he was male and therefore eligible. However, even though the men were angry at this proclamation they all knew the wastes were no place for a woman. Moods ran hot though that morning as they prepared to depart.
Dwayne though had his own problems, he was never high enough in rank to be allotted a woman anyway. So he cared little about those that were to be left behind. The young warrior had dreaded this day, he had hoped personally to never revisit Wentworth again. The young warrior climbed the steep path to the top of the cliff face, there in the traces the horses stood patiently, the wagons piled with all the essential possessions they would need along the way. The warheads were included in the payload. Dwayne involuntarily shuddered, he had never erased the final ghastly moments of Warren’s death from his mind. He was unsure if his departure from this place would be a boon or a curse. However, he had little choice but to follow the others to death or glory. It had always been this way, and so far he had survived.
He took one look back at the secluded valley that had been his home for almost half of his life. He shouldered his bow and sighed. Sven was lucky he thought, perhaps he would fare better than us all? The horses moved forward and the men were on their way.
*****
The journey so far had proceeded as planned, and Bennett and his men had sighted neither friend nor foe. All the men appeared in reasonable spirits, and the horses that Gareth had chosen were sound.
Bennett had the machinations of the beginnings of a plan, even if he didn’t have it finalized. He already knew where they could secret the eight warheads. He would bury them in the sands, somewhere near the overhang they had located on their escape from the fortress. The one that housed the little but very reliable spring. It was a pointless and dangerous exercise to cart them back to Wentworth. They would firstly set up a forward camp, before making the arduous journey northeast, and hoped what they secreted here would remain safe. This would be as fine a place as any to launch the assault on their return.
That being accomplished the seven men made their way to Wentworth. It would be a long march. Bennett hoping to retrieve more arsenal and possibly discover a way to detonate the sarin gas remotely.
Dwayne led the party, he was uncannily expert at finding his way through the often formless desert flats. The high spinifex grasses that speared and poked at passing flesh without mercy, and the lifeless-looking gray lignum scrubland all bore a look of sameness. It was easy to get lost out here.
The going was tough initially. The horses had little food to be found along the way, and it was difficult for them pulling the heavily loaded cart through areas without clearly defined tracks or roads. The men had to often help the animals navigate the obstacles and soft sand, and initially, the miles were made slowly with much struggle. The men fearing the beasts may give out long before they ever reached their destination.
As Dwayne had promised the journey became much easier once they had reached the wide and muddy river that meandered sluggishly through the desert. Though a major artery that had kept an entire desert state alive, and a city of over one million inhabitants, its name had already faded from most memories. There was abundant plant life beginning to grow on its wide banks and plenty of water. There the horses recovered their strength and the going became much easier.
Nathan had struggled at first to keep pace with the men, he had longed to ride in the cart. However he knew that permission would not be granted. Bennett’s men resented his presence and he would get no quarter from any of them. They had all been forced to leave their women behind after all.
After a few days on the journey the frail youth felt stronger, if his Master could walk so could he. He dutifully followed along behind and did all that was asked of him without complaint. He would not be discarded, he would become if ever a slave could be, indispensable.
*****
In the subsequent days after the raider's departure Raissa felt lost, for so many years her life had revolved around this bunch of rag-tag men and their strange whims. Now there was only one man, her man.
To begin with, after their leaving, the camp environs were almost serene, sure there was still hardship, but she felt as relaxed as a slave could feel. No continuous requests for things both reasonable or unreasonable to fulfill. However, as the days passed she began to realize that they would all no longer live in such relative safety as they once had. Admittedly Sven was a mighty man, a towering wall of battle-hardened muscle, however, he was but one, what if many came? She did not doubt that he would fight, to the death if need be. He was strong and brave and would take many attackers down before he fell. Though in the end, he was but a single warrior and the thought frightened her greatly.
Raissa was unsure if the other women felt this, she was getting some strange signals from Lissa, though she was sure that Lucy felt these fears even in her grief. Raissa knew Lucy missed Warren greatly, and the older woman had not been the same since the sad announcement. Both women had been here in this clan and witnessed much over the passing of the years. Attackers had chanced on the encampment on rare occasion, but the better equipped men here had fought them off with relative ease and very minimal losses.
“Struth!” The petite blonde muttered under her breath, nicking her finger with the knife she had been using to pare the red, sticky kangaroo meat off the bone. This was not her most favorite of meals, the meat so low in fat and visually unappealing when raw. It looked bloody and had a terrible slippery feel, not to mention the blood smell. But this and two small rabbits were all Sven had been able to bring home today after his trip to the top of the valley. A few animals had returned at least, and that was a blessing.
To pull her mind away from her darkening thoughts Raissa cast her eyes about the camp as she sucked on her wounded finger. It was peaceful here in the absence of the usual crudity, drink, and all the talk of killing and war. These men had known little else and spoke about even fewer subjects. If they hadn’t represented better protection, she would not have missed any of them in the least.
The young woman could hear the joyful sounds of some small brown house sparrows that were sitting not too far distant, perched in the still dormant twigs of the box thorn bushes that lined the cliff sides. She wondered for a moment as she looked up to the black of the cave openings above where had that girl Selene gone? Raissa had not sighted her for a very long time. She hoped wherever she was, she was in a better place.
There her husband sat in Bennett's old place dwarfing all. He was a giant, a modern-day barbarian. If she hadn't known his terrible secret he would have made her shiver. Part with fear, part with desire. His brother Aran had been handsome in a dashing and youthful way, but Sven in his grizzled maturity was equally appealing, and as time had gone on the slave girl had warmed to the idea of their marriage even. Raissa had grown to love Sven by slow degrees she realized. It was more than just simple dependence or protection. She tried not to dwell too heavily on how the years here may pass if the water would last, or if they could find and produce enough food for their little community to survive?
For Lissa the fighting men's leaving had changed everything. The pretty redhead dared to hope for the first time that she and her friends could truly be rescued. That her daring would at last bear fruit. There was only one man left here to serve as an impediment to her leaving. She wondered if he even would attempt to prevent it when the time came. He wished to preserve his family after all. Lissa suspected Sven had somehow been cast aside by the other men, and that their leaving was final. She was not completely sure of this and Raissa had offered her no clues, but her keen intuition told her that Sven had been discarded to his fate here just as they had. She hoped that Renard and his men would return soon. She told herself at every moment of self-doubt that the three men had made it across the desert and were safe. She would not allow herself to believe otherwise.
Lissa had helped her two best friends to sit by the fire a while, both girls looked thin and pale, and had dark circles under their eyes, but they did look somewhat better this evening. She saw to it that they were comfortable, had water, and got a good serving of hot stew. They had to hold on, she had to bring those girls home.
Maya was at last happy, horrible Gareth was gone for good. Though now she had no man. The lustful vixen that Aran had awoken in her would not be content to just languish here, a servant to a man who never looked at her. She still pined for her golden man Aran, and even now wore his pendant around her slim neck. She rubbed the small golden letter A with its embellishing single diamond that was supposedly the first letter of his name. Wishing magically it would bring him back to her side. However he had been absent a long time, and sadly Maya felt if she wanted to be honest that she would never see him again.
*****
To begin with the deep passage carved beneath the earth at Baiæ Italie felt no different to the previous descent. The earth about the demon King was just simple earth, it did not seem to possess any secrets, magical properties, or hidden hazards he could detect. The mocking whispers though taunted him, and deep inside he worried that he had this time chosen the harder trial, but perhaps it was just trickery sent to mock him and bring him unraveled. He hoped so, for the world and its future now rested on the fact that he make a success of this journey.
The fey light orbs began to dim as Xonereth progressed further, and the heat and latent humidity intensified, all creating a feeling of impending dread. The walls became slick with an unknown dampness, almost as though he was entering a womb. Xonereth though a demon who had been exposed to all manner of horrors, could feel these things also, and he steeled his resolve, he was no weak human to be frightened by foibles, or shadows.
The last of the fey light ran into blinding darkness, an umbral opacity that even demon eyes could not pierce. Blindly he forged forward. Then before him, he saw a lesser darkness, an opening. He took a deep breath, arranged his churning thoughts, and went toward the portal.
On entering it he beheld a strange sensation, the heat of a great intensity so white-hot he wished to cry out in unbridled agony, to be mixed with stabs of ice. As the sensation faded he realized he was in a very familiar location. His very palace, Narkeem’ezet. He was standing in the large corridor that lead directly to the throne room. He looked behind him but he could not detect where he had just entered. Looking up he was to begin with, comforted by the appearance of the bats and gargoyles that nestled high above, however this time as he passed beneath they did not respond to him at all. They merely slept in silence, and that lack of recognition chilled him.
He encountered none of the nobles, or courtiers in the cavernous approach to the throne room, and although he had entered the tunnels in an incorporeal form, it appeared he was now whole. He was dressed in the finest black robes even though he had entered this trial naked as the day he was born. The garments made the softest hissing noise as he walked the long black basalt corridor, the only other sound audible to him was the soft step of his bare feet.
Entering the throne room he came on the strangest sight. A demoness of great beauty, bedecked in the finest silver adornments, entwined in the act of coitus with a superb and very large ebony centaur. He did not have to guess at the demoness’ identity, it could be no one else but Ardat Lilli, his mother and consort to the King.
She sighted him almost immediately even amidst her boisterous lovemaking. The hugely endowed Centaur known to him as Geryon halted his rambunctious thrusts, but the two were still very much intertwined in the throes of their lust. Demon kind was not burdened with the types of ideals that the humans bestowed on pleasures of the flesh and procreation, however, Xonereth cast his eyes downwards, though she was his mother, she was also his Queen, the second most powerful being in this kingdom. Though with the long absences of his father Semiazas, with his doting infatuation for pretty angels, she may as well have been the apex being here.
“Ah my son,” she said languidly, clearly relishing Geryon’s attentions. “I have been meaning to see you.”
Xonereth had not seen his ancient mother for eons, after his father's committal to the great tree he had very much shunned her. She in his eyes was just as complicit in the War of the Brothers as Valefor had been.
“Yes I can tell that you disapprove my son, however I have done my duty to the kingdom I have provided the heir and the spare. Now I shall couple with whomever I please.”
He felt an uncharacteristic dread fall over him, he would be forced to revisit and navigate his past. The time before the War, before all the catastrophic mistakes had been made. The test was cunning, he must unravel his past to possibly change the future, and he hoped he had what it would take.