Malcolm faced his prisoner; the plagued were nowhere to be seen, only echoes of their ever-hungry presence lingering in the background, which Malcolm diligently ignored.
"What's your name?" Malcolm asked, facing him straight. The ranger was already scared, unsettled by the ominous sounds in the background, and having such a fierce-looking interrogator was too much for him to handle. He paled beyond his already sheet-white skin, and his eyes rolled back into his skull. He passed out.
Malcolm then felt his own exhaustion. The past few hours after the adrenaline of the battle had passed, he started seeing how colors blended together, shapes that weren't there, crawling little insects walking around, mixing with the colors and turning them into something else.
His thoughts were cloudy, like he had mental tunnel vision, but he knew he had a goal, he had a purpose. Right? He lay on the bare stone, the cold rocks against his battered flesh, and closed his eyes.
His eyelids fell heavy over his eyes like an abbey's ten-ton double doors, and he felt himself spinning, but sleep did not take him in. Instead, he just spiraled into doubt. In his swirly thoughts, he wondered how it came to this, him being on a foreign land for people who could easily replace him. As a general, there were even more consecrated options than him; he was promoted due to his diligence rather than his talent or empathy... How queer, talking about empathy when he knew that if he won, he'd have to lead thousands into certain death. No one survived the vanguard, much less in these days. Why was he doing all this for?
He thought about his family, but his parents were long dead, killed in a breach by rogue corrupted, and his fiancée had moved on after he was out on a particularly long mission. He didn't have anyone to return to, even his troops might be in better care if he just slipped up and "made a mistake".
What if Rivel was right, and he could juice the heart's power to block the mundanes out? Sure, it'd take some getting used to; there'd be population control laws and resource allocations, basically like a perpetual siege state, but what if that was preferable to full-on war? What if he was striving for the impossible? His method could lead to another hundred years of war, maybe even more.
He kept swirling, and without noticing, his fears and doubts turned from foggy and disarticulated into vivid nightmares.
Harrowing visions of a future of pure plight, perpetually locked into the blazing fires of war. He saw himself murdering children on the streets, yelling "take no prisoners!" over and over in mad bloodlust, he saw his reflection on the blade, a wicked smile crossing his face, and the top half of his skull split open with a shard of unknown crystal lodged into his brain.
The blood that covered him suddenly turned into his, and the flesh started rotting off his limbs. A familiar green ooze crept from under his skin between the blackened meat and the white bone; he dropped his sword and started biting in mad hunger.
How long has it been since I last ate? He thought to himself, feeling empty inside, and looked down into his stomach only to find nothing there, just a void. He looked back up, and both his parents shook their heads; he fell to his knees, crying and begging for their forgiveness, but it was too late. They walked into the city he had torched, and the fire started crisping their bodies. Malcolm tried standing up again, but the muscles that were supposed to support him were all on the floor, turned to mush.
He watched his mother scream in pain as she burnt alive, her once-sharp feline eyes melting and running down her cheeks, but his dad, he did not cry. He just looked at him disapprovingly, as if he couldn't wait for the flames to spare him the sight of Malcolm.
He woke up covered in sweat, his eyes still foggy, and his mind dull. He couldn't know how much time had passed, but he assumed not much, given it was twilight outside.
"Don't think, Malcolm. Put your emotions and your thoughts on hold. Focus on the present. Breathe." He slapped himself and focused his ears on the chirping birds outside rather than the monstrous sounds within the cave. Then, angry at the world, he slapped the ranger into consciousness. If he had barely slept in... how many days was it now? So can he withstand a little stress. The ranger woke up screaming, gaining the attention of all the plagued in the cave, who crept closer in case Malcolm decided he was done playing with him. Before he could pass out again, Malcolm grabbed him by the cheeks and forcefully made him look his way.
"See those faces? They're hungry. I'm the only one standing between their sickenedI'm the only one standing between their sickened, half-decomposed maws and your flimsy, salty flesh. I'm your only friend. So what do friends do, eh? Eh!"
"I don't know, I don't know! I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!" sobbed the man, who barely looked like a soldier at this moment. Perhaps they were conscripting peasants and hunters from whatever place he came from? It sure looked like he was getting whinier by the minute.
"They introduce themselves!" roared the lion-kin. "Hi, I'm Malcolm. General of the Tenebri armies of Erebus. Nice to meet you!"
Malcolm wasn't sure if it was the condescending tone or the roaring, but the man didn't seem any calmer. He was hyperventilating, and it looked like he tried to say something but didn't get enough air to actually pronounce the words.
"Haaa... I'm, Ha, ha, ha... I'm... Roll..."
"Harold? Is your name Harold?" The man nodded profusely. Malcolm had to make a conscious effort not to roll his eyes.
"Listen, Harold. I'm planning on buying some real estate in the vicinity, building the land, get it? But I'm concerned about the place not being my style. How about you tell me about your hometown, eh? How many citizens are there? How's security, many guards? Army? Come on, Harold, be a good friend!"
"I don't know!" Harold cried, desperation creeping into his voice. "I don't keep a tally!"
Malcolm's smile grew ominous as he gestured for the plagued to draw closer. "An educated guess, then?"
Harold began sweating profusely, his eyes darting towards the disgusting child-like creatures. "Around two thousand men and women live in the village," he stammered. "Maybe a hundred are trained soldiers, and thrice as many have been conscripted. But most have been drafted by the king to fight against an enemy nation. Now, perhaps only fifty remain, with just a handful of real trained soldiers... single digits, at most."
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
He glanced at the plagued again, his fear evident. "Forty, now. The village has a wooden palisade, reinforced on the side facing the woods. The guards halve their shifts at night since there hasn't been much activity coming from the woods lately. The bandits have migrated north, and the beasts have followed them. That's all I know, I swear!"
"I believe you" Said Malcolm, patting the man on the shoulder. Harold sighed in relief, and as he tried to find words to thank the monster before him the only thing he found was blood flowing downwards from his neck. He choked on the blood trying to express his perplexity, and his eyes accused Malcolm af if saying "But I told you everything..." but he didn't listen. He just steeled his gaze until shadows overtook Harold, taking him with the rest of his company. No one left behind, as they say.
"Now I have to plan how to take over the city." Said Malcolm aloud, as he cleaned the blood of his sword. It was good his impulse reflex kept him from doing inhumane things to the mundane, it wasn't his fault to be born in the other side of the fence, but had he gave too much thought about it... Priorities would have taken precedence
"Sure, I could hold fort here, try to see how things with Kantor develop and try to strenghten our numbers, but honestly I think that this is best moment to strike. If we wait too much, the town might call for reinforcements, hire mercenaries or take other preentive actions. It's a gambit, yes. But I'm against the clock, and this is all or nothing. I have to exploit the opportunity least cowardice costs me the war. This is the plan, first I gather or the plagued, we move at night. Since we don't have any siege weapons I infiltrate and dispose the guards at the gates, keep them open as the plagued swarm in, then it's all blitzkrieg operation.
We torch a couple of buildings to seed chaos and pick the defendors as they come, taking advantage of our surprise element. Then... Then we'll see. A village, as small as it can be, is a fountain of both risk and opportunity. I need to make good use of the scouts' remains, maybe give my plagued a little edge.
...
Malcolm stood at the end of the tunnel leading to Kantor's room, observing him. Kantor appeared unchanged, his nails perhaps sharper, his blisters slightly glowy. But Malcolm was unsure; certainly, the power of this source was much diminished compared to The Heart. He shivered at the thought of what would happen to someone who stood so close to the relic, let alone had it inside their body. If only Kantor could speak...
Malcolm regretted showing mercy to that ranger. When had he ever shown mercy to murderers who invaded his home to brutally assassinate him? He laughed softly at the phrasing. "Home." Well, what's done is done. He'd show better judgment next time he encountered a war prisoner – no mercy. That was his new rule.
He pondered for a moment whether there was a duality in having such standars, if he has perhaps been holding back on account of not wanting to be monstrous, when any mundane would have been more decisive.
He shook his head, not the time for these consideration, not now.
He looked at his three newly armored elites, chosen for their attachment to him. He started seeing them more fondly ever since they help him fence off the mundanes. Perhaps it was a silly thought, but he looked back with certain affection when he first came inside the rotting-smelling cave hidden in the underbush and the plagued had showed him consideration beyond reasonable, gifting him with armor and weapons for free.
Sure, he made speculations about them being unable to use them and expecting Malcolm to deal with the tyrant in the back of the cave, but at least a part of him wanted to think that they little creatures looked up to him. They were now in line, wearing pieces of the fallen troops' armor, though most of it was too big for their child-like size. The "rangers" wielded short swords that looked like long swords in their hands, with leather pieces broken down and hastily tied with rope, leaving gaps. Luckily, a slime-like substance secreted from their bodies acted as a makeshift glue.
The ones who received the scouts' gear were the luckiest; the pelt armor had been successfully "resized." Once the sleeves were shortened and hems cut, it almost fit like actual clothing – albeit the type a leper-ridden vagrant might wear.
The ones who wore the soldiers' equipment looked strangest to Malcolm. None of the metal armor fit, yet they insisted on wearing open helmets that obstructed their vision.
Perhaps they were blind creatures? This would explain the lack of illumination and the grotesque disposition of their accommodations, but not the reaction when they first saw him he surmised due the similarity between his apparence and the heraldics on the dead person's armor. Still, with their former metal buckler now a tower shield, they were the most protected.
Malcolm decided to rebaptize these new units. According to his census, he now had:
4 Lurkers (as he imagine them perfect for ambushes, thanks to their light camuflaged armor)
2 Rot Wardens (He didn't had great hopes for them. Maybe shield wall for arrows?)
2 Skinners (The crazed way they fondled their blades unnerved him)
1 Kantor
12 Plagued (2 out of commission)
He wondered if having named his squads after reconditionated gear made sense as he probably wouldn't keep calling them like that after getting something more decent for them to wear, but just refering them as nameless units felt bad.
Night was falling by the time he finished preparing for the assault. Perfect. He adjusted his breastplate and sword, rehearsing the tactic in his head. Given this all-or-nothing, last-ditch effort, Kantor would join in as well. Malcolm motioned to his elites, and the entire cave began to move. The chilling breeze from the forest seemed to foretell the decisions to be made that day.
Their steps were silent and slow as they crawled toward the city, the forest was quiet too as it was observing them, and from every owl's piercing gaze Malcolm felt its judgement.
The more time Malcolm spent there, the stranger it became. A feeling of uneasiness settled in, making him look around for a prowling predator, checking every bush and undergrowth for poisonous snakes. But there was none. It was something difficult to pin down, as it was more of a feeling than something physically different in the environment.
He had grown up in a place that appeared utterly hostile, yet was friendly to him. This was the complete opposite: it was as if it wasn't really a forest with vegetation, but rather something simulating a forest, something hiding and observing him from behind or within every blade of grass. An unseen being acted as a sort of puppet master, moving its rotten hand to transform this lifeless wasteland into a lush, Edenic garden.
As they drew closer to the city, this feeling grew stronger. The trees seemed to lean slightly towards the city, guiding him somehow. As they approached, the trees became scarcer, and the flowers released their sweet-smelling pollen, like poison spreading through the plains. At points, Malcolm felt like he couldn't breathe, like he couldn't escape. There was only dizziness, and the urge to move forward.
After what seemed like an eternity, they finally faced the highly fortified wall.
Malcolm motioned for torches and sent two Plagued forth. He looked at the bloated faces of the two willing participants and through a rather complex amount of gestures he told them that they needed to draw the guards attention. He puffed his chest and pushed both his hands outwards, trying to express that they would likely not make it out alive. The two creatures looked at him with devote attention, and Malcolm thought he saw a hint of sadness, a tad of relief glinting in their eyes. He patted their shoulders "Your sacrifice will be remembered," he whispered.
The guards atop the walls quickly noticed the lights igniting but didn't sound the alarm, unaware of the strangers' nature. In their minds, no forest natives could wield fire. Malcolm was hoping to pray on the distraction to clim the vulnerable side of the walls and create a breach so that his forces could quickly get out of the archer's sights. He lamented having to throw two lives like they were expendable foddler, but in his mind (not his heart) he knew that if he tried to have them come along the most likely outcome would be that a rain of arrows would claim thrice as many lives.
Malcolm surrounded the city, moving forward as the alarms sounded and men quickly responded to the invaders. He hasten his pace but only few moments passed before a thunderous explosion shook Malcolm off his feet. He looked surprised at the willowing flames afar. "That was unexpected... but it works as a diversion." He gestured for the troops to await in a nearby underbrush and crept closer to the now unguarded wall.
The doors remained closed at night, so Malcolm clawed his way up. As he finished climbing, a soldier yelled and launched a hasty side attack. Malcolm was struck square on, still recovering from the surprise. He braced himself for flowing blood, but instead, a dull pain forced air from his lungs.
His attacker recoiled as their weapon clashed with Malcolm's armor, giving him time to recover. There wasn't much time, though; Malcolm didn't waste any by drawing his sword. Instead, he lunged fiercely at the guard's throat.
The guard tried to fence him off, but Malcolm's large frame and the surprise of facing a Tenebri being gave him the advantage. The guard stumbled and fell, his shout drowned in blood.
Malcolm left the lifeless body and turned to the lever, opening the gates for his Plagued, who swarmed into the city. Today, they'd quench their bloodthirst.