I feel shame. I hate shame. Other animals do not feel shame for leaving one another. For killing one another. Why should I? Why should I not follow the Peregryn flocks south in their lethargic winged migration? Why did Brandon not hate me, even after realizing my betrayal? I wish that he had. I try to picture his eyes now, hateful, terrified, and full of confusion as I sprint by him on what was to be his deathbed. My imagination is strong, but not so much as my own frustration.
I want to galavant into what remains of the Kitford camp so that the giant Kha can beat the life from me to repay my treachery. Does he remember what I did? Was he even watching? I hate him for his ignorance. I hate myself. Not for any wrongdoing, but simply for my own inability to divorce myself from morality. I hate myself for hating myself. Crouching atop the boulder on which I lay sleeplessly all night, I dig my quivering nails into my cheeks and scream.
How pathetic. I thought I was over this. I thought that once I had carved my ear lobes from my head, my toenails from their beds, and my navel from my stomach, the regret would die. I learned then, at twelve years old, that the regret I felt for my own existence would not die until I did. I remember it again now.
My nails are soft and my cheeks do not bleed yet, so I trace over my recent nail marks with my hunting knife, just hard enough to draw blood. I enjoy fixing my own complexion by touch using my foraged cosmetic supplies.
I want to kill something. Not an innocent forest creature. Not a blameless predator. No. Never. Something that thinks itself innocent. Something that will create an uproar. Something small, and loud, and soft, and surrounded by its loving family who cannot imagine the evil it will bring to this world….
Bushes rustle at the woodlands’ edge. They do not rise and fall as they would for a deer or part as they would for a man. They bend and vibrate as something stealthy prepares to break their cover. It is large. A human. Of sorts. A woman, clad in minimal southern hunting drapes, hazel skin decorated with Ares’ idols, muscles full and eyes wary. Hunting. Or scouting. She is of a race of desert dwelling southerners. I have never traveled to the Independent Ares Conglomerate, but I have seen lone clansmen and women. Captured by intrepid adventurers of the civilized world to be sold as working or trophy slaves. It appears this woman is not yet a slave.
She has heard but not seen me, and approaches my boulder curiously and cautiously. Most trackers do not look up when hunting, but she may be accustomed to jungle or cliffs. I do not risk raising my head over the stone face until I can hear her directly below me.
Indescribable rage, impotence, confusion, and frustration still wrestle within me for control of my mental real-estate. I want to do something brash. Something violent. I want to fall on her with my knife and show whatever gods there are what I think of my own race. But to my surprise, I do not hate her. She is human, yet she is estranged in this yellowing northern landscape. She does not wear the trappings of the vain. Does not claim to be civilized. She may never have claimed to be anything. I have heard that some tribes do not speak at all. The only thought driving me towards the boulder’s edge is that she could rip me apart with her powerful arms and crude obsidian blade. Do I want to die today? I do.
But I wait. I watch her cross the boulder garden and re-enter the woodlands. I have so little control over my own mind that I cannot even end my own life. So I do the only thing one can do when his mind decides to mutiny. I use my body.
I hoist my pack and in a single motion vault from the rock. Five meters northern, or over sixteen feet southern is my fall to the earth. I know it will hurt, and I welcome it. I still have use for my ankles and knees though, so I roll awkwardly onto my back as I impact the ground.
I sprint. I jog. I walk when absolutely necessary. I never give my mind an instant to stray from the intensity of physical exertion.
The Triarch road, as it is dubbed by the doddering rulers of the Imperium, runs through what once was a populous farmland. Occasional farmhouses still kneel on the horizon, but they are long abandoned, for every roadside farmer soon learns how dangerous the road can be. Brigands, marauders, and powerful creatures stalk the roads occasionally, but the most dangerous predator of all is the idle soldier. I have seen three men of the seventh Imperium legion hold a woman hostage while they practiced swordsmanship on her husband. I didn’t watch long enough to know for certain, but I would bet a gleaming copper Dalleon that those soldiers had it the other way around once they were done with the man.
I am glad now as I begin to wish for food, for corporeal urges are a great weapon against turmoil of the mind. Once I return to Kitford, a twenty sans Dalleon could buy me bread and water for a week. Finer foods for a few days. Unfortunately, I am left with only a Canter and two one sans pieces. A total of seven sans will provide only enough for a few day’s rations rations, enough perhaps to reach the Senzna settlement to the east, or the Donner subsidiaries to the West.
The Donner lands are clean, likely the most beautiful in the North. I passed through their territory for only a few hours once and was met with two different patrol establishments. Honorbound and devout, they think too much of themselves and their military power. I have heard that Lord Orion Donner commands enough men to siege the northern capital - Oram Palace, and that his sister Tara could commandeer the Archsovereign’s guard if she so chose. Drunk Donner soldiers think too much of their commanders, but I cannot help but feel envy. Imagine the potential of so many loyal men. Imagine the strength. Imagine the chaos.
Most difficult to imagine is serving as a loyal soldier. I cannot fathom pledging my life to man for any reason. Especially not to one who will never see nor respect me and is liable to sacrifice my life at any time. Who has so little motivation and purpose that they would throw their lives wholly to the whims of another? I realize the irony of my verbiage and correct myself. Who ‘believes themselves to have’ so little motivation and purpose. No man has a greater purpose or divine fate. Religious, familial, and existential faith makes me sick.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Smoke streaks the horizon as I traverse the final miles of the return journey to Kitford. It seems as though the rescue party has lit a fire somewhere along the Triarch. Or perhaps the Kitford women are burning their dead. I have never seen a northern village burn their dead, but traditions vary throughout the Imperium. I’ve seen corpses buried, quartered and sown in fields, salted and thrown to the waves, and sent into the sun in the undercarriages of great balloons. I expect that when I die, it will be with the solidarity of nature. Perhaps at the base of a cliff I could not scale or in the jaws of a beast I could not tame. No one will bury, burn, quarter, salt, or float my body.
I find the Kitford men stationed by the Triarch only a mile and half from their home. They stand nervously by their horses, peering to the looming cloudbanks overhead and then to the pyre in their homeland. I crouch on a low branch, twenty meters from their resting place. I cannot hear their voices, but their faces and bodies tell me that they do not burn their dead. Something is wrong, and they do not know how to continue.
My options are now limited. How horribly unfortunate that a coyote capable of climbing a boulder happened upon my supplies while I retrieved my lute. How horribly unfortunate that the nearest source of food is the band of Kitford men I hoped never to see again. How fortunate it is, though, that I am adept at taking from men. I will make them believe that I am of service, and they will provide me with supplies. If they do not, I will take what I need in the night. I shift my feet into a wide stance and drop from my hiding place.
The first drops of rain ricochet off my arms and gather in my wind-mussed hair as I approach the shifting war band. I see Herskel now, tall and regal - nothing like the frightened animal I freed in the cave. He notices me too. I wonder what kind of man he thinks I am.
Gillan and Kha gather an impressive herd of thirty five horses in the shadow of an expansive Godsbough - the combined cavalry of the raider and Kitford parties. If these men survive whatever waits for them in their homes, a herd such as this will sell for thousands of sans. They will be able to rebuild their town and throw feasts while they do it.
Aduren and Malthen pace the road like disgruntled hounds. I did not sense any camaraderie between the two when they sat in the Magma, but now they stand almost like father and son. They gaze up into the overcast sky as light rain washes away their cocoons of blood and grime. I approach not the warriors in the road, nor the peaceful men at their makeshift stables, but the worried men who discuss plans in the hollow of a seventy meter Mhysa tree. Worried men are the easiest to fool.
“Wildfire hain’t scratched our fields since Pilagius set the firelines. I hate it much as you but we should expec’ the worse’.” Coran grumbles to his companion.
“We have to return, no matter what.” Herskel is confident in his message, but clearly lacks a plan to reinforce it.
“Whats ‘a use of runnin’ ye right back intr’ the flames?” Coran is frustrated; depressed. He lowers his voice to a tortured whisper. “We got three good, uninjured men. Rest of us count for another one. No clue who’s in the ‘Ford now but I bet my blade we’re outmanned.” Herskel is unconvinced. “Camp ‘ere tonight and let Gil scout ahead. Ain’t a man alive could find him in his own forest.”
“By the time he gets home, there won’t be a forest to hide ‘im!” The mayor looks immediately apologetic for his harsh tone. Indecision is high, and now is my time.
“I’ll do it.” They notice me for the first time.
“What’s yer name, fellow?” Coran asks without much curiosity.
“Tell ye when I get back. How ‘bout that?” I match his tone precisely. But not perfectly. Military men like those who speak like them. A hint of mirth dents Coran’s tense expression.
“Do it quick’n be back before the stew’s cold.” He chuckles, patting the mayor weakly on the shoulder. I lifted the weight of indecision from his shoulders, and he provided me with exactly what I wanted. I needn't even ask. I aim a lively smile at Herskel and salute as though tipping an imaginary hat. He can’t help but crack his own smile, despite the circumstances. Smiles are difficult to fake for most men. For those who do not smile naturally, however, the art comes easily. I glide away into the woods.
Dead Eon (3 Hour Dark Ambient)
Kitford is in flames. Houses, shops, and fields burn. What remains of the town’s tortured population clusters in the streets, unable to escape the undulating flock of marauders - southern this time. And big. Two to two and a half meters. They must have sent the scout I observed earlier, but why? What has come to be known as the Kona race does not venture from it’s deserts and jungles. I’m not one for reading history texts, but stories of tribal migration are as old and faded as those of the Golden Campaign. As obsolete, almost, as the stories of gods and demon men.
A Kona man - huge, muscled, and completely nude emerges from the chaos and smoke, dragging a village woman by her wrist. It is the Magma’s bartender. I remember how collected she was during Kitford’s first scuffle. She screams now. Twisting, kicking, and clawing at the dusty earth. I was not collected when we hid together by the bar, but I am now. As the two approach, I master my fear and shut my eyes. I set my lute against one bent leg and pluck the appropriate arpeggio. Serenity and sloth wash over my body, noticeably slowing my breathing and heart rate. The instrument vibrates, the earth thrums inaudibly, and I reopen my eyes.
I watch the mismatched pair through a veil. High frequencies of sound and light are unable to enter the sonic cloak about my form, and so I cannot tell if the rapist’s long knife is steel, stone, or something rarer. It is foreign - too ornate for a man of his barbaric nature. He throws both it and his prize of flesh into the dirt now, glowering victoriously downwards. He is challenging her to rip the knife from the ground and fight back, so that he might hurt her more grievously. She understands and does nothing. I do not know by which honor code this man operates, but I do know how it hinders him. If I were in his position with his size and strength, I would let nothing keep me from putting that knife wherever I like.
The two stand frozen in silent contest not 6 meters from where I stand. The woman’s gaze darts about in panic, and I check to make sure the first string on my lute still vibrates. It does. She sees nothing.
In a better time, I would have stayed to watch what comes next, but I am hungry and I have seen enough. I do not deserve to watch this, for I have not earned it. I pace slowly back to woodland cover. My pace is slower than usual, but I still feel a burning fatigue rising in my chest. As soon as I am out of sight, my index finger drops heavily down onto the oscillating steel string. My intangible veil drops and I rest for a moment against the rough bark of a stout Dasher tree. It stands ten metres high, and sits at the end of a twenty meter gash in the soil. In a world of taller, stronger trees, the Dasher has evolved to pull itself through loose soil to find a place where it can better drink the sunlight. This one, it seems, has made quite the pilgrimage over the last few days. I respect it. I pat its bark with my palm, just as Coran did to Herskel, and set off towards the camp of what will soon be the sole surviving population of Kitford.