I
It hit him in the sternum. A single blow that was not physical but metaphysical, and yet it knocked the wind and balance from him. He felt himself falling, falling, falling… until the ground met his body hard enough to make him bounce, his cranium snapping back against the leave-covered dirt.
Noise disintegrated into silence. Breath wouldn’t come to his lungs. There was only the hazy view of a battlefield clamoring above him. Weapons thrust through the blackness of night, bodies collided, and blood splattered across the forest ground. The scene was familiar, nostalgic even; it hadn’t changed much over the centuries. This was where he had made his home, amidst the terror and chaos as men and women strove to kill and survive.
If there was any purpose left in his bones, this was it.
And yet that feeling that struck him to the ground lingered. It was a thick tar inside his chest, dulling the beating of his heart and numbing his lungs. With it came a thin thread that intermingled with his thoughts. It was faint, but it was there. An inky gray shadow shattering the blackness of his mind.
Could it be–
“Caleb!”
The cry cracked like a whip against his awareness, beckoning his lungs to draw air. Senses alarmed anew, he rose to his feet, relieved his weapon was still in his hand. As the remainder of his haze dissipated, he realized the caller had joined him and they stood back-to-back, blades raised.
“I thought we lost you, Brother.” The caller, a man with wild blond hair, gave his sword and cutlass a twirl.
Caleb’s response was grim, “No such luck, Torrance.”
A chuckle wafted back to him but died quickly in the air as Torrance engaged a combattant.
Caleb also wasted no time, returning to the battle nearly as though nothing had happened. The sword in his grip was molten, lethal as mercury as it arced and stabbed through bodies with no more resistance than air. It hissed a strange mixture of elation and displeasure, primed for the fight but loathing the filth touching its polished blade. Without remorse he used it to attack again and again, absorbing its loathing and dismissing it just as equally as the bodies left in his wake.
Amidst the battle he expanded his senses, dark tendrils of his mind reaching out until he could feel his comrades inside of his own skull. One by one, he willed his resolve toward each one of their minds, complementing their already-heightened drive to win. Distracted by the fight, none complained.
They would win. Or he would die trying.
It could have been hours, or merely minutes. All he knew was the instant the last soulless body fell. The surviving warriors circled the twice-dead, daring any to rise yet again for another taste of steel. But none did, their writhing bodies already sizzling with decomposition as the putrid stench of necrosis permeated the air. No matter, it would be gone by morning.
“Commander, we did it.”
In the process of withdrawing his mind, he almost didn’t hear the words. But he felt the relief -- nay, elation -- from the young warrior standing close. Lifting his violet eyes from a decaying corpse, he beheld the young face in front of him.
“Aye.”
There was no need to ask for a status report, he already knew the state of their twenty-man regiment. With a flick of his hand, the remaining able-bodied warriors began collecting their dead and helping the injured.
“Torrance,” Caleb said, setting his eyes on the ramshackle cabin a few paces away. “Check the building.”
Torrance nodded and motioned for two men to follow him.
A voice pestered Caleb’s thoughts, increasing in volume until he winced. Yes, Zayen, I hear you, he silently said, grip tightening on his sword. I’ll get you cleaned up. Be patient.
Automatically he stooped to wipe the blade clean on the shirt of an undead. Shooting pain robbed him of a smooth transition and he staggered down to one knee. Blood seeped from a gash on his thigh. It was deep, possibly to the bone. His sword hissed anew in his grip.
Calm down. I’m fine. He wiped the blade off.
Torrance’s voice rang through the now-still midnight air, “They’re here!”
On his feet again, Caleb paused to listen, drawing on Torrance’s shadow in search of quiet ethos. Dozens of weapons hummed back at him, a mixture of voices so faint and yet so melodic he felt tension leave his muscles. Yes, they had found them. The weapons were safe, now.
“Let’s move,” he ordered.
Within minutes, the warriors hobbled away from the cabin, leaving the stench to the dreary night. The trek to awaiting four-wheel-drive vehicles was arduous while toting the dead, maimed, and crates of weapons. But they managed.
It took nearly an hour to drive back to their outpost, weaving down roads that were little more than dirt trails. From communications and maps, they knew the shipment of ancient weapons had been intercepted close to their outpost – and thanks to locals, they had found the cabin without much effort. The rest had been elementary; they had found the Varisci sect, eliminated the undead, and recovered what was taken.
It should have felt like a victory.
Riding in the front passenger seat, Caleb allowed his mind to wander beyond the rough road, dense forest and smothering blackness of night. These thefts are becoming more frequent, he thought. Then he snorted. Frequent… compared to recent centuries. Perhaps I’m getting too old for this.
His sword – tip resting on the floorboard and the flat blade a cool pressure against his inner thigh – chuckled at him.
Shut up, he mentally snapped at the cajoling weapon.
“Distracted,” the sword silently whispered back. “Your fault.”
A refute was quick on his lips, but he decided not to give his voice to it. Yes, he had been distracted, and he still was. That debilitating heaviness was clinging to his chest, the thread of thought interweaving in his lightly. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to force it out of the gates of his mind. That worried him.
Their outpost was nothing shy of a castle. Quite literally, and it was a strange find in this modern corner of the world. A dirt driveway nearly overtaken by nature was their modest path to the large stone building, which was long and lean but no less excessive in size. The exterior walls were cornered with sharp towers, peaked upper windows matching the motif. Silently, he was pleased to see men watching their approach from the second story, barrels of long-distance firearms poking out into the night.
One could never be too careful, even when taking refuge in an abandoned castle in the middle of nowhere.
Their small caravan drove through the arched entryway and into the inner courtyard. From his seat, Caleb watched the events unfold in the usual order. His men exited the vehicles, some of their own power and others with help. Trained personnel emerged from the stone building to assist in a variety of manners. Some received tactical equipment, others the recovered wooden crates, yet others their lovers – and with gusto. He watched Torrance receive a busty woman – Sherry? Stacey? damn, he had forgotten – who flung herself dramatically into his arms.
Caleb critically watched the reception of the dead and injured, though there was no need for concern, they were secured immediately and expertly. It was not until the last one shuffled off under the care of a medic that he let out a small sigh and finally opened the door of the four-by-four.
One hand gripping his sword and the other the doorframe, he hopped out of the vehicle on one foot.
A soft voice spoke behind him, “Chunnaic mi sin.”
Despite himself, he half-drew Zayen into a guard. And promptly lowered it. “Abhainn.”
Green eyes sparkled in the dim light. “English, please. Your accent is horrendous.”
It was an attempt at banter. He knew he should appreciate it, but he couldn’t muster the frivolity. “As you wish, River.”
“You need to be treated.”
“Tend my men first–”
“Your men are cared for.” Her elegant hand grasped his wrist. “Come along, Commander. It is your turn.”
He allowed her to drape his arm around her shoulders, her mind gently brushing up against his with the contact. It reminded him of a misty fog settling over a Scottish loch, silvery-white and soothing. That, and the sweet smell of her curly red hair was a pleasant parallel to the persistent stench of battle. He allowed her to both support and lead him to the massive building.
Once through the heavy wooden door, they wove around the bustle of bodies inside. The first room they came to was large enough to be a ballroom. Instead of being filled with fine art and occasional furniture, it was divided in half; one side boasting assorted medical equipment and hospital gurneys – most filled with the injured and dead – and the opposite, lined with tables filled with weaponry and tactical gear.
River directed him to an empty gurney, releasing him to pluck exam gloves from the neighboring stainless steel tray. “Take your pants off.”
His eyebrow rose. A man laying on the gurney behind him chuckled.
“Is that necessary?” he said with a glance at his thigh. The tear in his pants was large enough to display the wound openly.
A small smile upturned her lips. “Are you being shy, Commander? I know it’s not the first time you’ve been told that by a woman.”
This time, her jives were slightly contagious. “But the first time by you.”
“I go where the wounds are.” She slipped her hands into the thin nitrile. “Shirt, too. Let’s check you over.”
He complied, his movements mechanical as he set Zayen on the edge of the gurney and shed his clothes. The garments fell to the floor in a rumpled pile and he sat next to his sword, eyes set unseeing on the bustle of the room as River began mopping at the stab wound with a wad of white gauze.
“Were you successful tonight?” she said.
“Yes.
“Then why are you brooding?”
He glanced down at her. “I’m not brooding.”
She placed a fresh wad of gauze against his wound, then guided his hand to press against it. While he applied pressure, she checked over the rest of his body. Her fingertips lightly trailed across his skin, hitching over old scars in her examination. Once she seemed satisfied there were only minor scrapes and bruises, she donned her stethoscope and pressed the cool chest-piece against his pectoralis.
“Forty-five,” she said. “Still a bit high.”
He could have brushed it off, told her it was the adrenaline high from the fight. But she would sense the lie. No, he knew why his heart hammered in his chest like a young squire’s, and it had everything to do with the foreign thoughts in his mind, growing ever-louder.
He remained silent.
“I need to stitch your leg quickly, before it heals any more. Lay back.”
No sooner had he complied than she draped blue surgical towels around the wound, then proceeded to scrub it clean inside and out. When he saw her reach for a syringe of local anesthetic, he caught her hand and shook his head. Even though she gave him a skeptical look, she traded the syringe for forceps and suture.
As usual, her stitching was quick and efficient. He only winced once as the needle stabbed through the over raw flesh, slowly drawing the edges back together into what he knew would heal into a faint scar. As she worked, he focused on her rhythm, occasionally catching a whiff of her hair, which intermingled with the smell of disinfectant and nitrile.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever is bothering you.”
He kept his gaze locked on the ceiling above. “The Vögte will want my report as soon as possible.”
Ever so softly, he heard her sigh. But she did not speak again.
