Note: The manuscript is in progress and has not undergone a formal revision process yet (I have only worked with beta readers and self-editing so far).
Artwork is from the inimitable Casfeld.
Prashen
Soot pressed her shoulder against the brothel’s wall and lowered her rifle. The sergeant called it a tavern—a reasonable mistake given the lack of patrons and looted interior. This city was her home, though, so she knew the building all too well. It was once a tacky place filled with faux gold ornaments set with painted glass made to look like jewels. The items of actual expense were the erotic paintings of ladies and lords too impossibly gorgeous and too impossibly into each other to be real. At least the place was well built, with a solid stone foundation that had held up against stray fire. Most of the tiled roof was intact, offering welcome shelter from the weather.
It was pissing outside and she couldn’t even see the inner keep’s defenders anymore. They were certainly there since she could smell their filth. Every few minutes some Union bastard hurled an insult at the sergeant, beginning a brief exchange of linguistic venom and the occasional ill-aimed projectile from behind the ramparts.
The enemy wouldn’t be so glib tomorrow once the cannons were in position.
“I kill any of your mates, doggie? Shot a good twenty!” taunted a voice from atop the wall.
Sergeant Malin Seth rolled his eyes. “Fifty here. ‘Round forty by axe. Probably Starmgardians, considering they tried to run instead of fight.”
The voice laughed back. “Heard some of your moonkin bitches yelp!”
“Oh yeah? They sound like your mother squirting after a good fucking?” The moonkin sergeant’s gray wolf ears twitched just before a bolt struck the opposite side of the wall. He knew where the shot came from.
Swinging out to the window, he aimed his crossbow and fired. As he pirouetted back to cover, Soot heard the satisfying crunch of his shot piercing armor and flesh, followed by the pained cry of his victim. Bullets and bolts punched against the wall in reprisal, with others flying through the now-vacant window. One man cursed as his gun failed to fire, his powder ruined by the downpour.
Malin formed a self-congratulatory smile at the pained cries. “Nah, she didn’t sound like that. More like this…” He gave his best exaggeration of a whore getting railed as the defenders impotently hurled insults.
Soot got a kick out of that, barely containing her giggling. Her tail bushed out as it swayed side to side, brushing up against the man behind her who was peeking through a window slat.
Corin brushed her tail aside. “Over at the gate, Sharge. Count’sh ‘bout to have a word with ‘em,” he yelled with an unexpected lisp. He wasn’t drunk, she knew that much.
She peeked at the gate just a stone’s throw from her perch. The Count was always dressed in black, darker than her own wild hair, and would be nigh impossible to see through the night’s rain.
His voice was unmistakable, though: cold and more condescending than the most pureblood noble. “I’m here to parlay. Tell your commander that the Empire’s general is here to discuss the terms of surrender.”
There was a long pause. “Come again?” responded a gruff voice from the walls.
“Your commander. I’m here to speak with him. I’m here to offer terms that might save your lives. Best be quick about it.”
There was no response, although Soot heard Union soldiers shuffling about the defenses. There wouldn’t be a breach tonight as everyone was too bloody exhausted. Taking the city and sweeping it had kept people awake for well over a day and the search for strays continued. They had time on their side, at least: Union reinforcements had been routed by Duke Valmont’s son and, even had they not been, the Trulais crossing’s defenses were scarcely touched by the siege and were now under the Count’s control.
Finally, the ramparts responded with a man’s forced falsetto. “I am the commanding officer here. With whom am I speaking?” The stupid voice was accompanied by snickering.
Probably the same bloody guy.
“Count Ilhan Senvoire, General of the Sancrésant Empire.” He kept his calm. “I’ve taken back our city and cut off any hopes of reinforcement or escape. And who, do tell, are you?”
“It is I, Emperor Cassien Fourier the Second! Thank you for your hard work, Sir Blackberry Count, but can you come back later? I’m rather busy ploughing your mum!” Laughter roared across the walls.
Starmgardians really are shit with their humor.
There was a flash of lightning that revealed the general—shadowy clothes and pale skin, save for the golden eagle signaling his allegiance. He raised a glove and held up two fingers. The fools should’ve known better.
A bolt of blue shot out from a distant tower—practically on the far side of the city—towards the keep. Soot could barely follow it, but one of the defenders’ heads vanished as it was replaced with red mist. The Whitebeak typically didn’t waste shots on common soldiers. During the battle, his focus was on siege cannons and then the castle’s oculus. This was sending a message.
It took the sentinels a moment to even notice as they continued to lob insults. “Shit!” yelled one of them, finally noticing. Several others did as well, throwing torches towards the Count as they scurried to counter.
Gunners and crossbowmen all fired at the exposed general, though half of the powder didn’t ignite. Those who did fire may as well have fired at a rock. The hail bounced off the black mage with crystalline tings. The Count didn’t even hint at exhaustion—he was far beyond the talent of most nobles and, apparently, that realization was setting in among the defenders.
A second flash of blue shot out from the distance, punching a round hole through the stone wall and the chest of a second defender. The victim toppled over the edge of the ramparts and plunged into the moat.
Illuminated by the fires, the Count raised a closed fist as the defending soldiers scrambled to hide. “Were you asleep when we took the city?” His voice was starting to curdle. “You have until tomorrow afternoon to offer up your weapons and commander—particularly the Archduke, if he didn’t flee like a coward—alongside any slaves you keep, unharmed. Only then will you be allowed passage west with your lives.”
“Go plough yourself, pig!” shouted a young man’s voice. The resoluteness was lacking.
“Oh? My terms are understood, then? I’ll have every last one of you gutted if you fail to meet them. Sleep well.”
月
Chicken bones and celery boiled in water. Almost certainly rain water. That was the meal of the evening. Soot was absolutely delighted to see the tiniest morsel of chicken skin floating in her soup bowl.
Corin gave a wave from the pile of crates they had converted into a dinner table near the entrance of the plundered warehouse. She headed over with Malin in tow.
“I’d kill for a bottle,” the sergeant quipped as he planted his ass on a wobbly crate.
Soot lowered herself onto the sturdier one, carefully balancing her soup bowl, lest the treasured morsel spill out. A proper drink seemed unlikely. The stores had been picked clean of extra food and drink. Malin had, at least, been able to replace his boots after finding a fresh pair in his giant size among the crates.
“As it so happens…” murmured the bald Knott, unveiling a cask about the size of his head.
Her fox ears shot up with her tail. “Paleblood, what’s that?”
“Shtarmgard’sh besh pissh,” laughed the bearded Corin, showing off his two missing front teeth. He had them the night prior.
Malin shook his head. “Sod it. Hand it over here. Let’s see what the bear fuckers put down.” He unplugged the cask, gave it a quick sniff, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and then proceeded to down several gulps of the slosh. He plonked the container on the makeshift table and let out a long, satisfied belch. “Smells like ox fart, but ain’t bad tasting.”
“And that, brothers and sisters, is how Malin gets all of the ladies. Every last one! Leaving the rest of us boys maidenless.” Knott gave a flourishing bow towards him.
“Grife, just grab a whore and quit your whinging.”
“Whore’s not a maiden, Sarge!” retorted Soot.
“Could be if it’s her first day!”
The group groaned before downing their soup. Soot took a moment to savor the sliver of flesh, rolling it around on her tongue and slicing it up with the edges of her teeth to release its pittance of flavor. It was gone too quickly.
The chiming of a hand bell rang from the entrance of the warehouse.
Knott grumbled, “Ready for the dinner sermon?”
An elderly priest in gray, ash-stained robes shook the bell once more as he wandered among the famished soldiers with a paladin in tow. “Long was that dark night. Before all thought and motive! We must never forget that greatest of gifts. They who granted Will to the living!” His voice was weak and he shakily clutched a gold serpent pendant hanging from his neck.
“We give our thanks,” spoke the nearby diners.
“Children of Humanity,” continued the priest. “Spare a moment to mourn the lost in this terrible conflict! Scour the hatred from your heart!” The priest rang his bell once more. “Bitter though this war be, we fight our brothers and sisters. We must always remember that the true enemy of Humanity lies beyond the borders of our kingdoms and empires!”
Some of the humans nodded, but the crowd stayed their tongues. Many of the beastkin were on edge. The paladin surveyed the room through his thin visor, his flesh obscured by thick plate. Soot wondered who lay under the armor and what his beliefs were. The Church took beastkin as well as humans among their ranks.
“Forgiveness is the highest of virtues,” continued the priest, wandering deeper into the hall as his voice grew fainter.
“Not bad for an older fellow,” Malin remarked. “Didn’t even mention the bloody Temptress.”
Soot clicked her tongue. “Didn’t need to.”
A young lad ran into the warehouse. “Sergeant Malin Seth, orders from the Count!”
“What’s the word?” he replied, standing up to greet the newcomer.
“We think there’s a mutiny going on ‘side the inner keep,” the boy shouted, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Lotsa shouting and the clashing of steel. We’re doubling up the watch. Want to make sure you’n the others get some shut-eye. Got three hours, then you swap in.”
“Standby, then?”
“Aye, plan’s the same, ‘less they come running out first.”
“Shame,” he replied with a shrug. “I wanted to bleed them myself.”
日
It looked like it was going to rain again. Soot used to think it would wash away the blood and shit, but a five-year campaign taught her that most of the time all it did was spread everything around. She hadn’t seen a defender since before dinner and the deathly silence from the keep was far from comforting.
The Count had given his final warning and a small group of cannons was aimed at the gate, preparing to fire. Unlike the cheap and slow powder-charged weapons, these ones relied on anima and would work through any potential downpour.
The green-clad Duke Valmont appeared to be bickering with Count Senvoire. A plum-maned moonkin watched them from a distance, her arms crossed and tail bristling as her golden eyes burned into the second man. Soot and the other three walked up to her as the sergeant pushed a fist into the back of the lass’s shoulder. She looked back at him, then the others as her face relaxed into a smile.
“You look like you slept about as well as I did,” said Malin.
Aliya sighed. “Somehow, nearly two days without a wink hasn’t gotten to me.” She ran her fingers through her wild hair, trying to straighten out the tangles and matting. “But more than sleep… I want a bath. I am jumping in the Trulais if I’m denied a bath.” She grimaced at the film of oil that had formed on her hands just from combing.
Soot chortled. She and Malin had been holding off on their usual rest time activities until their collective hygiene had improved. “What’re those two going on about?” she asked.
“The Duke’s been feeling the squeeze,” answered Aliya. “Especially since our Count’s been earning all the glory, lately.”
“And now he just took back the Duke’s capital for him…” Corin added.
“Such a troublemaker,” Knott chuckled.
The two generals appeared to have reached an agreement and it was time for the breach.
“Break it open,” ordered Count Senvoire.
Malin, Aliya, and Soot flattened their ears as the humans plugged theirs. The cacophony of cannon fire drummed, shooting up a dusty cloud that obscured the gate and its surrounding walls. Those not shielded pointed their rifles and crossbows from positions of cover, aiming at the haze in anticipation of a desperate charge. Soot felt safe enough in the open, so long as she was near Aliya.
Nothing came out of the fog. After the cannons were rearmed, another salvo went off at the Count’s command. Eventually, the dust settled, revealing the shattered gate. Some of the stonework had crumbled, littering the bridge with hazardous bricks. Several sappers ran forth with shovels and pickaxes, clearing the debris as some of the heavy infantry moved forward to investigate beyond the gate.
“All clear!” shouted the infantry captain. “I don’t see anyone!”
“I don’t like this,” Soot whispered to Malin.
“Neither do I,” he growled back.
Blood stained the courtyard, yet not a single body was in sight. The castle remained barricaded by its oversized wooden doors, responding to the knocks and demands from the Duke’s men with silence. The Count kept to the center of the courtyard, responding to requests from various messengers as he kept an eye on the castle.
Aliya accompanied him with Malin’s team. Soot remembered when the young lady was just a scout, albeit a talented one. Jealousy flared in her chest as she studied the silk-swathed handle of Aliya’s prized sword. The Virgin of Angiers was nothing special before she pilfered that weapon.
Stop it, Soot.
A piercing howl startled the group. Duke Valmont had blasted the front door open with his runed glaive.
“Eager to have his home back?” questioned Aliya.
“As would I,” responded Count Senvoire, tightening his gloved fists. “He can have the Archduke, as far as I’m concerned, but I have my doubts he was here to begin with.”
“Do they even have a proper commander?” asked Malin.
“Their formation and rotations suggested so. But I have no clue if it’s anyone of consequence, assuming they’re still alive.”
Soot still wasn’t used to the Count’s candor with his rank and file, despite fighting for him almost as long as Malin. His haughty tone continued to trigger pangs of dread and memories of bondage, but Angiers was quite a different place from Ducai. Aliya and many others were evidence of that. Still, she didn’t have the courage to address him directly.
One of the Duke’s messengers approached, an inari like her. “Milord,” he spoke as he bowed. “Duke Valmont be requesting the help of one of your mages in a sweep of the castle. He requesting Aliya of Angiers, Milord.”
Everyone looked at the golden-eyed moonkin. “I am happy to serve, if my lord commands it,” she replied.
Count Senvoire cocked his eyebrow. “Duke Valmont’s just inside the great hall?”
“He is, Milord.”
“Come along, you five.” The Count waved the quintet to follow him as he marched over to the entryway. As Aliya and company caught up with him, he leaned over to whisper. “Sizing you up, I reckon. But nothing to trouble yourself with. My concern remains with the defenders.”
Soot noticed the stench before she saw the bodies. “The blood?” she whispered, stepping over the threshold with the others.
“Your thoughts, Count Senvoire?” began the Duke, his face rightfully puzzled. “This is my ancestral home and yet… I can’t fathom what happened here. Quiet as a windless night.”
The Count kept his fingers tightly wound about his sword’s grip but did not respond as he studied the scene.
Soot and the others looked at the hundred dead strewn about. A man sat slumped against the table with a knife buried in his ear and dried blood all along his side. It was a butter knife—that must’ve taken some effort. Another soldier hung from a banner pole, closer to the ceiling than the floor, with the point sticking through his neck. How did he even get up there? A third was torn in half, his lower portion having made it to the far side of the hall. Quite the trek for a half-man. Others had died in a more traditional manner associated with mutinies: axe to the skull, spear through the lung, and bolt through the throat, to name a few.
Last night’s food appeared to be uneaten, some of it sitting at open tables while other dishes littered the floor. It looked like a real feast: lots of meat, carrots, and cabbages. Soot would even be jealous if the smell hadn’t made her want to retch. A decapitated man’s head was well gravied, complete with a putrid dollop of cream lying in a fork-punctured eye socket.
“This looks more like madness than mutiny,“ said Aliya. “And there aren’t enough bodies.”
The Count finally cleared his throat. “Your Grace, Aliya is restricted in her use of offensive magic, but her defensive capabilities are excellent. You wish for her to take lead?”
“Alongside myself, Lord Ilhan,” replied the gray-haired duke. “One of a few parties. My home is quite large, as you can see.”
“May I suggest an alternative?”
“You may.”
“Several parties led by a mage each. I can have enough here in a matter of hours if—”
“No!” barked the Duke. He lowered his voice. “I won’t have Starmgardian filth in my home for a minute longer than I need to. And if they have hostages, how much longer do you think they will last?”
Soot looked around at the slaughter. If there ever were hostages, they likely weren’t a factor any longer.
“My concern,” countered Count Senvoire, “is that these desperate defenders will sully their honor.”
Duke Valmont crossed his arms. “Have they not already? We’ve more than enough troops and I know these corridors well.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “Lord Ilhan… My castle. My honor.”
The Count relented. “Of course, Your Grace. My apologies.” Turning to Aliya and the others, he nodded. “Malin, you and your party are with her. Keep her safe and raise a ruckus if something goes wrong.”
“Aye, General, sir.” He turned to Soot and the two humans. “Ready up. We’re taking a castle today!”
The second floor was home to dozens of additional bodies. Soot grimaced at a pair that had run each other through. Their faces were stretched into agonized shapes as if they had died screaming at the top of their lungs.
Duke Valmont led the group with a pair of his own heavy infantry as more of his men fanned out to clear the rooms they skipped. They opened cupboards, tossed beds, and broke down doors as they searched for signs of any life, shouting all the while.
Aliya was forced to walk beside the Duke, a position she clearly didn’t relish given the constant adjustments she made to her clothes and sword belt.
The man stopped and leaned over to her. “Tell me, girl. How many have you killed with that blade of yours?”
“I–I don’t know, Your Grace. In the hundreds, I’m sure.”
“With magic?”
She shook her head vigorously. “No, Your Grace.”
He grinned, giving a nod. “Of course not. By hand, then? Impressive!”
The noble’s interrogation continued as they patrolled the second floor. He wanted to know everything about Aliya’s weapon and her newfound magic. She stuttered with every yes and no. Soot hated seeing her like this. Even Malin was getting antsy as he popped the knuckles on his fingers one by one.
They approached a large stairwell leading to the third floor.
“Who is the most powerful mage you’ve defeated?” continued the Duke, taking the first steps as he jerked his head, signaling for the much shorter Aliya to keep up.
“I’m not sure... Perhaps the magic archer was the most dangerous, Your Grace.”
That seemed to pique the Duke’s interest. “Were you struck by this magic archer?”
“Once, Your Grace.” She began to wring her hands.
“And clearly unscathed! Did you shrug off the shot entirely?”
“N–No, Your Grace. I was knocked back into a wall.” The poor lass kept it together as they reached the third floor, just in front of closed double doors.
One of the Duke’s infantrymen tried to force it open, but it barely budged. Something was blocking it.
“Who is behind this door?” bellowed Duke Valmont, his voice growing wrathful. “This is my home you squat in!”
As with every other barricade, no one replied. The three beastkin looked at each other. Something on the other side smelled awful.
“Give me some space,” he commanded.
As everyone stepped away from him, he pulled back his glaive, preparing for a forward thrust. Blue runes lit up upon his silver spear as his infantrymen plugged their ears. Soot reacted too late—it was like a bolt of lightning struck the door, half-dazing her as Corin caught her by the shoulders. The woodwork was shredded to splinters that flew back into the open hall, burying themselves in the mound of flesh at the center of the room. It was almost dome-shaped, made of dozens of bodies all smashed together. Limbs were twisted into perverse knots and each face told a story of pain and terror.
The Duke froze, his spear still pointing forward at the end of its thrust. Soot could sense the man’s fear mirror her own. He lowered his weapon, but kept it ready. “Go… Go to the Count,” he commanded, his gaze fixed on the amalgamation. “Tell him what we have seen.”
No one moved.
“He means you four!” shouted one of the Duke’s men, gesturing to the group save Aliya. “Get moving!”
“Y–Your Grace,” began Aliya. “What about me?”
“Stay. I may need help.”
Malin and Aliya nodded at each other as the sergeant turned to his team. “You three. Right behind me, yeah?”
“Aye, Sarge!” they replied.
Taking off down the stairs, Soot thought she saw one of the heads twist. She shuddered, keeping close to the sergeant. There was a thunderclap from above once they reached the bottom of the steps. At the end of the long corridor in front of them was the stairway down to the first, but madness filled the stretch between. The Duke’s men were fighting Starmgardians, the same ones that had been lying around in their own entrails earlier. The clashing of steel and screams filled the castle.
A soldier in black and gold armor marched towards them. His stilted walk caused him to erratically shift sideways every step or two. He raised a sword skyward as Malin sank his axe into the man’s shoulder, cleaving down to his chest. The sword swung down as the moonkin narrowly leapt out of the way.
Guns began to roar from outside the castle walls.
The dead Starmgardian, axe still buried in his body, lurched forward but struggled to raise his blade arm again. Malin grabbed the handle of his weapon once more and slammed the body to the floor. He crushed the bones of one arm as he severed the other.
More Union soldiers approached, their jagged movements betraying their nature.
“To the courtyard!” yelled Knott, barreling into an enemy with his shield. A jawless man tackled him as they both fell through a door and out of sight.
Soot pulled out her sword but froze as she noticed the Duke’s men were already splattered across the hallway, now motionless. A brute lunged at her with a mace. She sidestepped the blow just in time and forced her blade into the man’s throat. His eyes bulged at her, nearly popping out of his skull as he dropped his weapon and grasped her throat. His filthy nails tore into her flesh. She tried to cry for help but her voice wouldn’t come out.
Malin hacked off one of his arms at the shoulder, pulling her free as Corin, wielding both a short sword and the bruiser’s mace, bashed and sliced his way through another.
The hallway filled with dozens of the reanimated monsters and yet no allies were nearby. Another thunderclap echoed from above, accompanied by a glassy hum that grew to a shriek.
“Back ta da Duke!” yelled Corin. “An’ Aliya!”
Soot ran for the stairs. As she rounded the corner, there was a body crumpled by the first step. As she tried to leap over it, an arm reached up and caught her ankle. Her shin crashed into the stone nosing, forcing out a pained yell. She sank her blade into the man’s back again and again, but it didn’t let go. Its grip grew tight until she stabbed through its elbow.
“Malin?” she shrieked, realizing both he and Corin had vanished. She could’ve sworn they were just behind her. His shout answered her, calling her name, but it sounded distant and pained.
A searing flame shot up her leg as she saw a dagger planted in her foot, just below the ankle. The bastard’s other arm twisted the blade as she cried out. She stabbed the tip of her sword into the arm until it stopped.
Panting, she slumped against the stairs. Two figures were walking down from the top of them—not the kind of walk she wanted to see. “Malin!” she screamed, tears flowing down her cheeks.
Another monster reached around the corner whence she had fled. A large, muscular one. Were they all gone now? Was he…
She wailed and plunged into the newcomer, forcing him to drop his weapon. Her crossguard smacked against his chest as he was run through, but he grabbed her mane, holding it tight. Pushing forward, she tore into his neck with her fangs and ripped out a mouthful of blood and muscle. Indifferent to the mortal wound, he pulled her head back as she plunged her thumbs into his eye sockets, churning the milky orbs into paste.
Her head slammed into the rock wall. Her jaw cracked and a pair of teeth came loose. She tried to shield herself, but the force of the second blow shattered her hands and her cheekbone.
She moaned, trying to call out his name.