The sky rumbled with thunder as rain pelleted the ground below in a vain attempt to wash away the day’s carnage. Blood-soaked fields covered Cavor like a blanket to obscure the land’s true nature. Not that there was much to see. Desolation had come to Cavor. A blight upon the land so wretched that crops withered and died when touched by the tar-like pestilence.

Desolation had another name. A name humans dared not speak. Except one man. A man called Neryk.

But this story was not written by the defeated. Can anyone honestly say they thought humans would claim victory in this tale? Nay, this book was ordained by the Blight, the Desolation, the Scourge himself. The ones who dared to utter his name. Not out of fear, mind you, but out of devotion. For, he saved us. We, the Zeddikens, enslaved by humans for millennia were freed through our lord’s ministrations. This is his story, through our eyes. Let me tell you the story of Wraith.

~

Argos tipped his ale back into his gullet with ease. The amber liquid quenched his thirst in a myriad of ways as he stood on legs that threatened to collapse from drink. As he grabbed a chair for support, he called out to the bartender in a hoarse voice. “Oy! Jackass, get the frucckk over here and gimme another drink befa I run ya through.”

It had been many years since Argos had drunk anything stronger than mulberry wine and, clearly, the copious amount of alcohol he had consumed had an effect on his sensibilities. Argos was usually a sensible, if brusque, and in some estimations, downright sadistic Zeddiken; however, today was a day unlike other days.

He had been freed. A remarkable, and to be frank, unrealistic occurrence. Something unnatural had occurred to his master, Kyren LongHorn. Something beyond his or anyone else’s imagination.

A dark...thing...Argos could describe it no other way descended upon the valley where his master resided and tore him asunder like he was no more than a coating of flesh rather than the four-stone man he loudly boasted to be.

As the dark expanse passed like night suddenly overtaking day, Argos felt a stunned for a long moment before exhilaration overtook him. A few of the other Zeddiken slaves remained behind, along with Master LongHorn’s family; however, most, including Argos left.

And to celebrate his emancipation, he came to the first bar he could find. A little run-down inn on the side of the road that doubled as a whore house. Not that he minded. Who wouldn’t want to fuck the night away when freedom, so long sought, had just been won. Albeit, in a bizarre and, perhaps, uncouth way to most sensibilities.

But Argos was unlike most Zeddikens who had, over the millennia, been culled into obeisance. He had a tendency towards arrogant insubordination that resulted in a multitude of mishaps that lined his young face. Scars pockmarked a smooth chin, lined crass cheek-bones, and shadowed azure eyes that bespoke a wisdom weighed down by years of servitude.

But, none of that showed this night. Drunk, Argos swayed where he stood as he glowered at the bartender. A man. A fucking man. That was who the bartender was. Like all humans, he was paler, smaller, and harbored a suppline fat much like a pig.

“Fuck off, mate,” The bartender glowered up at Argos as he swayed, precariously close to falling.

Anger flashed through Argos then as he looked down at the puny human. An unconscionable, animalistic anger that harbored no intentions other than an unmitigated fury aimed at the human race.

As Argos heaved himself off the chair, he stumbled over towards the bar and threw himself onto the wooden counter. Perhaps it was his disgust at the human race or his stomach’s protestation, Argos promptly threw up the remainder of his last meal upon the fat bartender.

But, then again, did it matter. Not really. Argos was not done. He grabbed the bartender with a grip that could crush wood and heaved him close to the vest. With sick down his front and a terrified expression on his face, the bartender whimpered as Argos dragged him close.

“Listen here, you fat fuck. I’ma gonna knock some sense into that pretty face. Ya hear?.”

The bartender only whimpered in acknowledgement.

Argos turned his head to look at the smattering of guests within the bar who looked on in fascination, disgust, fear, or a mixture of all three. All of them were human. By the way their mouths were agape, Argos thought these men and women must love to suck on something other than pickles with those mouths.

Fuckin’ Cocksuckers.

As he turned away from the pissaint guests behind him, he turned back to the bartender. A slow smile spread across his face as he pulled back a meaty fist and smashed it into the bartender’s face.

Pain lanced up his arm at the blow; however, Argos cared little. The bartender, teary eyed, had a large red mark under his eye where, no doubt, a bruise would form. Argos felt little hate towards the man for his comments. Rather, it was the human race, as a whole, he abhorred.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

This pain, suffering, and malignant disdain the humans had for Zeddikens sickened him. The only reason he had toiled under his master’s boots for so long was due to his unwillingness to cause his fellow Zeddiken slaves hardship due to his absence. Master LongHorn would, no doubt, have blamed Argos’ escape on the other Zeddikens aid.

Though, the consequences, in comparison to the benefits, recently began to look less-and-less distasteful.

If that black thing had not shown up, it was probable Argos would have left within the following weeks. Already in his second decade, Argos had years to ferment his hatred of the humans. Perhaps it was fate that allowed him to dole out a small portion of his retribution so soon.

As Argos beat the pissant bartender bloody, a maddening grin stretched across his face.

‘Humans’, Argos thought as blood speckled his face from a particular brutal blow, ‘are no better than those they call whores. Some need to be fucked while others need to be fucked up.’

~

Neryk felt tears roll down his face in rivulets before they seeped into his mouth. More so out of curiousity than anything else, he flicked his tongue out to taste the salty pools. They tasted, well, salty.

But no one judged him this day. There was no one left to judge.

Neryk stood above a massive pit, fifty paces wide, twenty paces deep. His forearms, thick due to the back-breaking work on his family’s farm, were caked with the clay of northern Cavor.

As he brushed his dirty-blond hair out of his eyes and left a smear of mud in his wake, Neryk’s gaze fell into the pit and the massive effort he exerted.

Corpses littered the pit like a pile of trash casually thrown into a corner where no one would see. The trash was not exactly picked up but neither was it in the purview of those that would care.

Neryk saw the decimated corpses of his parents, his brother, and...he let out a sharp sob…his lover. The image of all of his loved ones imbedded itself in his mind and he had to turn away from the laboriously-dug pit as grief overwhelmed him.

This day should never have happened. Never. Just that morning, Neryk had gone to the market in Kanja for the monthly supplies and when he returned, silence greeted him.

All he found was death. Death yet no destruction. It was as if his parents, lover, brother, friends, neighbors, everyone in the Kanja countryside put up no resistance whatsoever.

As Neryk scoured the surrounding farms, he found only more death. Withered corpses in the fields, hands full of barley. Corpses at the dinner table, forks in their mouths as they ate their fill. Corpses that were children...mere children...that held wooden toys protectively in their small embraces.

When he reached the Cantuk farm, he entered the small plantation to a sight that would haunt his nightmares for years to come. The four small Cantuk children had been rambunctious rascals who had been close to his brother.

They died where they stood. Grins plastered across their faces, pearly-white teeth lit the crevices where their mouths once screamed with joy. Their long, auburn hair, hung wispily against their cotton tunics.

Neryk could go no farther. He hauled the children and their parents into his Mek-driven cart and came back to his family’s farm, despondent. All day, he dug, until a pit four times as wide as a man and two times as deep stretched out in front of him.

He tried to lay the bodies down gently into the pit; but, it was too much. Mental and physical exhaustion overwhelmed him and by the time he finished, he had begun to toss bodies in unceremoniously.

Neryk began the arduous process of filling the pit with a covering of dirt. As he worked, day turned to night but Neryk continued his work.

Despair overwhelmed all else. Everyone he knew, everyone he cared for, they were all dead.

He could not stay in this place. It had once been his home. But not longer. No longer would he sit at the table and swap tales with his brother, stare deeply into his lover’s eyes, or learn wisdom at the knees of his parents.

A soft rain began to cascade down from above as night began to turn into day. The hardened clay that covered his forearms softened and washed away along with the traces of the pit where his loved ones rested.

Neryk knew something or someone had caused this disaster. He would find out who.

As Neryk straddled his Mek, he took one last look at where the pit had once been.

Anger coursed through him at the thought of what happened to his loved ones.

He would not rest until he had retribution.