24
Brothers
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None of them had any idea.
The men made themselves ready, each in his own way, as they waited for the time to come. They gathered up whatever arms and armor they'd managed to find, and took up positions. Many trembled gently. Some prayed quietly, commending their souls to Lein or Zell. Others simply stood with their eyes closed, trying to keep the fear at bay. A small handful even took small swigs of the concoctions, grimacing as they did so. After all, if they were to die, then it was better to not do so dry.
And not a single one of them had the foggiest clue that he didn't belong among them, that he was the least and most miserable traitor of all.
"You alright?" Ansel asked, coming over to stand beside him.
He was concerned. Concerned. Hicks nearly laughed. Instead, he merely shook his head.
"No."
They stood together, waiting. After a moment, Hicks turned to him. "I remember about a year ago," he began, "you told us you were nineteen. You must be twenty by now, right?"
Ansel nodded. "My birthday was just a few weeks ago, I think."
Hicks hummed, then, pulled off the stopper on the bottle he held in his hands. "To your health, then. Here's hoping you make it to twenty-one."
After a moment's hesitation, Ansel accepted the bottle, and smiled back. "I hope you make it to a hundred," he said, then took a small swig. Almost immediately, his face screwed up in disgust, his eye watering up. "Gods!" he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he handed the bottle back to Hicks. "I'll be sure to never drink that ever again."
Chuckling, Hicks brought the bottle up and drank. He, too, nearly gagged at the horrific sensation the mixture created in his mouth. "If this doesn't all go off perfectly, you'll not have to worry about drinking anything ever again," he managed to say, after a moment of cringing.
"You either."
"No. I guess that'd be too much to ask."
Dim light illuminated their surroundings, from the torches and candles some of them held. Some of the brawniest Hounds stood at the forefront of the formation, tightly gripping torches and makeshift shields, waiting for the signal. The rest of the men were spaced out evenly along the walls, all gripping spears—either proper ones tipped with steel, or shoddy lengths of sharpened wood. Everyone was ready to start running at a moment's notice.
"Remember the plan," Ansel said to no one in particular. "Stick to it, no matter what happens. We just keep moving forward, and… When this is all over, we'll meet again, in Geofu. We'll have some proper drinks there, yeah?"
"I'd just like to note," Ryam piped up, "that this is by far the worst idea I've heard of in my entire life."
Ansel smiled at him. "Even worse than the one with the golem?"
"Gods, yes! At least then we would've died nice and fast! Wouldn't have felt a thing!"
That got a few quiet chuckles in response. Everyone knew this was an extremely difficult gambit, and a lot of things had to go right for it to have even half a chance of working. Either way, however, it was quite literally do or die. No going back, no second chances.
For some reason, Hicks found himself moving to stand next to Ansel. "Hey..." he began, then immediately trailed off, unable to form the next words. At this juncture, what could he say? And what purpose would there even be in saying it? There was nothing left to discuss, and certainly no way to resolve it.
"Hicks?" Ansel looked back to him, brow raised expectantly.
Hicks sighed, then, on a whim, stood a little straighter. He braced his spear up against his shoulder, and tapped his fist against his chest in a shoddy salute. "Your heart and soul to the Cause, right?"
Ansel laughed and returned the gesture. "To the Cause."
After a moment, the others shuffled around them. All that once, they brought their own fists over their hearts and echoed the words. "To the Cause."
Without further ado, Ansel tore away the wooden plank barring the door, and they all started off down the corridor. The Hounds at the front pulled ahead of everyone else with, moving like hulking shadows through the darkness. The sound of boots clomping against stone echoed through the halls, the air filled with the stench of sweat and blood and fear.
Ansel was right behind them, running with a spear in hand, his back straight, eye alert, his mind completely fixated on the mission, and nothing else.
The same naive soldier boy from a year ago, all optimism and idiotic chivalry, the same way he had been when they had first met. He had changed so much since then, though. And perhaps, he hadn't changed at all. The same man who threw himself into the jaws of death time and time again, always ready to sacrifice everything. Now, he was the one leading them into battle.
Even after all they'd seen that night—the betrayal, the carnage—was he still holding on to those same dumb dreams? Just what did Ansel cling to, even now?
Gods, Hicks thought again. He doesn't know. Not a single one of them have a clue…
The halls were blessedly empty, though no one had any delusions they would remain that way for long. The squad moved quickly, passing many doors, most of which had been smashed open, and broken bodies lying scattered on the floor. They made it through that entire floor unchallenged. It was only when they descended the flight of stairs, down to the next story, that they came across their first opposition. A group of men stood there, looking up with surprised expressions as the team came stomping down the stairs.
"Who—?" Began one, before immediately being bowled over by one of the men charging straight into him. The rest of the shield bearers followed through, smashing into the traitors like living battering rams, knocking them to the ground. No one paused to finish off any of them. With the way they stampeded over them, the traitors likely wouldn't be in any condition to fight back, anyway.
Another flight of stairs led down one more level, and their run of luck truly started there. The group that stood there was much larger than the previous one had been: Dozens of men and aberrants, forty of them at the very least, filled that corridor, blocking their path. The noise from the brief scuffle above had no doubt alerted them of the team's presence, and they were prepared for them. Spears were leveled, swords drawn. The traitors weren't going to let them through.
Hicks smiled, despite himself. The first step had just gone off perfectly.
"Now!" Ansel shouted, and the entire squad ground to a halt. The aberrants stepped in front, kneeling to form a shield wall. The traitors hesitated at that, clearly confused by their abrupt shift into a defensive position.
Had the poor bastards expected them to simply charge in head-on? Hicks wondered. If so, they were in for a rude awakening.
Wordlessly, Ansel extended a hand, and Hicks passed him the bottle he'd been holding. Then, he took a torch from another man's hands, and lit up the rag stuffed into the bottle's neck. Finally, Ansel wound back, and flung it with all his strength.
For a one-eyed man, his aim was damn impressive. There was an instant of stunned silence as the bottle arced through the air, and Hicks caught the expressions of dawning horror on several faces. The firebomb landed in the midst of the traitors' ranks, and the sound of breaking glass was drowned out by the whoompf of brilliant flames bursting into being. Instantly, dozens of men and aberrants were engulfed in the sudden fireball, which rippled visibly through the corridor. The bastardized mixture of liquors proved effective, clinging to its victims' forms, and burning as thoroughly as oil would. Flames roared, flesh crackled and a hellish choir of screams filled the air.
The inferno's heat scorched Hicks's face, and he fought the urge to recoil away from it. Outside of the immediate blast zone, some of the traitors managed to recover and moved into action, attempting to form a cohesive defense.
Without needing to be prompted, the loyalists surged forward, spears jabbing forward fast as lightning bolts. He found himself standing side by side with Ansel and Fat Edd, moving in tandem as they struck. Neither of the three was an expert spearfighter, but they worked well together nonetheless, creating a formidable unit in and of themselves. No enemy stood a chance against their brutal trident, and the cluster of traitors that had been steadily shrinking was wiped out altogether.
Standing in the now quiet corridor, they took a moment to catch their breaths. The fires continued to devour the corpses of their enemies, but did not spread, failing to find any purchase on the Citadel's floors or walls. Still, though, thick smoke was beginning to billow up, filling the air with the smell of charring meat and making it difficult to see.
From the corner of his eye, Hicks saw Ansel tremble, ever so slightly, his hands tightly clenched around his spear.
"Yo," Hicks said, coming up beside him. "You okay?"
Ansel shook his head, slowly. "No. No time to stop, though." Then, he raised his voice for the entire squad to hear. "That's step one done. Get the armor!" he said, and immediately knelt, working a helmet off of one of the dead men.
Hicks and the others did the same, ripping whatever gear they could off the corpses. Helmets were the priority above all else: whatever anonymity they could manage was instrumental if they were going to succeed.
After a few minutes of rushed looting, the group stood at the ready, looking to Ansel. Waiting for his next command.
"Now," Ansel said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Run."
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She had expected resistance in their escape; Guards, perhaps, or even men and aberrants randomly milling about the halls. Indeed, they had encountered a handful of such individuals barring their path, but... she had not foreseen a battle.
The Black Citadel was transformed into the scene of a bloodbath. Man and aberrant alike lay strewn about the halls, broken and bleeding. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, and the constant clamor of clashing steel and screaming voices made it difficult to think.
A dozen of the invaders fought against one another, locked in a vicious melee with no semblance of order or strategy. They fought without quarter, striking with sword and axe, and spear and halberd. An ogre, dominating the entire breadth of the hallway with its size, seized a screaming man and began to squeeze. Below it, humans fell upon one another, stabbing and slashing with wild abandon.
The chaos and brutality came to an abrupt, near-simultaneous halt when they noticed the pair that had just stepped out of the stairwell leading out of the Citadel's depths.
Olga gazed back at them, seeing surprise transform into confusion, comprehension, and finally outright horror in the eyes of the warriors. One of the men dropped his weapon and backed away. The others he had been fighting made no effort to stop him.
Beside her, Chloe brandished her dagger in one hand. The other was wrapped up to her elbow with a length of chain. She stepped forward, and the invaders bristled, their attentions focused entirely on her. "Good evening," she called out to them, her voice loud and clear. "Have we interrupted you?"
At last, the spell was broken. With an animalistic howl, the ogre reared back, and hurled its victim towards her.
Chloe sprang into motion, rolling beneath the man's body, and coming up with her weapons in hand. She lashed out with the club, smashing it into a man's jaw, sending him reeling. She kept moving with her momentum, thrusting her leg into his stomach with enough force to propel him back into another, and they crashed in a tangle of limbs.
The rest attacked then, whatever mutiny they had been waging forgotten in the face of this new threat. Chloe ducked and rolled under a wild slash, then unfurled the chain from her arm and lashed out. Like a snake, it wrapped around her opponent's throat, the links biting deep. Continuing her rotation, Chloe whipped the chain back further, using the human's own weight to pull him into the path of an incoming spear.
Chloe became a whirlwind of action, leaping and twisting. The chain's links sang like bells as it flew in eye-blurring arcs. She smashed the end of the chain into a man's face, then spun around, punching at another's stomach in a flurry of blows.
As the three-sided conflict raged, Olga approached the man that had been launched by the ogre. Though his body was thoroughly broken, he somehow clung to life, sucking in air in short, ragged gasps. He looked up at her with wide eyes, and cringed away as she knelt beside him. Screwing his eyes shut, he began to mutter under his breath.
Olga paid him no heed. Instead, she reached down, and dipped her fingers into the pool of blood beneath him. She then ripped a pin free from his shirt, leaving a hole in the fabric, and dragged her blood-tinted fingers across the metal.
Behind her, Olga heard Chloe yelp. Glancing back, she saw that one of the invaders had managed to grab a hold of Chloe's hair. He wrenched back, hard, and Chloe grit her teeth to keep from crying out.
Olga rose, starting forward, but stopped herself.
With a surge of effort, Chloe threw herself back, dragging the man along with her, and using his own grip to bring him hurtling below her. He hit the ground, and the impact drove the wind from his lungs. Before he could recover, she was upon him, bringing her knee down hard into his stomach.
Chloe hurled the cudgel at a beastman, who blocked it with its shield, then leapt away as the ogre thundered towards her, bellowing. The creature brought its fist down onto the warrior whose grip she had just broken, crushing his body with contemptuous ease, the bones shattering like kindling beneath the blow.
The ogre swung wildly again, its ham-sized fists pounding at anything within reach, be it friend or foe.
Chloe dodged around the monster, keeping its bulk between her and the others, and charged the beastman once more. She leapt over its swing, landed atop his raised shield, and used it to vault over the ogre's head. She spun in the air, the chain wrapping over the aberrant's thick neck thrice over, then snapped taut. With its airway constricted, and Chloe riding atop its shoulders, the ogre's efforts became more frenzied than ever.
It barreled forward, smashing aside the remaining fighters as it flailed in its attempts to dislodge Chloe from its back. The chain tightened further, and the ogre's head twisted back, the vertebrae popping audibly and veins bulging as it strangled itself with its own efforts. Then, reaching down, Chloe grabbed on to a discarded sword. She let the chain slacken enough to swing down, and used that very same momentum to propel herself back towards the ogre.
In a series of quick strikes, the blade sliced across the ogre's stomach, severed one of its bulky arms, then finally cleaved its head free. The body toppled like a felled tree, and Chloe dropped to the ground, landing at a crouch, catching her breath.
Olga frowned as she glimpsed a long gash across Chloe's arm.
Her retainer shook her head in response. "I'll be fine," she said, then ripped a strip of cloth free from one of the dead, and set to binding the wound.
Olga wordlessly nodded back to her, then turned her attention back to the broken man at her feet. He gazed back to the two of them with naked awe. His face was pale now, his breathing becoming shallower with every passing moment.
"What has happened here?" Olga asked him. "Why do you fight amongst yourselves?"
He blinked up at her, hesitating, before finally answering in a weak voice. "Traitors... Attacked us... From nowhere. For no reason. Just... chaos. Killed my friends. My..." He trailed off, then staring past Olga, and sat very still.
"Fortunate for us, then," Chloe said, finishing her bandage. "If the manlings are busy killing each other, it will be all the easier for us to slip by them."
"Yes. But it is strange that they would—" Olga stopped herself then, as a stench filled the air. "That's… smoke?"
Chloe sniffed at the air, and glanced up. Already, they could see a thin haze hanging in the air, barely perceptible, but growing thicker by the second.
Without another word, they moved on down the passageway. More corpses lied scattered about, until at last the hall ended at a small door, leading outside to one of the Citadel's flanks. Chloe, having taken the lead, took one glance outside, then immediately recoiled back into the tunnel. She cursed, loudly.
"What is it?" Olga asked, moving forward and peering outside for herself.
There, barely illuminated by the moon's faint glow, waited a veritable army. Thousands upon thousands of aberrants, standing shoulder to shoulder, their numbers stretched out as far as the eye could see. With eyes that glowed red, they stared up at the Citadel.
"I see," Olga finally said. "I was curious as to where they had gone."
"We can't go back," Chloe said. "But we also can't go headlong into an army that size. My lady, maybe we can try a different exit? If there's any sort of break in their formation, we could—"
"No. That won't be necessary," Olga said. Then, she stepped out into the open.
They hadn't noticed them yet, not at this distance. As Chloe followed her, Olga looked up, and smiled. Smoke billowed out from the Citadel, as though from a chimney. Abruptly, there was a flash from within, followed by a distant crack.
"I understand their mutiny now, I think," said Olga. "One side has joined with the Legion, and now seeks to exterminate the others. You were right, Chloe; this is fortunate for us."
With that, she raised the metal pin she had taken from the dead man, and spread three bloodstained fingers towards the night sky.
Chloe gasped as she realized Olga's intent. She started, opening her mouth to argue, before hesitating. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. "You're right. There's no other way."
Olga looked across the mass of aberrants, across the wasteland, to her Citadel. Then, she spoke.
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They split into ten groups, each running down corridors almost randomly, the idea being to cover as much ground as possible in as short a time as possible. Randomly, they would bust down doors to rooms, light up more firebombs, and let loose. Then, they would move past, charging onward.
The Black Citadel was an ancient and massive structure. More than just a simple fortress, it was the product of powerful sorceries that had killed the very land around it. It had defied the ages. It had outlasted thousands—perhaps, even millions—of those who lived in fear of it and the aberrants that had flocked to it. It had been an immortal bastion, a monument to tyranny, and a symbol of fear.
None of this had changed with the Dark Queen's defeat. The Citadel did not weaken or crumble. It stood tall as it always had, and its black stone structure was naturally impervious to fire. The firebombs' flames failed to so much as scorch the dark walls and floors of the building. This, as far as the plan was concerned, was expected.
After all, even if the Citadel's structure wouldn't catch fire, there was still plenty within it that would. Furniture, carpets, more liquors, provisions, books, whatever. Anything that the Legion had looted and brought back there throughout the course of the long war, along with what the Black Hounds had brought during their invasion. If it was even remotely flammable, then it was a target.
Such was the grand plan; Light up anything they could, and run. Any who remained inside would choke on the smoke and ashes of their new funeral pyre. Simple. Foolish. Desperate. But it was all they had.
Now, more than ever, Hicks felt it was a true pity that they hadn't thought to bring any cannons with them. Their black powder would have made a hell of an impression.
As it was, they had to rely on speed and surprise to get them through this. So far, it seemed to be working.
The smoke from dozens of fires spread quickly, like a wave of pitch-black water. It filled the halls, poured out from beneath doors, and escaped out into the night sky. Already, the acrid fumes were turning breathing into a painful ordeal, and made vision a near-impossibility. Hicks had to squint, and even then he couldn't make out more than a few feet in front of him.
He could hear the alarmed cries and calls to evacuate echoing throughout the halls. He could imagine panicked traitors tripping over one another in the confusion, trampling over those underfoot in a rush towards the exits. He smiled at the image.
It wasn't long before they encountered a patrol, and the final challenge to this stage of the plan.
The traitors started the moment they saw them, hands falling to clutch at their weapons. Yet, before any of them could clear leather, Fat Edd stepped up front, hands cupped around his mouth. "Run, you stupid bastards!" he screamed, his voice booming and reverberating off the walls. "The Shielder son-of-bitches set fire to the damn place! Run, before it falls down on top of us!"
That was all they needed. The traitors turned and fled, practically hurling themselves through the smoke in the direction of the stairways. Fat Edd turned to his allies, grinning like a maniac. "They bought it! They actually fucking bought it!" he said, laughing hysterically.
The rest laughed as well, and Hicks felt his own smirk stretch so wide it was nearly painful.
Then, they were off, following in the trail of the fleeing men. Even through the smoke, they made swift progress, and at times, found themselves running alongside crowds of traitors. The panicked men ran on, none the wiser of their identities. All that mattered, in their minds, was the heat beating against their backs, seeming to double in intensity.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
At last, they arrived, winded, in the grand foyer at the ground floor. Though the smoke had managed to spread all the way down, it was reduced to a gray haze hanging overhead.
Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of traitors, crowded into the hall, choking on the fumes, their eyes tearing, lungs burning. Hicks suppressed a shiver at the scene. Certainly, in another scenario, in which they attempted to fight their way out of the Citadel straight on, this chamber would have been their end. Faced down with this many enemies, surrounded on all sides, they would have been hacked down under an endless storm of blades.
But… Then again, in another, ever-so-slightly different scenario, Hicks would not have found himself cornered and forced to desperately fight back alongside these men.
The traitors jostled and pushed, trying to squeeze through an already overflowing doorway. Fights broke out as the agitated crowd tried to force their way outside, fists flying, teeth bared, and curses ringing out. The crush of bodies was fierce, and Hicks found himself fighting hard to stay upright. His breath came in short gasps, and his heart pounded in his chest.
A hand seized his wrist, pulling him up as he stumbled and nearly fell. Fat Edd hauled him back to his feet, and Hicks turned to thank him.
"No time," he said, and pushed his way to the front of the pack, his bulk clearing a path. "We keep moving."
They fought their way through the press, struggling against the current. Time and time again they were almost torn free of the pack, only to be swept forward by a new surge of panicking men.
Almost on a whim, Hicks reached out and grabbed a man by the back of his shirt, pulling him back, then roughly pushed him backwards, into an aberrant's path. A look of shock passed through the man's face as he fell. He disappeared from sight when the minotaur trampled over him and tripped, its bulky form creating yet another obstacle for the rest of the throng.
As they neared the exit, Hicks could feel the pressure easing. The crush of bodies was lessening, the stench of smoke and sweat fading. Then, they were out, into the cool night air, and able to breathe without feeling like they were about to drown.
Coughing and retching, they staggered out into the bailey. He breathed in great, ragged gasps, tears streaming from his eyes. And yet, despite all of that, he felt a warm feeling swell within him. It was with a mixture of awe and terror that he acknowledged the complete insanity of what they had just accomplished.
They had survived the Citadel.
At that instant, Hicks felt an overpowering urge to hug the rest of the squad, to pump his fist in the air and shout about how they had beaten the odds. He felt an equally strong urge to find a quiet place where he could scream until it all went away.
He suppressed it all, somehow, and forced himself to remain composed. There was only one more hurdle, now. Just that one final stretch in the plan, and they would be home free.
"...Dammit," Ansel's sudden hiss interrupted him, dragging him back to reality. Following his gaze, he saw why. Dark figures marched forward along the walls, silhouetted by the moonlight. Slowly, with staggering steps, the traitors stepped forward and began forming ranks, of all things.
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Hicks said. "Now they decide to queue up all nice and orderly?"
"They figured it out," said Ansel.
"Huh? How's that?"
"I mean they realized we set the fires on purpose, to slip out in the confusion. Hell, I'd bet they know we're here—That's why they're forming up."
So, if they wanted to blend in, they'd have to form up as well. But even then, they would figure out who was who, and that would be that.
Hicks cursed again, colorfully and at great length.
"Either way, we can't just stand around while they do a roll call and let them find us," said Ryam. He tapped his spear's butt on the ground, a glint forming in his eyes. "Wanna try forcing our way out?"
Hicks could see the makeshift stables at the other end of the bailey, the gate in sight. Gods! Even the men who were supposed to be guarding it had reluctantly abandoned their posts, coming to stand in line, too. It was such a short distance. They could run for it. Maybe they'd make it. Maybe.
"They outnumber us more than ten times over," Hicks said, shaking his head. "I don't like our chances."
Ryam spat onto the ground. "So we do nothing and die, or try to swing and die. Either way you cut it, it hardly looks pretty for us."
Ansel's gaze remained fixed on the stables, a frown forming on his face.
"No." Hicks knew that look. "Don't you dare say—"
"We'll need a diversion," Ansel said.
For fuck's sake.
"We can't just stand around here," Ansel continued. "And we can't fight them all at once, either. There's just no way we can win in a straight-up fight. So I'm gonna—"
He was cut off when Fat Edd placed a hand on his shoulder. Edd's eyes were blank, staring slack-jawed into an unknowable distance.
"Edd?"
"Not yet," Fat Edd said. His voice was low, as if he was talking to himself. "Too soon, saint. Not here."
"What're you talking about?" Ansel asked. He squirmed out of the big lad's grip, squinting up at him. "Is... is it that girl?"
The big man's eyes jerked towards Ansel. Unshed tears glistened there. Then, wordlessly, he lifted a hand and pointed somewhere beyond the Citadel's outer walls.
For half-a-second, a dazzling line of lightning extended from somewhere, then split into three prongs. The first connected itself to the top of the tallest tower. The second arced across the courtyard, shooting directly towards the cyclop's eye. The final fork shot high into the sky, and then fell again, plunging deep into the bailey's ground.
The light rippled over its targets, like paint flowing from a brush. Then, there was a tremendous roar, the very sky seeming to scream. For an instant, the night was lit up with the brightest white, leaving all who looked at it blinking back tears. Dirt and stone churned upwards, displaced by the lightning bolt's fury.
Even from where they stood, nearly blinded, the squad felt the ground beneath them rock, like an ocean at its angriest.
Then, silence.
When Hicks opened his eyes again, just barely accustoming them to the darkness once more, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. Everyone and everything within the Citadel's grounds stood in silent awe in the lightning's wake.
In the distance beyond the walls, the cyclops, its head melted to an unrecognizable ruin, collapsed and crushed several other aberrants beneath it. Above them, large, smoking chunks of black stone dislodged themselves from the Citadel's upper reaches and plummeted to the ground, cracking and hissing as they impacted against the earth. Shouting and screaming in blind panic, the Hounds scrambled away from the rain of debris, the Legion howled in confused and instinctual fury, striking at any who strayed too close, and—
"What's happening...?" Hicks heard from someone nearby. Glancing to his side, he noted that Marco and his group had at some point come to stand by them. "Is this hell?"
"Not quite, but it's about to be," said Ansel, his jaw clenched tightly. With a sharp motion, he pointed down the bailey's length, and towards their objective. "Everyone! We won't get another chance like this! Advance, don't stop for anything!"
Without needing further prompting, the teams broke into an outright sprint, racing across the Citadel's grounds. Dust and smoke—both from the fires they had set inside, and from the abrupt lightning—began to whirl around them, as though a violent wind was brewing in the courtyard, and pushing it along.
Hicks felt his heart racing, his lungs burning with the effort of running. Around them, the traitors panicked, just as badly as they had within the Citadel. Men ran past them with no clear direction, screaming. Others tripped and fell, only to be trampled over by those following behind.
"That thunder," someone in their team began to shout. "How? Where did that come from?"
Ryam laughed in response, his voice nearly cracking in hysteria. "Use your head, idiot! Who do you think could have made a shitshow like that go off?"
Hicks drew in a sharp breath as the realization hit him. "Son of a bitch!" he cried out, his stomach lurching with a sudden spike of horror. "Now the Dark fuckin' Queen is just out and about, too?! What the hell is—"
Ahead of him, he watched Ansel stagger as a figure crashed into him, nearly losing his balance, and knocking his helmet off his head. The man who had collided with him was bruised and covered in soot, and he looked up at Ansel with bruised eyes. "You," the man gasped, as he saw Ansel's face, clearly recognizing him.
Without missing a beat, Ansel dropped the spear he was holding, and grabbed the traitor by the shoulder. His fist drove into the man's face, a burst of blood erupting into the air as the man's nose shattered from the blow. Ansel shoved him away, sending him sprawling back into another nearby cluster of traitors, and he screamed, as loudly as he could manage, "That's them! That's the Shielders!"
They didn't find out whether his words had the intended effect or not. Likely, they had been drowned out by the ongoing chaos and noise all around them. Ansel fell back into step with the others, and they continued their mad dash for the now unguarded stables.
The clouds of smoke around them continued to shift and whirl chaotically, and it felt as if, at any moment, the force of it could drag a man off his feet, and send him spiraling away.
Then, at last, they reached the improvised hovel where the horses were kept. The beasts were wild-eyed and frightened, trashing and stomping at the ground. Thomas and Klein quickly moved to approach them, attempting to calm them, while the others scrambled to gather up saddles and reins and fast as they could.
"One man per horse!" Marco bellowed, as he grabbed a saddle and threw it up onto a horse's back. "Don't bunch up, and don't waste time! If we can't mount up quick, we're dead!"
Despite their desperate pace, the Hounds chorused their assent, and the musters were quickly done with. Sixty-four men sat on horses: Barely half of the force they'd started with. But there was no time to wait for the others to perhaps catch up. The fact that everything had gone so well, and that they'd even managed to make it this far was nothing short of an impossibility made manifest.
Only one final step remained in order to truly complete that miracle.
"You ready?" Ansel asked him, his voice surprisingly even.
"No," Hicks said. "You?"
"No."
The two of them paused, then shared a quiet, mirthless laugh. Behind them, Fat Edd—mounted atop Vault's destrier, which was the only horse that could carry him—lit up one final firebomb.
Then, after a half a moment's hesitation, he hurled it towards the rest of the unmounted horses.
The flames spread quickly, licking up the sides of the stables. In moments, the entire structure was ablaze. The horses that were left inside panicked anew, madly whinnying and bucking against their burning stable, but they were stuck fast. Their shrieks of terror and confusion soon mingled with the crackle of flames.
None of the Hounds wasted a second pondering or regretting the decision: Had those horses lived, the traitors would have been able to pursue them at speed. "Better to deny the enemy that advantage," Vargas had reasoned, as they'd outlined their plan, and Ansel had agreed.
They erupted from the stables, all screaming and shouting, their weapons held high. Like an avalanche of horseflesh and steel, they raced across the bailey, cutting down every stunned traitor that stood in the path between them and freedom. The mountain range was close enough that a man could make it there in less than an hour at a reasonable running pace. With horses, it was a matter of minutes. They had to reach it, whatever the cost.
At the forefront of the vanguard, Hicks and Ansel burst forth into the wasteland. Illuminated by the fires, the very air around them took on a dim red glow, turning the snowcapped peaks and rock strewn fields a maddening pink.
Gods, Hicks thought. This really is a vision of hell.
Riding beside him, Ansel shouted, "Spread out!" and the riders obeyed, as planned. The men formed loose clusters of three to four, each group keeping well away from each other, as they shifted their headings. They would scatter to the south, east, and west, riding hard for Feoh, Ur, Bögenhafen, Bielefeld—any place they could find to deliver warning of the treachery they had escaped.
Or, at least, that was the intention.
Ragged screeches and brays cut through the air, echoing across the desolate landscape. A pack of centaurs burst from the swirling smoke, armed with crude spears and swords, and keeping speed with the riders. Above, gargoyles circled, screeching and cawing, their wings beating furiously. The aberrants glared at loyalists with murder in their glinting red eyes.
"Never a dull moment," Hicks said under his breath.
Around them, the centaurs finally struck, charging towards the riders, bellowing in rage. The men fenced against the aberrants, stabbing and slashing with their weapons. Hicks saw one of the beastmen fall, its skull split open, but another leaped forward, bringing its spear down onto Wallace's gut. Wallace screamed as the centaur wrenched its spear free, but somehow managed to stay atop his horse. With a grunt, he swung his axe, cleaving the creature's jaw free from its head, then pressed a hand tightly over his skewered stomach. Still, that was easily a mortal wound: Without tending to, it would fester, and the sepsis would finish him off within days.
"Spread out more!" Fat Edd cried out. "Cover each others' flanks!"
As the centaurs closed in, the riders peeled away, wheeling around in an ever looser formation. The men at the furthest edges of the formation weaved in and out amongst the groups, striking at any aberrant that came near.
Above them, the gargoyles caught up to the riders. They dived and swooped like birds of prey, shining talons and fangs striking out at the men. Just ahead of him, Oleg Vargas was caught by a pair that worked in tandem, their talons shearing his arms off at the elbows before he could defend himself. Blood sprayed across the wasteland as Vargas toppled from his horse, his screams fading into the distance, even as his comrades cut his killers down in retaliation.
The staccato gallop of the horses beat a steady backdrop as ragged screams and shouts echoed all around them, too numerous to tell friend from foe. Again, despite himself, Hicks felt a shudder run down his spine. But the end was near. So, so near. Even through the red haze, he could already see the foothills of the mountains. They were going to make it. He knew it.
—From the edge of his vision, he spotted movement. Acting on desperate instinct, Hicks flung himself sideways in the saddle, nearly falling off his horse as he moved. His ears popped as the centaur's scimitar whistled past him, slicing through the air where he had been. Hicks scrambled back upright, swinging back with his own sword.
He and the beastman fenced awkwardly against each other, blades flashing in the gloom. The centaur snarled and grunted, swiping its scimitar in a wide arc that would have taken Hicks' head off if he hadn't nudged for his horse to slow down. Then, a shrill screech pierced his ears, almost loud enough to briefly deafen him. Hicks glanced up in time to see a gargoyle closing in—Its baleful eyes met his, and its mouth spread wide open, drool dripping as it dove towards him.
Then, he was there.
Like a blur of red, Ansel interposed himself between Hicks and the gargoyle, his spear shooting up to skewer the aberrant as it screeched down. The gargoyle's momentum carried it forward, but it managed to spin itself around mid-dive.
The spear's tip pierced through one of the gargoyle's wings, rather than its head, and it latched on to Ansel before it could smash down to the ground. Ansel and the aberrant wrestled fiercely atop the horse's back, both trying to push the other off. Ansel punched at it, fists beating into the gargoyle's ribs, but it wouldn't let go.
The aberrant growled and struggled in his grip, then pulling a limb free, it raked its claws through Ansel's scalp.
"No!" someone screamed. Hicks realized it had been himself. Blood flew freely from Ansel's head, dark as wine, and—
A white-hot pain shot through Hicks' shoulder. His became incredibly clear. He looked down, and saw that the centaur managed to slice at him while he'd been distracted, cutting clean through his shirt and biting into his flesh. With a snarled curse, Hicks struck back at the centaur, aiming for the creature's throat. It dodged out of the way, but Hicks was not to be denied. He nudged the horse closer and swung again, batting away the beastman's scimitar. Then, he swung a third time, and his sword hit true.
The beastman gurgled blood as its throat was sheared open. But even in its death throes, it fought on. With a final effort of dying might, it hurled itself sideways, colliding with Hicks' horse. The horse neighed in surprise and agony, stumbling over the sudden obstacle, and one of its legs bent too far, a bone visibly protruding as it snapped. Shrieking in pain, the horse managed to continue for a handful more awkward steps, before it finally tumbled sideways, throwing Hicks free from the saddle.
He saw the world move as if in slow motion: The other Hounds racing madly towards the mountain range. What remained of the aberrants still giving chase. The maddening red sky above him. The ground slowly surging up to meet him.
Yet, before his body smashed down to the accursed earth, a hand latched onto his wrist, sending a bolt of pain up his wounded shoulder.
Hicks gaped up at Ansel: somehow, impossibly, still alive. The gargoyle, now nowhere to be seen, had torn through the side of his head, but not as deeply as Hicks thought it had. Half of Ansel's right ear was gone, as well as the bandages that covered the right side of his face. Now exposed, Hicks could see the empty socket of his ruined eye, and the burned flesh that stretched from his cheekbone to his ear. Even so, Ansel was smiling.
"I've got you," he said. "I've got you, brother."
With those scars and the beginnings of a scraggly beard, and the grime and blood mixing on his face, Ansel seemed like a far older man—Easily fifty years old, instead of the twenty that he truly was. But his remaining eye was bright, and spoke of all the naivete he still held. Camaraderie, and trust, and all that other nonsense that Ansel's kind spouted.
That dumb kid really had no idea, did he?
Hicks wanted to scream at him, to let him know that just the other day, he had been more than prepared to kill him, and likely the rest of those around them. He would have done it gladly, too, without a second thought, if only he'd had the chance. If only he hadn't been lumped in with the rest of these doomed bastards, and risking his life. If only he hadn't tried to make them see, he could have been on the victorious side, where every man would be a king.
But... he hadn't. Through fate's strange turns, that reality had not come to pass. And, perhaps, it never would.
The world around them had simply changed too much. Hicks had changed too much. What did I lose? he wondered, and how did I lose it?
"Hurry! Climb on!" Ansel urged him, still half-hanging off his own horse. His grip on Hicks' wrist was slowly growing weaker. Ahead of them, the mountains loomed ever closer. Already, some of the riders had made it, escaping the aberrants' final pursuit entirely.
Yes. They could make it. They might even manage to live through all of this. But that wasn't Hicks' place. It never had been.
He glanced back up, and met Ansel's eye. To his own surprise, Hicks smiled. "Be good, brother," he told Ansel. "Be better than me."
With those words, he let go, at the very same instant that Ansel fingers finally failed, and his grip came loose.
"No! Hicks!"
He felt the rush of the wind around him as he fell. For a few brief moments, it was a lovely feeling, almost as if he were flying. Then, he landed hard on his back, his momentum making him roll and tumble over the dirt, before coming to rest in a heap. He blinked several times, and then forced himself to stand. His shoulder screamed in protest as he pulled himself up to his feet, but he ignored it, pushing the pain aside.
He sighed; In all honesty, he'd half expected that the fall would end up killing him. A broken neck, or a fractured skull. Instead, he'd merely suffered a few bruises and scrapes. But it was just that kind of day, with the luck he'd been having.
Still, the others would make it through this. They had to.
With that thought in mind, Hicks drew his sword. He was alone now in that fiery night, a traitor to traitors, with no place left to go, with the specter of death waiting to close around him.
"Fuck my life," Hicks said once more to the empty air, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
He tightened his grip around the sword, and began to walk.
----------------------------------------
My hand was still outstretched, my eye still fixed on to the spot where he'd disappeared into the darkness, as if I could will Hicks to reappear and grab hold of him again.
My horse kept on moving, kicking up dust and grit as it plodded along.
I wondered, then, if the goddess had foreseen this, too, this betrayal. I wondered if She'd trusted me to somehow put an end to it before it could truly begin. If She had, then I had failed Her, completely and miserably.
And now, I was about to fail Her yet again. I was about to fail a lot of people. But tonight, there was at least one person whom I wouldn't fail.
The horse let out a startled snort as I dug my heels into its side, prompting it to turn around. I urged it to run faster, and it obliged, dashing across the plain.