Ekkehard

11th Day of Autumn

767 Karloman’s Peace

He tripped. Falling slowly, his body met dark wooden panels with a muted thud.

His world distorted as though seen through water, and he was enveloped by an orange light as a long corridor stretched out before him. Though he saw no flames, the walls simmered with incandescence and washed him in heat, causing hemp rags to cling uncomfortably to his body. He took a deep breath but choked. An acrid mix of iron and decay assaulted his lungs, leaving behind a metallic taste of copper.

Looking back, he saw the body that had tripped him. Once an old man, it was now something entirely different, its face a grotesque canvas, its features divided by a yawning gash of deep red and pitless black. It sat upright, back resting against the wall, motionless.

The thing’s head turned and faced him.

His heart raced, and his throat seized as the dead beast slid off the wall and slumped onto the floor. It twisted, arm bones cracking to life. The sound sent shivers down his spine as it began to crawl, the wound on its face widening to reveal a maw of gnarled fangs as it reached hungrily towards him.

It hissed.

A clawed hand tried to grab him. He kicked free of the thing, clambered to his feet, and turned to run. Despite his effort, he moved sluggishly. He would have cursed his ambling and questioned the horror at his back had his mind not been deafened by his drumming heart. Its thudding beat underscored the unsettling chase.

To his left, a white door formed from gathering mists offered an escape. He ripped it open, rushed inside, slammed and barricaded the door, holding it closed. He tried to catch his breath, expecting the thing to beat its way inside at any moment. It did not. He turned around, and what he saw made him wish it had.

The room was devoid of defining features except for a large bed in its centre. A woman lay upon it. Her nudity was veiled by nothing but the darkness. From beneath the bed, three sinewy, skinless arms crawled. They clambered up its sides. Moving like carrion worms, they wriggled across the surface and latched onto the woman, holding her down. Her head lolled to the side, revealing her face. Auriana's eyes stared back at Ekkehard. Where there had once been shining blue were now lightless voids.

“Why?” her face whispered. He tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat.

The skinless arms began to rip and tear at her. Flesh peeled away with ease as muscle fibres pulled from the bone. As her face split in two, his heart burst. He spun away, wrenched the door open, and fell back into the corridor.

But there was no corridor.

Looking up, he saw there was no longer a door either.

He was interred within a cruel, iron chamber, and the air turned stifling, suffocating, choking his breath. The floor glowed a sinister red, pulsating like the heart of a demonic creature, its beating cascading through the cell and threatening to rupture his ears. A gale battered him. He was almost thrown into the depths of his cell's abyssal darkness. Above, he saw the source of the wind. A giant owl wreathed in flame, its obsidian talons descending towards him. Beneath the sound of its screech, the cries of children resounded and clawed at the walls of his sanity, ripping through the silence like a scalding wind.

His screams joined theirs.

The trance snapped, and he was free, returned to the world.

Ekkehard Reubke blinked hard, the afterimages of the nightmarish scene still burning into his vision. He was surprised to find he was awake. Had I been awake the entire time? He wondered. If he had been, his mind had not been present; that much was certain.

Looking around, he struggled to recall how he had come to this new place—a dismal makeshift hovel. It had been constructed haphazardly, using broken tree branches, clay, mud, and whatever sizable rocks could be found nearby. It was small, primitive, and cold. Rain pounded against its roof, creating a melody of misery.

He tried to piece together the events of the last several days. He was reasonably sure he and his two brothers had been holed up in this sad place for a while, having assembled the shelter to protect themselves from the relentless storm. He could hear the howling of wind and the groaning of the tree trunks it battled to bend and break. Amidst the storm's roar, the bickering of Ekkehard's younger siblings was almost drowned out.

Almost, but not entirely.

They argued over the integrity of the shack's roof, each blaming the other for a small leak that had soaked their bedclothes and blankets. Ekkehard sat cross-legged on the hut's mud floor and absently observed his two brothers. Both were a decade his junior, and their argument seemed petty to him.

"See, I told you to use more leaves," Florentin chided Gerwald, “Dirt alone will never keep water out.”

"Oh, fuck off, Flor,” Gerwald spat back and pushed his brother. “What’s a leaf gonna do? It’s your shoddy framework that's the problem. You never were any good with your hands. I was training with the masons, you know; I can put up a mud hut.”

Although the shorter and younger of the two, Gerwald’s build was broader and far more robust. Even his exhausted push was enough to unbalance Florentin, the leaner of them. Florentin, however, was quick. Landing on all fours, he turned his stumble into an opportunity and kicked Gerwald square in the chest. It was playful but forceful, nonetheless.

Caught off guard, Gerwald tumbled backwards. He landed with a thud against the back wall of the hut, and a loud crack resounded. One of the thick foundation branches had split.

Chunks of mud fell from the roof. Both brothers stopped, meekly inspecting the ceiling as if expecting it to collapse any second. “Careful now,” Gerwald said as they waited for the cave-in that, fortunately, didn’t come. “Or do you want to bring the roof down on our heads?”

“Why should we worry?” Florentin responded as Ekkehard caught a glimpse of his face. His angular features were gaunter and more drained than he remembered. Large dark circles enveloped his eyes, showing clear signs of a fraying mind. Florentin was in dire need of rest. “It's not like we could make the place any wetter, is it?”

Gerwald sighed and looked over at the damp pile of dirty linens that served as their bed. Ekkehard’s youngest brother looked just as tired as Florentin.

How long had they been like this? Ekkehard wondered. They were a mess: disorganised, exhausted, dirty, with flaring tempers. This wasn’t like them. They were Reubkes, nobles, warriors, survivors, just like him. They had no business being in such a state of squalor, and where were his other brothers? Should they not be here?

Otker, Evroul, Aldedramnus, young Corbus, and his elder brother Audomar were all absent. The Reubkes lived together and rarely travelled separately. Why, then, were only Gerwald and Florentin, both barely old enough to be called men, with him? A painful lance struck Ekkehard’s mind and heart as the question formed. Agony-stricken faces flashed before his eyes.

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His stomach sank. He pushed away the images, his head pounding from the effort.

“At least our weapons stayed dry, brother,” Gerwald remarked, ever the optimist, gesturing toward a pile of battered equipment on the other side of the hovel. “It would've been a disaster if they’d gotten wet. We may need them soon enough.” His voice croaked with desperation.

A twinge tugged at Ekkehard’s heart.

They were being hunted. He remembered Hanib’s men, who had forced them out of the city and still pursued them. Hanib, who had…

Now Ekkehard remembered it all.

Memories that had been like shadowy wisps, darting away each time he grasped for them, suddenly flooded him in their multitude. He felt weak and thin as if his skin was pulled taught against his flesh. With the fog in his mind lifted, he realised his nightmarish trance had been the preferable state.

Pushing his recollections away, Ekkehard looked over the jumble of gear in the corner of their hovel. One item, an old war spear in the hrapan style, dented but finely crafted, stood out.

That was Audomar’s spear.

Thinking of his eldest brother, he smiled a little to himself. He pictured the stalwart visage of the veteran commander who had guided him through many tribulations. Then his smile faded as he envisioned his brother’s cold face lying on a wooden table in a blood-stinking room.

He shook the image away.

Ekkehard wondered how the spear had gotten here. He hadn’t brought it. He wondered which of his brothers had thought to carry it during their escape. Not Florentin; he wasn’t that sentimental. It must have been Gerwald, who was still sensitive in his youth. It was the kind of thing he would do.

The spear is mine now, Ekkehard figured.

“Thank Spring for small miracles and the like, eh?” Florentin responded to Gerwald with a half-hearted shrug.

Ekkehard’s jaw clenched. His cheeks warmed, and his breath quickened. Hearing Florentin speak the name of the King of Heaven enraged him.

Thank Spring, the words repeated in Ekkehard’s mind. Oh yes, thank a god. Thank one of those petty and selfish tyrants who torment mortals for nothing more than imagined slights. Once upon a time, Ekkehard might have been a priest, exalting the name of the King of Heaven in ceremony and service. How glad he was to have avoided that fate. Apostate, they might call him, heresy they accused him of, but at least he was no longer a slave to an apathetic cabal.

More memories flooded Ekkehard. Flashes of fire and blood from past wars. The lifeless faces of loved ones, sacrifices on the altar of his independence. The despair in her eyes and the whispers of unanswered prayers.

Ekkehard had given enough to the gods. He would allow them no more.

“Spare me the blessings of the gods,” Ekkehard snapped mockingly at his younger brothers, rising to meet them. His throat pained as he spoke as if rusted from disuse. “After all we've been through,” he continued, the full regal cadence of his voice returning, “I think we can do away with offerings to any absentee phantoms!”

His sudden outburst startled the two younger siblings. They were taken aback, perhaps most surprised to hear their brother speak at all. Once the shock passed, however, Florentin smiled a little, relief smoothing the edges of his tired face.

Gerwald, on the other hand, shrank.

Ekkehard’s heart twinged at his more sorrowful brother’s defeated expression. As the youngest, Gerwald had borne their hardships the worst, and Ekkehard regretted his harsh tone. His anger was misplaced. Taking it out on his brother was unworthy of him and unfair to Gerwald.

"I'm sorry, Gerie," Ekkehard said softly. "I don’t mean to take anything out on you."

A hush fell as neither of the younger brothers seemed sure how to respond. Florentin hesitantly offered an apology. Ekkehard remained silent, listening to Florentin's remorse. His body softened, his outburst having relieved some of the tension in his shoulders.

“We have all been through a lot, but you the most. I am so sorry about Au…” Florentin said, and Ekkehard winced as Florentin began to say the name.

Florentin noticed and caught himself. “I’m sorry,” was all he said in the end.

Ekkehard's hatred for the gods vanished, leaving a cold pit into which he sank. It was pointless to hate. Hating wasn’t going to bring anyone back. It wouldn’t undo what Hanib did. There was so much he didn’t have the strength to face. He wondered if it would be possible to lose himself in a trance again, as he had done for days before.

Yet, what would that achieve?

Ekkehard looked up at Florentin, who awaited his response. He couldn’t hold the hopeful gaze and turned away. “I know, little brother,” was all he could say.

His chest constricted, and his breath came in a struggle. This place, the state of it, the misery in the air, made him feel trapped.

He needed to get out.

Ekkehard saw his brothers’ concern and turned back to them, offering them the most insincere smile. “Still, a wet bed isn’t the worst thing we’ve endured,” he said, forcing some energy into his voice. He shuffled to the pile of weapons, selecting a dagger and his late brother Audomar's spear. He tucked the dagger into his belt and carried the spear, careful of its notched haft.

“Why don't you two get some rest? I'll take watch. Scout the mountainside for anything useful,” Ekkehard said, moving toward the hovel’s door.

Gerwald and Florentin exchanged glances, the youngest brother’s eyes wide with worry. “Are you sure, brother?” Gerwald asked, his voice trembling with concern. You’ve barely slept in days. Maybe you should stay and rest.”

“I’m sure,” Ekkehard replied, pushing the door open.

The door, little more than a bound bramble of thick broken tree branches, fell forward and squelched in the mud. Gusts of wind and rain whipped through the hovel spitefully.

“No, you need rest,” Florentin urged, grabbing Ekkehard by the shoulder and tugging him back.

Something woke in Ekkehard. The sudden contact triggered frightful memories and violent instincts. He wheeled on Florentin. Shoving hard with an open palm, he sent Florentin tumbling to the ground, who landed on his back and sprawled across the mud floor.

“I said, I’m sure!” Ekkehard barked.

He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding as he struggled to hold himself back. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry. It had come over him fast.

Yet, he was angry, so incredibly angry.

He felt caged in this tiny hole in the ground, and his brothers thought to deny him even a moment’s privacy. After everything he had been through, if he wanted to be alone, he would be. They had no say in the matter.

“I don’t need you two fussing over me,” Ekkehard snapped. “Gerwald, don’t meddle,” he added, raising a hand to halt his youngest brother. He had prevented the intervention he had predicted, but Gerwald still positioned himself sentinel between his two elder brothers.

The look Gerwald gave him insulted Ekkehard. It was an arrogant, challenging look. How dare his younger brother look at him that way. Ekkehard gripped the haft of Audomar’s spear so tightly its rough surface pricked his palm. He pointed the tip of the spear toward Gerwald, a warning.

Gerwald’s expression was stalwart. His chest was squared, nostrils flared, and eyes determined. Though the youngest remaining Reubke, Gerwald had been raised, like his brothers, not to back down. The two held each other's stare, their silence interrupted only by the howling wind and the torrent of rain. Then Gerwald broke their locked gaze, his eyes darting to the side.

Ekkehard followed his brother’s glance to the pile of weapons in the corner of the hut. He ground his jaw tight, trying to contain the venom within him. “Go on then,” Ekkehard taunted, gesturing toward the weapons. “Try it.”

Gerwald didn’t move. He stared wide-eyed, hands clenched by his side, as his face grew dour. For a moment, Ekkehard hoped his brother would reach for the weapons. As the thought occurred to him, Ekkehard’s temper vanished, and his body froze. What am I doing? This was his little brother, someone he loved and was meant to protect.

Ekkehard lowered the point of his spear.

Gerwald is just a boy and a child who has endured far more than Ekkehard should have allowed. Shame forced him to look away from his younger brother. The tension between them broke, Gerwald’s will collapsing with it. Tears welled up in his eyes, his face a reflection of Ekkehard’s own suffering.

Gerwald tried to step toward Ekkehard, but Florentin gripped him, pulling him away. The two younger brothers hugged, and Gerwald broke, sobbing into Florentin’s chest. With a shake of his head, Florentin silently implored his older brother to stop.

Ekkehard was suddenly aware of the rain and wind. He shivered.

“Do whatever you want, brother,” Florentin said. “Just close that door.”

Ekkehard remained silent, staring at the floor, hating himself. He wanted his last conversation with his brothers to be better than this, but he couldn’t bear it any longer. He longed to be free of his dormant memories for good, and dragging out this farewell would do little to help that. Quietly, he turned and shuffled out of the hovel’s doorway.

Outside in the pouring rain and howling wind, Ekkehard straightened and gazed into the darkness. With a heavy sigh, he kicked around until he found the brittle surface of the makeshift door. He picked up the misshapen thing and resealed the hovel. Leaning against it, he closed his eyes, trying to suppress the tears that threatened to spill. He could still hear his brothers’ discontent murmurings within.

They likely thought he’d abandoned them.

He had.

They would be better for it.

Steeling himself, Ekkehard pushed off the door and hoisted Audomar's spear over his shoulder. Digging deep, he risked one last glance back at the mud hut. He inhaled deeply, the wet scent of the Hastfala Forest filling his lungs as he did, turned, and disappeared into the night.

As he traversed the woods, he lost himself in the twisting, tangled labyrinth of his troubled recollections. Nought but blood screams and broken dreams.