Jabbing Nails

Nails down a chalk board
That sound of screeching
Skin crawls like insects
Your teeth on edge again

Jabbing at the ribs
Bruises still seething
Hoping for a pause
As the torment continues

Nails down your skin
Carving is all your feeling
As the skin starts to break
You scream at nothing

Jabbing at the walls
Counting out your falls
Pleading for an end
Still trapped in this hell

Nails at the concrete
Still you won’t speak
Pleading to yourself
Watching as your engulfed

Jabbing at your wounds
All your own making
Banging on the floors
You scream at the sun

Swarm

It’s Wednesday, so that means story day! This time it’s a Sci-Fi story, set on an alien world, in the future, involving humans and an alien race. This story will be the longest I’ve posted thus far at around 7100 words. Because of its length I’ve had to put in a number of page breaks. Not sure if this is how I’ll do this from now on (as the next few stories are longer). I may instead have to break them up and post a new section each week, but we’ll see. OK, that was way too much rambling, so without further ado, here is Swarm.

The world is so alien with its magenta six inch high grass billowing in the warm breeze, while the grey barked trees, leafless and sinewy, remain motionless. Three moons hang across the horizon’s orange sky with a blue sun lingering brightly between the two left most moons.

“I hate bugs!” Josh exclaims as he takes aim and unleashes four three round bursts from his eighteen round pulse rifle. The 8.52 rounds explode from the bullpup rifles muzzle with a blazing yellow flash. The armour piercing rounds cross the distance of several hundred feet in little more than a blink of an eye. The majority of each burst finds their targets, which explode into green goo that stains the ground below the bodies that once housed the blood. The sound of the detonation is wet and disgusting, much like the smell which can only be described as being akin to a mixture of rotten eggs and fermenting yeast.

“They’re not bugs.” Frank calls over his shoulder as he too fires off several bursts of his assault rifle. Frank, unlike Josh, doesn’t aim the weapon in his hands. Instead he sprays the smaller calibre 4.88 rounds that tear from the barrel with a revving spit as he swings the weapon left and right. Difference is that maybe only half of the bullets make lethal contact with the aliens that are swirling toward them en masse. Frank though, doesn’t care about his bullet hosing seeing as each of his assault rifles magazines holds ninety four rounds of the composite ammunition.

“Swarm coming in.” Sasha announces as she faces a different direction to both Josh and Frank.

She is covering them from their flank as the ten legged aliens skitter towards them. The squad had picked this position, a low hill, in the heat of the moment as the swarms of aliens had forced them into a retreat from their original position. But that original position, long since lost, had been early this morning and they haven’t had a letup from the aliens since.

“Lyra. Lyra! What are you doing?” Sasha calls to her younger sister who is a few feet from her trying to reload her weapon.

“It’s jammed.” Lyra calls back without diverting her focus from her weapon as she tries desperately to wrench the trapped bullet casing free.

“Get your ass back here!” Sasha roars before adding. “That’s an order.”

“No. I’ve almost…” Lyra says as she manages to prize the bullet casing free. It leaps into the air, spiralling end over end.

Lyra watches it until she realises how close the swarm are and instinctively throws her rifle into the air, spinning it as she does, so that she can grasp the barrel which she clings firmly with both hands moments before she starts swinging it, violently. The butt of her rifle slashes across the first row of skittering aliens, the sight of which make her skin crawl. They go flying as the rifle butt makes contact, but Lyra doesn’t stop there as she continues to swing and sweep the rifle back and forth, clearing the area directly at her feet as she retreats back to the rest of her squad. As Lyra continues her backpedal one of the aliens leaps at the side of her head, its razor sharp front six legs slashing at the helmet protecting her face and head.

Lyra can hear the scraping sound of its bone claw appendages against the hardened metal which makes her wince even as she violently throws her head from side to side. The motion dislodges the alien critter just in time for Frank to cover her by laying down a spray, literally, of bullets from his freshly inserted magazine.

“Ready up kid.” Frank calls as he steps in front of Lyra to provide cover so she can reload.

Lyra takes the hint and does just that as she slides her last nine round .50 calibre magazine into the long rifle, cursing as she does.

“I’m nearly out.” Lyra calls to inform the rest of her squad.

“Side arm!” Sasha calls back as she frantically turns this way and that trying to cover them from the steepest side of the hill. The aliens are unfazed by the angle of the near vertical ascent that is only a couple metres high. If only humans could conquer things so easily, she thinks, as she fires, shifts target and then fires again.

Lyra pulls her sidearm, which she knows is fully loaded, tossing her long rifle across her back as she does. Nevertheless she checks the slide to make sure she isn’t about to get a repeat of her long rifle jam but this time with her sidearm. She breathes a sigh of relief as she confirms that it is clear of any jam as she appears at Frank’s side, just in time as he needs to reload.

She has no idea how he hasn’t managed to expunge all his ammunition, especially with the way he indiscriminately fires walls of bullets, but she’s thankful he isn’t as she takes aim and fires off single eleven millimetre rounds. Each finds their mark, which in response detonate with a fountain of green blood. She’s so glad she can’t smell it through the filtration filters in her combat helmet. She’d had the displeasure once and it had nearly resulted in her losing her stomach.

“What we going to do?” Josh asks as he feels his concentration slipping. He knows he’s tired. Between the hours of running and the near endless firefights his body isn’t going to let him continue much longer, even if he is determined not to die here.

“Withdraw?” Frank questions.

“To where!” Josh responds.

“Captain?” Franks calls to Sasha whose primary weapon is spent as she now fires off rounds from her fourteen round sidearm, all while trying to think of an answer she can give.

“Sash.” Lyra says trying to get her older sisters attention.

“Sis.” Lyra then barks a little too late for Sasha to realise what she is trying to make Sasha aware of, as a giant ten legged alien, the height of a human races toward her.

Lyra turns to fire but can’t get an angle on the alien as Sasha’s body is blocking her. Lyra goes to roll so she can get a better angle but at that moment Frank howls in pain.

Lyra turns to find his suit has been ruptured by another large ten legged alien. Two of its bone claw appendages stabbed through his thigh. Lyra fires three shots, all of which hit their mark, but the small calibre bullets do nothing to the bone-like outer shell of the alien, as two more bone claws stab Frank through the back, impaling him. He lets out a gasp as his body twitches and then he coughs, thick dark blood spews onto the inside of his visor, his face hidden by it. Lyra screams and roars as she continues moving forward, firing, but the rounds do nothing as another large alien falls on Frank, impaling the other side of his torso in the moments before both aliens pull in opposite directions. His body is torn apart in seconds with a sickening tear.

“NOOOOOOO!!” Lyra screams as something knocks her to the floor. Her head goes into a daze as she feels the world around her spin. Then she remembers her sister Sasha and the alien that had been right on her. Lyra snaps her head to her left, but feels only dizziness as a shadow looms over her. Lyra prepares for the worst, sure her death is imminent.

“Come on Lyra, you gotta get up.” Josh shouts as his weapon threatens to drown out his words.

Josh isn’t aiming anymore. He doesn’t need to. The aliens are too close now and too large.

“Where’s Sash?” Lyra manages as her dizziness begins to subside. It feels like hours to her as she continues to blink, hoping that will hasten progress.

“Right here sis.” Sasha says as she appears in Lyra’s vision.

It takes Lyra a few seconds to realise what she’s looking at, but when she does, dread consumes her as she reaches towards her older sisters’ tattered right cheek. It’s a mess of gore with tendon, muscle and bone visible. The aliens bone claws having managed to tear right through Sasha’s combat helmet, which she is still wearing. The medical systems of the helmet are pumping Sasha’s system full of painkillers, but they are barely doing a thing for her. She can feel the pain, all of it, and can guess what her face looks like as she hauls Lyra back to her feet. Sasha tries to force a smile but she is sure it is more of a grimace. Her younger sister looks shocked, so that means her face really must look bad.

“Come on. We’ve got to go.” Sasha says as she forces the sidearm back into Lyra’s hands.

Lyra nods unable to find her voice and speak. She fears what she might say if she does. Truth be told she feels like crying having seen the damage to her sisters’ face. This isn’t right, she tells herself as Sasha taps on Josh’s shoulder. The act is a squad signal which calls that they are ready to move and with that Josh turns his head.

“Josh!” Sasha calls as her eyes go wide.

Josh snaps his head back just in time to see a bone claw stab through his right foot. He screams in agony as he falls back, shooting. The alien detonates as he continues to fire.

He tries to wrench his foot free now that it is pinned to the hard ground beneath them, but he can’t.

“Cover. I’ll get you free.” Sasha orders as Josh continues to fire with little more than a pained grunt by way of confirmation.

Sasha meanwhile, drops low at his side so she isn’t impeding his line of sight. She studies his foot as dark crimson bubbles from the wound. Josh winces in pain as he continues to fire, reload and then fire again.

Lyra also provides cover fire with her long rifle, which is back in her hands once more. She quickly takes aim and then fires a single round at the closest and largest of the aliens. One shot, one kill. Seven targets down. She’s pleased that even their hardened bone shells can’t resist the bullets in her long rifle rounds, though she knows she only has two left.

“I’m going nowhere fast Cap.” Josh offers after a number of howls during which Sasha has tried to get his foot free, without success.

“Don’t you dare Josh.” Sasha fires back refusing to accept his words.

“You know it, and I know it.” Josh retorts as he loads his last magazine into the bullpup rifle in his hands.

“Bullshit! I’m not leaving you.” Sasha roars incensed by his words.

“Save your sister.” Josh says pulling Sasha close, only now realising how bad her right cheek is. He manages to suppress a grimace, but only just, as he looks her in the eyes.

“Fuck!” Sasha says as she hangs her head.

“Gimme the nades.” Josh orders now. He knows it will be the first and last time he ever gets to give Sasha an order.

“What! No!” Lyra spits shocked at what he is obviously planning to do.

“You know it’s the only way Cap.” Josh reasons.

“You can’t hold them off.” Josh continues as Sasha thinks harder than she has ever thought before. There has to be another way, she tells herself, as she desperately searches for it. Then suddenly the voice in her head replies that it really is the only way. Sasha hates to accept it, but knows Josh and the voice in her head are right.

“Here.” Sasha says. Her voice is filled with resignation as she shoves the grenade belt into Josh’s arms in the moments before she jumps back to her feet and before Lyra can protest throws herself at her younger sister.

The tackle from Sasha takes Lyra clean off her feet as they leave the confines of the nearly swarmed hill that had been their position. They tumble down the far side of the hill, rolling through the smaller aliens, whose bodies are crushed beneath the weight of the sister’s heavy battle suits. The world spins over and over for both of them until they finally come to a halt, their momentum finally having run out.

Lyra somehow manages to spring to her feet so that she can sprint back for Josh but she only manages four steps before an enormous explosion of red and orange balloons, the shockwave from the detonation takes Lyra off her feet again as she is thrown back a few metres, screaming as she goes.

Her body slams hard into one of the leafless trees. Unsurprisingly it’s just as unforgiving as any other tree she has ever seen. The wind knocked out of her as her visions goes blurred again. She shakes her head; eyes closed hoping that the act will clear her vision.

“Ly, its ok.” Sasha says from somewhere.

Lyra isn’t sure if her sisters voice is real or just a memory as she opens her eyes once more, her vision now clear as she scrambles onto all fours, the pain in her back horrific.

Lyra tries to stand but can’t get off all fours as her breathing labours and she tastes blood in her mouth. She can’t even summon enough energy to lift her head and look for her sister, the last remaining member of her squad.

I have to, Lyra tells herself as she tries to gather what little strength she still possesses as she struggles to lift her head. It’s all she can do, but as soon as she does, she wishes she hadn’t, as before her are the aliens. They’ve somehow encircled her. She doesn’t know how. She is sure she hasn’t been down that long.

“Ly…it’s going to be ok.” Lyra hears Sasha say.

Lyra casts her straining neck around until she sees her sister, her eyes closing tightly when she does. She tells herself this isn’t real in the moments before she opens her eyes again only to find that Sasha is still sat there, an exposed root from a downed leafless tree impaled through her abdomen. The root is soaked in blood, her sisters’ blood, which is beginning to pool around her.

“Sash.” Is all Lyra manages as her voice breaks into little more than a whisper.

“It’s ok sis.” Sasha manages between ragged breaths.

Lyra tries to crawl toward her fatally wounded sister but as she does the aliens move a step closer.

“Don’t.” Sasha urges her sister, feeling the pain in her gut throb. She knows she isn’t going to make it. Her little sister is all that matters now.

“Sash.” Lyra says with tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat.

“Stay. You move…they’ll attack.” Sasha says with greater ease now. She knows that means that she won’t last much longer, as she pulls a detonator from her waistband.

“No sis. Don’t do this.” Lyra reasons with several shakes of her head, as she feels her heart thunder from deep within her chest.

“I have to. I promised mom. Goodbye sis.” Sasha says just before her thumb begins to press down on the detonators button.

“NOOOOOOO!!!” Lyra howls as one of the ten legged aliens leaps from the tree above Sasha, impaling her with all of its bone claws, stopping her from activating the detonator.

Lyra screams with a mixture of rage and pain as she curses and cries at the death of her sister.

“Kill me!” She begs of the aliens who are still lined up in front of her.

“Do it!” She bellows attempting to bay them into murder, seeing as they did it so easily with her sister and friends, her squad, her family.

“What are you waiting for?” She demands to know in the moments before she lifts her combat helmet off, revealing her vibrant green eyes and thick dark brown hair cut in a short bob. Her thin pink lips stained red by her own blood.

“Come on!” She roars as she tries to hurl her combat helmet at the swarm before her. But her helmet never leaves her hand as it instead comes to be slammed down into the dirt, from which the magenta grass is still rustling peacefully.

“Why?” Lyra asks as she falls back onto her backside so she is now sat again. Her limbs too tired to hold her on all fours any longer.

“WHY!?” She screams at the top of her lungs, spittle thrown from her bared white teeth.

But Lyra gets no answers as the aliens remain in position, staring at her with their seven black eyes formed into an inverted triangle shape along their insect-like heads.

Lyra shakes her head, which hangs low in defeat, as the aliens shift aside to create a path for the largest of their kind, twice the size of a human male, to skitter to the fore. The huge bulky alien with its ten legs and wide rear section all crusty and mauve in colour stops a few feet from Lyra. The woman raises her head praying that this is the end. A point at which she too can die alongside her sister as she looks straight into the seven black eyes, each as large as her fist, as they sit in the wide triangle shaped head. The bulky aliens’ jaws part to reveal four lines of chittering teeth.

“End this, please.” Lyra begs.

“Never.” A deep booming rumble of a voice retorts.

Lyra is sure her exhaustion has made her delusional. The aliens have never shown any ability to spoken before.

“We…swarm…kill…human. War…unending…victory…ours.” Lyra is sure the alien before her says much to her shock. But she can’t be sure as the annunciation of the words if off.

“Why? Why war?” Lyra asks. She is confused as to why she is asking the alien, that she is sure can’t actually speak, a question.

“Human…weak…human…invade. We…kill. Our…nature…our…way.” The alien says and Lyra is sure that it really is the alien speaking now and not some delusion from her exhaustion or grief.

“I don’t understand.”

“You…threat. We…serve…must…serve…masters…demand.” The alien replies surprisingly succinctly Lyra realises as the annunciation continues to improve.

“You’re being controlled? Maybe we can form an alliance and fight against your masters demands?” Lyra reasons, unsure what she is trying to achieve.

“Never!” The alien booms.

“You…will…join. Serve…masters.”  The alien continues as the other aliens around it chatter their jaws in agreement of its words.

“We won’t be slaves!” Lyra spits angrily.

“Die!” Alien roars as it lunges at her to deliver the killing blow.

Lyra wakes with a start, her head snapping left and right as she surveys the space around her, a cave, small yet warm.

“Hey kid, you ok?” Frank asks Lyra, as she sits bolt upright a few metres from his position around the fire.

“I know what they want.” Lyra declares.

“What who want?” Josh asks exchanging confused looks with Frank.

“The swarm.” Lyra answers while still attempting to ease her thundering heart, which she can hear booming in her ears noisily.

“Ly, what do you mean you know what they want?” Sasha says as she appears at Lyra’s side.

Lyra says nothing as she wraps her arms round her sisters’ neck and hugs her. It hadn’t even dawned on her who she’d been talking to, but now that she has it dawns on her that everything she has just experienced was neither a dream nor real, at least yet.

“It happened again Sash.” Lyra whispers into her sisters’ ear, who pulls back in the moments after, her face etched with surprise.

“You sure?” Sasha asks looking her younger sister in the eyes.

Lyra simply nods in response to her older sisters’ question as she looks at her soft features, thin nose and grey eyes, her hair pulled back into a black ponytail.

“We’re leaving.” Sasha then declares.

“What?” Both Frank and Josh return with surprise.

“What do you mean we’re leaving?” Josh then asks.

“Where too? Why?” Frank quickly adds.

“Command.” Sasha simply replies as she rises back to her full height.

“Like hell they’ll let us do that.” Josh replies.

“Oh they will. They know how special my sister is and they’ll want to hear this.” Sasha says with a nod to her sister, who can’t explain the joy she feels at having witnessed a vision that will have saved Josh, Frank and most of all her sister, Sasha.

It wasn’t been the first time Lyra had seen things that shouldn’t have been possible, and it wouldn’t be the last. At least that is what she hopes as she clambers to her feet. She knows Frank and Josh don’t understand. The last time Lyra had experienced such a vision had been years before they’d met, but command knew of her special, albeit sometimes unreliable at least in terms of frequency, gifts.

That’s why command had given the sisters explicit instructions that if Lyra experienced another vision they were to report back to them immediately, irrelevant of their current mission.

Locked Eyes

I walk around and all I see are people glued to a screen
Trapped within the digital frame of fifteen minutes of pointless fame
Grabbing at the words of fools who they currently think are cool
While the world spins into disaster, Oh look another telecaster
But the words are cheap and will be getting cheaper
If only people would listen to the beeper
Its the tone that tells you the end will soon be coming
But instead they bitch and moan while yelling at their latest phone
Making sure all those around can hear about what they plan to eat
Eyes roll from those nearby but they are still as guilty by and by
So how about you stop for once and just look at whats surrounding us
Do you think it can live on if we do nothing but carry on?
Reality is you just want an out but aren’t willing to work an ounce
So don’t complain when you don’t succeed because you just watched TV
Old fashioned concept it may be but its the same as you stare at that tiny screen
Then rage on apps about how people are dumb but you don’t even do a thing
So how about you stop the hate and look at this world as something great
Not everything is the same in pixels, so for a change go out and live a little

Insignia Gone

Pulling at the strings
Trying to control things
Changing all the rules
Just to keep you in

Holding all the power
Unwilling to retire
Stealing all the cash
But it will never last

Decade plus of ruling
But still you are going
Manipulating what you can
Proxy wars are everything

Invading for some land
Annexing what you can
No insignia to see
Claiming terrorists are close by

Bombing civilians
Illegal use of weapons
Pretend there are no victims
While rigging elections

Stuck in a time past
Still you think it will last
Making freedom a myth
As you control the narrative

Blood Halls

Oh look its Wednesday again, so that mean’s short story time! This is a fantasy piece around 4300 words in length and involves two mortals and a witch. That’s about all I’m going to say. So let’s go!

“Shit! This is such a bad idea.” Peter says as he follows his friend Vance down the length of the seemingly never-ending tunnel, the stones of which glow an ominous red, like blood.

“Relax.” Vance fires back causally as Peter’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.

“Relax! Are you joking! We’re in the Blood Halls!” Peter fires back almost hysterical, as his eyes dart left and right over and over. He is sure something is going to jump from a shadowy corner and grab him. Even though there are no shadowy corners, except for where the walls meet the ceiling and nothing could hide in those tiny black voids.

“I know. Now just calm down and follow me.” Vance says trying to reassure and distract his friend as they continue to edge forward, deeper and deeper into the tunnel system.

“Following you is what got us into this place.” Peter fires back accusingly in the moments before he whips his head round at a sound he thinks he hears; only to find there is nothing there. However, the lack of discovery does nothing to ease his panic as his head now turns on a swivel, while his eyes dart this way and that. He has no idea if it’s effective, but it makes him feel a tad better.

“Quiet. We don’t want anyone to here.” Vance says calmly and without breaking his slow continuous edging forward, or his gaze ahead for that matter.

“No shit!” Peter manages sarcastically trying to sound confident even though he can hear his heart thundering so loudly and at such a pace that he is sure Vance and anything else, the any thing else being key in Peter’s eyes instead of the possible anyone, can hear it too.

“Stop your moaning.” Vance scolds, his patience now having grown thin.

“Oh I’ll stop when we’re out of here.” Peter fires back angrily, his fear forgotten for a few seconds, until he thinks he says a shadow move again. His eyes and head whip round in response, only to find that again nothing is there, as his teeth chatter.

“Jesus really, you’re going to keep going for that long?” Vance remarks, rolling his eyes exhausted by his friends continual whining, which isn’t helping either of them.

“Of course I fucking am! We’re in the Blood Halls!” Peter spits reminding Vance who it seems, at least as far as Peter can tell, has failed to grasp the scale of the danger they are in being in this place.

“You’ve said that already. Now zip it before you get us caught.” Vance responds bluntly now, his patience for his friends all but gone now that he seems adamant on doing little other than keep retreading old ground. Vance doesn’t need a reminder of where they are, he knows full well.

“I don’t like this.” Peter says after a short silence during which his heart rate hasn’t slowed a single beat, much like the mass of fear he feels weighing heavily upon him hasn’t.

“I can tell, seeing as you won’t shut up about it. Now come on.” Vance replies now completely out of patience for his friend’s ramblings as he continues to push forward slowly, carefully, but only for a few paces until he stops suddenly and waits.

But as Vance waits he hears nothing, not a single footstep, and more worrisome no queries or questions from Peter. A lance of dread rips up Vance’s spine as he breathes deeply in and then out several times before finally he feels able to turn back and look the way he’s come. It should mean that he can look Peter right in the eyes. Only Peter isn’t there, in fact nothing is there, except for empty space. Vance’s eyes roll shut as he prays that he’s mistaken, but when he opens them again he is faced with the same thing, nothing. Peter is gone and Vance is now alone.

It is at this point that Vance no longer feels any form of calm. Instead he feels only worry for his absent friend Peter, a man that had refused to shut up while wandering about the Blood Halls. It was Vance’s fault; he knows it and Peter had made sure to remind him of it as well, until his disappearance that is.

“What now?” Vance says to himself as his eyes dart this way and that searching for something, anything that might give him an idea of where Peter could have gone.

As his eyes search the space the tales of this place sneak into his mind, reminding him of the claims of demons and undead who wander the halls taking anyone bold, or stupid, enough to attempt to traverse their routes. No one has ever walked the Blood Halls and returned to tell the tales, so the stories go. Vance hadn’t believed it until now. He’d always questioned the notion that if no one survived, then how could anyone tell tales of what lay within? Or, for that matter, be so sure of the outcome they would face if they did venture within these red walls? Now however, Vance doesn’t care about any of the tales or rumours. He doesn’t even care of how possible it can be that everyone who has ever entered this place has never been seen again. He just simply wants to find his friend.

“Aaaaaaaaaah!” A voice screams, the volume of the terrified voice ringing through the halls, echoing.

Vance knows the voice is Peter’s as he breaks into a sprint in the direction he is sure it has originated from. He knows he is throwing caution to the wind as he dives down a new passage, identical to the last with its towering pillars and carvings. Everything is soaked in the same red glow, but at least it helps to illuminate his path, he thinks as he presses onward.

“Aaaaah!” A second scream echoes forth. This scream is shorter than the first but somehow it sounds both no closer than the last and no further away. Vance doesn’t understand, but he takes solace in the fact that he is neither better nor worse off, as he rounds a corner. Before him is yet another stretch of hallway, he had hoped for a doorway or stairs or something, anything other than another corridor really. His shoulders slump for the briefest of moments in response to the disappointment before he goes barrelling down this new stretch of the halls. He gets maybe a third of the way down the length of red bathed stone before he hears a third scream.

“Aaaaargh!”

This one, Vance realises, is closer but also not in the direction he is facing as he comes to a grinding halt. He scans his surroundings, but sees only solid red glowing stone walls. The carved statues and faces pitched and angry beneath the red glow they emit. They’re visages that do nothing to help quiet his thumping heart as he inhales and exhales deeply as he rapidly tries to catch his breath.

“Come on. Come on.” Vance says to himself, annoyed and frustrated by his own failings as his eyes scan the walls desperately as he turns on the spot.

Suddenly something catches the corner of his eye. When he turns to face it however he realises there is nothing there, so he returns to scanning the space around him until again he catches something out of the corner of his eye. Again Vance turns to look at the speck he is sure he saw at the periphery of his vision. And again he comes to find that there is nothing, at least until he turns his head very slightly to his right, at which point he catches another glimpse of something at the edge of his vision.

Vance’s brow furrows with a mixture of frustration and confusion as he tries to use his peripheral vision to analyse what lurks at the corner of his eyes. Then suddenly it clicks and he realises that he can’t see whatever it is by looking at it directly because it’s an illusion. He tests the theory by again looking at the space head on and finds that all he can see from his position in the centre of the corridor is the red walls, but as he turns his head his vision catches sight of it. There it is! It’s a lever, Vance realises now and it’s the same colour and stone as the walls around it. The lever is perfectly camouflaged as it blends in with its surroundings, until it is viewed from a particular angel. Not that the cleverness of such a thing matters now, Vance reminds himself, as he hurries to throw the lever.

He pushes against the protruding stone arm, putting all his weight behind the object, but it barely moves a millimetre. Even when he redoubles his efforts and puts enough force behind it that he is straining and roaring with effort, it seems to do little more than flex. Then when he is sure that he has no chance of anything happening on his third attempt the mechanism suddenly activates. The lever springs upward and clean out of Vance’s hands making an audible snapping sound as it moves. Vance meanwhile topples over backward onto the red stone floor, blinking in surprise as a section of the glowing wall springs into motion. The section of wall, taller than him, starts to shift left, making a grinding sound as it does, until it comes to a stop with a dull boom, revealing a new pathway. The new corridor is dimly lit by small walled mounted torches set at regular intervals.

With the spectacle now over and having not been set upon by any horrors as yet, Vance clambers back to his feet, dusts himself off quickly and then leaps forward into the dimly lit pathway. Within seconds he can feel the air in this passage is cooler as well as being damp. It’s a tighter moodier space than the uncomfortably warm red corridors. Nevertheless he continues to push forward, the space barely wide enough for him to get through, he notes, as his eyes probe at the flickering dim lights that he has to weave back and forth to avoid slamming into.

“Aaaargh!” A scream roars again from somewhere ahead of him.

The scream is louder now, Vance is sure of it as he turns a narrow slight corner in the pathway just beyond he spies a doorway, devoid of a door but brightly illuminated.

Vance takes several deep breathes as he tries to calm himself, but in truth his attempts are mute. His deep purposeful breathing having done little to calm him, as he wonders if anyone would be able to manage to stay calm here, in this narrow dimly lit space. Thankfully it isn’t long before he reaches the threshold of the door less doorway. But he doesn’t enter; instead he stands there, on the cusp of whatever room lies beyond, motionless. He listens for a sounds, any sound, from the space beyond the empty doorway.

He doesn’t know how long he stands in silence listening to only his own muffled breathing, but decides he can’t wait any longer as he carefully peaks beyond the threshold and into the room.

It feels like he’s playing a game of dare with the devil as he inches his head far enough round the doorway to get a view of the room. It’s cavernous and filled with candles, all of which are lit, their flames blazing brightly, as they sit in circles in the centre of the space. But that is not all he sees as he takes note of a great green fire roaring from within the circles of wax and fire. A hooded figure stands with their back to Vance as the green fire spits violently. Vance then spots the cage, suspended above the green flames within which Peter is locked, clearly trapped and unable to escape. Vance’s eyes go wide with terror as his eyes drill into the sight of his imprisoned friend, until he realises he’s been staring too long and ducks back round the doorway. He presses his back, hard, into the stone wall feeling its cool damp surface leech into his skin. The coolness chills him as he scrunches his eyes shut and wishes he and Peter were anywhere but here. He knows this was all his idea and that because of his actions Peter is now trapped in a cage above a fire, a green fire. Vance notes that he has never seen a green fire before. Red, orange, yellow, yes, but never green. How do you even get green fire? Vance wonders to himself before cursing his stupidity.

“Oora arar entoo fesar…” Vance then hears a voice chanting quietly. He assumes it has to be coming from the hooded figure seeing as that is the only person, other than Peter, that he can see and seeing is definitely a stretch.

What he doesn’t know is whether the figure has been chanting the entire time or whether the chanting has just begun. Does it matter? A voice in his head asks. It doesn’t, he replies mentally, but for what reason he doesn’t know as he concludes he has only one path of action and that’s to get closer. So having made such a decision Vance breaks from his hiding place as he dives through the doorway into the fire-y room. He makes sure to keep low as he takes cover behind a pile of fallen chiselled stones. The stones had once formed a section of the ceiling that resides somewhere high above his head, masked by the inky black shadows that swirl and dance above him. It’s like they’re taunting him, he thinks, as he glances upward several times before ultimately deciding that he must consciously resist the urge to glance their way. All they’re doing is to help add to your already substantial trough of fear; he hears a voice in his head declare.

“…arkoo bevat polel dingat…” Vance then hears the voice chant as he peers round the pile of shattered stone, but he finds his new position does little to help him see anymore than he could already see from the doorway. He curses his luck as it dawns on him that Peter has, as yet, not made any further sounds. The realisation sends waves of fear and dread washing over him as he manages, with some difficulty, to silently gulp down a lump stuck in his throat.

Vance had been sure, prior to this moment, that such a gulp would have been audible, but somehow, he doesn’t know how, he’s managed to keep it silent. The achievement gives him a small sense of relief as he dares to peer out from behind his cover in search of a new position even closer to the hooded figure.

He scans the room from side to side, but ultimately settles, without much delay, on a low wall that is just outside of the rings of candles at the centre of the room. He is sure this position will also give him a better angle, but then he’d thought that about his current position and been wrong. So he wonders, what does he really know? But he quickly forces such thoughts aside as he prepares himself with a few deep breathes in the moments before he makes a break for his new position. He hopes beyond hope that the figure doesn’t turn as he keeps his eyes on the hooded robe for nearly the entire time. Only breaking his gaze on them for a split second here and there to make sure he is headed on the right track, as he makes sure to keep low.

Vance crosses the mainly empty space without issue, making sure to have made no sound that wouldn’t have been lost in the figures continuous chanting. He huddles behind the wall of his new position as he takes note of how heavy his breathing is. He is sure that it’s a result of the fear he can feel gripping him tightly as he doesn’t want to find out what would happen to him if he was caught. Would it be a cage like Peter? Or would it be worse? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to, he decides, as he slowly and even more cautiously peaks out above the edge of the low wall. Thankfully, the figure hasn’t moved and is still chanting. Though, he does feel a shot of disappointment at the fact that somehow, even from this angle, the figure is still partially obscured.

 “…efferen telahen waraven iolo…” Vance hears the hooded figure chant now, as his listens to the words. If they are words he doesn’t understand them as he stares, eyes locked, on the cage, below which the green flames roil and flare.

Peter, his knuckles as white as snow, continues to clench tightly to the vertical bars of his cage. His face, Vance can see now, is vague and his eyes blank and cloudy, almost as though he is stuck in some form of trance.

“…bendoo inganuroo.” The chanting voice concludes with satisfaction moments before they turn toward Vance, who shrinks behind cover immediately. He is sure that he was fast enough to withdraw before the figure would have been able to catch sight of him.

“Come forth, I know you’re out there.” The voice of the hooded figure, female and haunting, says confidently and without any hint of an accent.

Vance recoils in shock at the voices declaration. He doesn’t know whether his shock is because they have spotted him or whether it’s because the hooded figure can speak his tongue with an ease that he has never heard from anyone. He’d assumed that whoever the figure is would be unable, or unwilling, to speak as he does. He curses himself for having been spotted nonetheless. His heart thunders loudly in his chest as he contemplates what he should do. Should he run? Should he stay hidden? He knows he shouldn’t comply, that would be the stupidest thing he could possibly do, but much to his surprise that is exactly what he does do. He rises to his feet, revealing himself, his subconscious having decided that it is the only actual option. He’d have never made it back across the room and even if he had where would he go? The Blood Halls are a maze. He’d never find his way out, not before this figure got to him at least.

The low wall before Vance stops just below his waist as he raises his hands in surrender. He doesn’t know why he does it. He just feels like he should. But as he holds his hands aloft the hooded figure throws back their hood to reveal their face. It’s the face of a woman, with eyes as green as the flames before her, beautiful and lively. However, that is where the beauty of the face ends, for her skin is shrivelled and even decomposing in places. She looks almost as though she has risen from the grave after having been buried for months. Single strands of wispy grey hair hang from what is an otherwise scabbed and bald scalp, her forehead creased with deep angry lines.

“What…what are you?” Vance mutters in fear.

“Come forth simple man.” The woman orders, her voice cracking as she speaks.

Vance’s legs oblige without pause, even as he tries to fight and beg for them to stop they ignore him. Instead he is simply a passenger within his body, which having navigated the low wall, steps over the lit candle circles. He feels the heat from the flames as he steps over them. The rotting face smiles cruelly with a mouth too wide, exposing the teeth within her mouth that are as black as rot can make them. Vance feels sick at the sight of her, especially when his legs finally bring him to a stop, not of his own doing, a couple metres from the woman, who is giving off a putrid stench.

He isn’t sure if it’s a real smell or just a fabrication of his mind in direct response to the sight of her. Nevertheless he feels sick, he can’t deny it. The rotting woman however, knows nothing of and cares little about how Vance feels as she cocks her head one way and then soon after the other, surveying him with her burning eyes.

“You’ll do.” The woman says in the moments before she turns her attention back to Peter, who is still staring blankly. Though, Vance realises now that Peter’s eyes are focused on the rotting woman and not simply just dead ahead as he had previously thought.

“I’ll do for what? Who are you? Why are you holding my friend captive?” Vance launches into his tirade of questions without a care or thought.

But the rotting faced woman answers none of his questions as her left hand falls to her side, hidden from Vance’s view. Her hand reappears seconds later, her arm outstretched after having moved as quick as a flash, holding something he can’t quite comprehend.

Vance stares at the termination of her arm, where her long skeletal fingers reach from her wrist grasping an ornate bronze hilt. He blinks confused as his eyes adjust and his brain notes that he hasn’t reached the end of the trail. So again, his eyes continue their route past the hilt, down the blade, that gleams and shines, toward its point. As moves down its length it dawns on him too late what he will find at the end of the daggers blade, but even when it dawns on him he can’t stop his eyes from looking at the sight.

Vance wants to screw his eyes shut, to tell himself this is all a dream, but he can’t. His eyes won’t obey, so instead he is forced to gaze upon the dagger, the point of which is punctured through Peter’s throat, his friends’ eyes wide as a gurgling sound manages to escape from his agape mouth.

Vance pleads again for his eyes to close, but they continue to refuse to obey him as thick, almost black drops of blood, drip from the wound in the caged man’s throat. The blood drips toward with the green flames, the fire almost seeming to lance upward to meet the approaching blood drops as though it is thirsty and desperate for a taste.

“No. No. NO! WHY?!” Vance bellows in anger, which mixes with surprise as he realises that he still has control of his voice. He didn’t expect that. He can’t control any other part of his body so why would his voice be any different. He doesn’t know, but he realises his voice sounds too loud to his ears.

Suddenly, the lancing green flames leave the confines of the burnt pile of embers that must have created it, as it instead floats in the air. The green fire having now morphed into a ball of flame, dances in the air for a short time before twin tendrils erupt from opposite side of the sphere. The tendrils quickly pierce the eyes of the rotting woman, but she makes no sound as the ferocity of the green flame tendrils and then ultimately the sphere of fire are absorbed by her eyes.

With the ball of fire, and its tendrils, now gone, the woman turns to look at Vance, who is at first blinded by her still glowing green eyes, the brightness of which is searing to him. Before long the glow subsides allowing him to gaze upon the face behind them, the one that had been shrivelled and decomposing, with a too wide mouth, black and rotten teeth, grey wispy strands of hair across a scab covered bald head. They were all items which had made him feel sick to his stomach, but they are not the sights that he is seeing now. The once rotting face is now flawless, with porcelain white skin, full red lips beneath which sit straight pearl white teeth, while from her head thick black locks of hair reach down to the small of her back.

“What…are you?” Vance stammers consumed with equal measures of fear and confusion.

“Your mistress.” The woman says with a smile.

Vance can’t tell if the smile is evil or sweet. Somehow it seems as though the smile is both at once, but he doesn’t understand how that can even be possible.

“I am Elenor, Witch Queen of the Hundred Covens. And you, my dear, will serve me ‘til your end.” Elenor says as he flicks the end of her pink tongue across her vibrant red lips, her long eyelashes batting as she speaks.

“I will never…serve you. You killed…my friend…for that I cannot…” Vance begins, but is cut off by Elenor who is unmoved by the loss of, at least to her, such a trivial being. To her Peter served as little more than a way for her to regain her life and looks. Peter, in her eyes, had served his purpose, the only purpose he was ever meant to serve.

“Silence pawn.” Elenor says cutting Vance off from his ramblings as her eyes glow brighter as she imposes her will upon Vance. Her powers replacing his free thought and free thinking with nothing but subservience to her.

“As you command, Mistress.” Vance replies. His voice is hollow and monotone now that he is under the complete control of Elenor.

“We have much to do.” Elenor then offers, her smile turning sickening and wide as she plots for her return. It’s a return that will signal the dawning of a new period in history, the Age of the Witch.

Anxious

You feel the fear well up inside
Can’t ignore as it won’t subside
You hope that it will end soon
Reality is it’s feeding off you

Another pit that fills with fear
Don’t even know how you got here
Clenching fists to direct the flow
Unfortunately it just won’t go

You gasp for air as you breathe
Your chest is filling mentally
You’d sell your soul to call it quits
But in honesty its not happening

You try to shift your head space
But now you’re stuck in this place
You dream of chances to be free
Afraid to say it’s here to stay

Fighting to get you back on track
Sorry to say it’s too late for that
Instead you will have to change tact
The enemy won’t raise the flag

Shaking hands are all you’ve got
Another blow that stops you short
Holding strong but falling foul
The truth is you backed down

You hear the words as they form
Another insult to you born
You scream aloud and hope to sail
But yet again you will just fail

You feel the dread deep in you
It won’t relent anytime soon
Its taken hold and taken root
Reality is it’s a part for good

Pretend

You pound your head against the wall
Hoping that you are dreaming still
But as the fog begins to fade
You realise you are the slave
Consumed by what you hate most
Will you ever face that ghost?

You slam your fist into everything
Sure that it will help your failing
Even as the anger rises
You still refuse to accept the blame
Swallowed by all your lies
Will you ever end the cries?

Kicking at the world in vain
Don’t you see you are the same?
Wishing pain upon the rest
You have never passed the test
Squeezing out the light inside
Will you finally decide?

Roaring for the whole world to listen
Still trying to bring division
Hoping no one will see
You are just the same as me
Waiting for a time to lead
Will you just stop your greed?

Killing all that lies within
You’re still not a good human being
Hunting for a new day
But you will never get away
Shattered now you hope and pray
Too little, too late is all we say

Vengeance

It’s Wednesday, so that means a new short story. This time I’ve got a fantasy story for you (Its about 3700 words long). Its set as part of a battle, and that’s all I’m going to say. So let’s get into it!

The two armies stand on opposite sides of an open area of grassy land. The cool spring morning breeze gently blowing amongst the chainmail and armour clad uniformed rows of figures that stand at attention with spears, halberds, swords and shields in their hands. Some sit atop large muscular horses adorned with their armies’ colours, vibrant and striking, as the horses stand proud, almost as though they too are adhering to the demand of being at attention as well.

The soldiers of the army of Morhan, several thousand strong, stare across the open green field to their opposition, the soldiers of Bendul, who outnumber them two to one. The Bendul soldiers emblazoned with purple and yellow, their crest a phoenix of black, leaving yellow trails of fire on a deep purple background. Their soldiers armour is angular and aggressive as they stand like statues, snarling beneath their helmet faceplates eager to do battle. They have marched the nine hundred miles from the border of their own territory, claiming each kingdom in turn in the name of their ruler, Emperor Cornelius Valen, saviour of the Bendul and most holy of Emperors. Few kingdoms have offered much resistance against their might, which is why Emperor Valen has only sent such a small proportion to take and subsume Morhan. After all, Morhan is also a small kingdom that borders the northern edge of the river Lensus. Taking Morhan will serve as the last obstacle between the Bendul and their march toward the southern kingdoms.

Nevertheless the soldiers of Morhan are prepared for battle, and death, if it will bring them victory over the Bendul, who have been declared the Unstoppable Tide because of their continuous victories. The Morhan soldiers aim to show that the Bendul are not unstoppable and can in fact have their progress halted before they reach the river Lensus.

Silence hangs in the air as the commanders of both armies wait, but for what Sam, a soldier of Morhan, does not know as they stand a few hairs shorter than those around them. However, Sam stands with sword drawn, ready for battle. Sam has a particular wish to be here, in this battle, and that is so they can avenge the death of their father. His death came at the hands of Marshal Nero Faustus, a violent demon of a man who stands well over six feet tall and is leading this detachment of the Bendul army. Unlike other men of his rank Nero doesn’t sit atop a horse as he holds a spiked mace in his hands, grinning in anticipation of the violence that will soon come. He thirsts for it, craves it. He doesn’t remember Sam’s father and even if he did he wouldn’t care. The enemies of his Emperor, the most holy of his position, are of little concern to him. A number of his fellow Marshal’s think him a monster, but he cares little of what they think or for their idea of allowing their enemies to surrender. Why, Nero thinks, should the weak and blasphemous be permitted mercy if they stand against the great Emperor who has orchestrated the Bendul’s return to power and unprecedented expansion?

Then the call for attack sounds as both armies trumpet the declaration for combat to begin, almost simultaneously. In most cases Marshal Faustus should declare the initiation of battle as that is a mark of his station, but he cares little for the traditions of his station as he flies into a rage that carries his legs forward, the rest of his soldiers around him, all roaring their battle cries with blood curdling screams. Their anger helps to fuel Nero who holds his mace high above his head, baring his teeth from below his faceplate.

Sam’s legs pound at the soft grass below as they race, alongside their fellow soldiers, headlong into battle. Sam holds their father’s sword high above their head as they descend the hill to the battlefield.

The two armies clash as shields clatter, spears jab and swords slash. Immediately the Bendul’s front line rolls right over the Morhan, slaughtering them, though not without suffering significant casualties as the next wave from both armies clash. The ringing of metal on metal as screams of pain and roars of rage mix with the cool air to create a cacophony of noise, while copious volumes of blood spills, staining the once green grass.

Sam ducks the first swipe aimed at their head before spinning a hundred eighty degrees, sure the Bendul soldier will continue their pursuit. Sam is right as the soldier, much larger than Sam raises their weapon high to strike, but Sam quickly thrusts their own sword forward. The blade sinks deep into the Bendul hulks torso, as they let out a howl, which Sam can’t tell if it is the result of pain or rage. Sam doesn’t wait to find out as they wrench the sword free, spin to avoid the slamming downward strike and then stab forward again. The blade disappears through the new Bendul soldier’s faceplate, caving in his skull, killing him instantly. Sam knows the weakest point of the helmet is the faceplate; father had drilled that into them at an early age.

Across the battlefield Nero swings his mace wildly roaring in pleasure as his mace claims life after life with but a single strike. He is sure the battle is already won. How could it not be? He thinks to himself arrogantly with a wide sickening smile, the blood of his enemies dripping off his bare arms, splattering his legs and chainmail covered torso. Nero has always elected for as little armour as possible. It never stops a sharp blade anyway, he knows, and he hates how it limits his manoeuvrability in battle. In fact, he even loathes helmets with faceplates, but he adheres to it only because it comes by way of request from his Emperor, who reasoned that without it Nero’s face would make an easy unguarded target. Nero had understood the logic in his Emperor’s words and so had heeded them from that day until this one. Though, that is not to say that the helmet will stay atop his head by the time the battle draws to a close. It often doesn’t, however, he doubts this battle will last long enough for that, as he grabs a man’s wrist and crushes it. The Morhan soldier had hoped he could get a quick slash at the Marshal’s bare skin, but instead with his wrist limp and broken and his sword at his feet he finds only death as Nero slams the pommel of his mace into the enemies’ unshielded face. The Morhan soldiers face caves in at the force of the blow, his screams silenced as his body topples to the blood soaked field without a thought from Nero, who continues on his bloodthirsty rampage.

Sam, now surrounded by three Bendul soldiers, deflects their blows deftly as another Morhan soldier joins the fray. The new soldier takes the focus of one of the Bendul brutes leaving Sam with two attackers. The first of which thrusts a spear aiming for Sam’s plated torso, but Sam dodges the jab before bringing the blade of the sword down on the bare wood. The wood shatters under the might of the blade as the second Bendul soldier slashes wildly. Sam dives out of the way just as three more Morhan soldiers collapse on the position drawing the attention of the two Bendul brutes who have forgotten about Sam, that is until it is too late. A blade stabs through the back of the sword wielding Bendul that had been one of the attackers. He gasps in surprise at having been impaled. The other Bendul, with the headless spear, turns and roars angrily having forgotten about the three other Morhan soldiers who cut him down without pause as Sam rushes forward heading for Nero.

Sam knows the size and shape of the target as Nero is unmistakable in his shape, as he throws a Morhan soldier at a group of his fellow countryman, who become pinned below the limp Morhan’s body. They try to frantically fight to get free as Nero comes to loom over them. Their struggles continue to mount even as Nero raises his mace high above his head ready to strike, but instead he feels a jab of pain at his left flank. Nero erupts with a venomous roar as his focus shifts to his wounded flank, a spear head protruding from his flesh, the end of the spears shaft gripped by a scared looking Morhan who freezes in panic as Nero swings his mace left. The spiked nodules on the mace pierce the Morhan’s helmet as the full weight of the sphere crushes his skull, killing him instantly. Nero however, simply wrenches the mace free as he feels another stab, this time from behind, grazing across his right shoulder. Nero rumbles with rage as he turns his head to see who dares try and rend his flesh. Stood before him are four Morhan soldiers daring and ready to fight. Nero laughs once as he swings and releases his grip on the shaft of his mace, which slams into the last of the still trapped Morhan soldiers. The blow kills him instantly as it crushes his chest, his two now free comrades left holding their dead countryman’s limp arms. They had been desperately trying to pull him free. But instead they are left standing shocked at the sight of their dead friend in the moments before they are set upon by Bendul soldiers.

Nero meanwhile, thunders toward the quartet of daring Morhan soldiers who explode into a frenzy of slashes and stabs, some of which hit their mark, many of which don’t. Nero, they realise, is a surprisingly agile man for his size as he punches many of their strikes away, much to their shock. His large fist reaching as he grasps one of the swords, wrenching it free from the soldiers grasp. The blade cuts into the flesh of his hand as he swings it like a club, deflecting further blows meant to weaken him, as Sam rushes headlong toward him, only to be cut off by a small group of Bendul soldiers who wear smiles of violence.

Sam knows what will follow as they launch into an attack that forces Sam to block over and over and over, each strike seemingly stronger than the last until suddenly a window of opportunity opens. Sam takes it without hesitation and slashes, seemingly wildly. The group of Bendul soldiers leap back in response to avoid the slash as they fan out to surround Sam, only to find the Morhan soldier is already upon them. They are shocked at Sam’s speed; as the one of the Bendul is forced deflect a blow that comes in at an odd angle moments before Sam’s blade is driven upward, vertically. The blade stabs through the base of the Bendul soldiers jaw and up into his skull. The point of the blade protruding from the helmet for a few seconds before it is withdrawn.

Sam spins away to evade the next round of vicious attacks, but they are slow and clumsy and present Sam with another opening, which they take as they cut down two Bendul soldiers. One felled by a quick slice to the throat, the other a deep gash across the chest. One gargles, while the other simply exhales in shock as their bodies crumples to the bloody ground with a wet thump. Rivulets of blood run across the saturated soil, which the boots of the soldiers on both sides sink into now, slowing their movements. Sam ignores this expected issue as they stab their sword forward, with as much force as they can muster. The blade impales a Bendul through the faceplate as Nero drops to one knee, slamming one of the Morhan soldiers’ backs into it. The Morhan soldiers back breaks, an agonizing scream erupting from deep within as Nero tosses him aside to die in the mud.

But as Nero rises back to his full height he feels several stabbing pains along his midriff. He looks down to survey the sight of the three swords and four spearheads jutting from his gut, but he doesn’t falter. Instead the hulking beast of a man simply lets out a deafening roar, his eyes turning blood red as smoke starts to rise from his bare skin, his face contorted into a grimace.

Sam’s eyes go wide at the sight of Nero whose muscular arms bulge to twice their size. But Sam quickly refocuses on their surroundings as a blade comes whistling toward their head. Sam dodges the attack, narrowly, before spinning and slashing with their sword. The slash finds its mark and cuts deeply into the last of the Bendul soldiers in the immediate vicinity. The Bendul soldier clutches at their gaping bloody throat as they turn on the spot, gurgling before their body slams to the bloody grass with a dull splash.

Sam, without an obstacle between them and Nero breaks into a sprint, while Nero collects the swords and spears impaling him in his enormous hand in the seconds before he wrenches them free of their wielders hands. He laughs and cackles savagely in the moments before he pulls the weapons free of his flesh and tosses them aside.

The Morhan soldiers stand frozen in place by fear as blood flows from the myriad wounds at Nero’s midriff. He knows the wounds pose no threat to him as he swipes his open hand at the soldiers, knocking them clear off their feet in the moments before he leaps atop them, punching franticly. His fists pummel the pile of soldiers into little more than blood, metal and bone before they even have chance to react. Nero’s laugh and smile somehow even more sickening than even the sight of his brutality, which takes only seconds for him to achieve.

But with his attackers dead, he surveys the state of the battle around him in the moments after casting his helmet from atop his head. He smiles as he sees that the army of Morhan is all but spent. He knows his enemies are defeated and he cackles loudly in response, even though in reality his own forces losses are severe as well. But Nero cares little about his losses. A victory is a victory, he knows, as he reclaims his mace. As he hefts the mace up and onto his shoulder he spies a single Morhan soldier. He notes that this soldier is smaller than most, but not usually so, as they race headlong toward him, blade in hand. Nero cackles a deep laugh humoured by the Morhan’s clear wish to die, as he licks his lips eager to spill more blood.

Nero lets the Morhan soldier get closer before he hurls his mace. The heavy weapon topples end over end straight toward the Morhan, but much to Nero’s surprise the mace never slams into the enemy soldier. Instead his enemy drops into a slide, the blood soaked ground allowing them to skid along the wet grass and mud, which permits them a narrow escape from his toppling weapon.

Nero howls with rage as the soldier jumps back to their feet, still running headlong toward him. Still he knows his victory is assured. He knows none can best him, he thinks, as he lumbers forward, building speed as he does until he is within striking range of the Morhan. Nero flails his arms wildly, but Sam evades his swipes while also managing to get in a few jabs of their own by jabbing at Nero’s giant swollen fists. The beast of a man thunders like an animal in a blood fuelled rage in response.

Nero lunges for the sword and wrenches it clean from the soldiers’ hand, with surprisingly little effort he realises, as he flings the blade back at the soldier. They dodge the projectile deftly as it sails past them a few feet and then pierces the mud. Sam scurries for the sword and takes a hold of it just as Nero swings his large fist. It hits and Sam is sent hurling through the air, sword in hand. Nero cackles in response to the soldiers failure as he turns to see them clambering back to their feet. Nero’s eyes go wide with shock. How can this be? He asks himself as his rage boils over to a whole new level. He can’t be beaten, he thinks, as he reminds himself of his Emperor’s own words, while barrelling toward the Morhan soldier. But Sam is ready for him and lunges forward at the last moment, too late for Nero to do anything about the thrust, which stabs through the chainmail and deep into the flesh at the base of his rib cage. He stops, mouth agape as he shifts his focus from the helmeted face and down to the wound in his torso, at which point he cackles as the Morhan pushes against his bulk, managing, remarkably, to unbalance him. Nero falls back, the point of the blade stabbing into the dead horse and soldier at his rear. But still he continues to roar with laughter.

“Foolish Morhan.” Nero rumbles as Sam stands before him breathing deeply, exhausted from the battle.

“No man can kill me.” Nero then thunders with a deep laugh, the sound leaking from his throat.

“Who says I’m a man.” Sam says as they remove their helmet to reveal their face, a woman’s face, dainty, young and pretty. Her face is splattered with blood, her long blonde hair hanging past her shoulders as she stares at Nero with angry blue eyes.

“What?” Nero exclaims in shock.

“This is for my father, Henry Eldridge.” Sam spits as she pulls twin short sword from her back. The short bladed weapons had been sat horizontal along her waist, overlapping one another to help conceal them.

Sam slashes them across one another. The twin blades cut deeply into Nero’s throat. His eyes remain wide and focused on Sam.

Nero hadn’t managed to beat his shock and react before the strikes had come. So instead, a long gurgle erupts from his agape mouth. Blood pours from the wounds at his throat. Nero is at a loss, but refuses to blink as Sam stands over him now, daggers raised high above her head. He doesn’t know if he expected her to say anything, but she doesn’t as she brings the daggers down with all the effort she can muster. Each blade stabs through one of Nero’s eyes and then deep into his brain. He lets out a final sound of pain and terror, knowing that he has lost and that he deserves his fate. It was a fate the Emperor always said he should be wary of.

Sam pants, her hands still clutching the hilts of the daggers as she watches the last seconds of life drain from Nero. Sam doesn’t smile or laugh or cry. Instead, she just stands there, staring at the hulking brutes’ dead mass, the battle over. The remaining Bendul soldiers run for their lives now that Nero is dead. But Sam doesn’t care about the Bendul or the Morhan or the war or armies or kingdoms. She only cares that vengeance has been fulfilled, and that it was achieved by her own two hands, just like her father would have wanted.

Hundreds of miles away Emperor Cornelius Valen braces himself against a nearby table in his tent. He inhales and exhales deeply feeling troubled.

“Your Highness what is wrong?” One of the Emperor’s other Marshal’s asks.

Cornelius knows immediately the blow that has been dealt, as he steadies himself. The nine Marshal’s in his presence stare at him from across the large square table atop which sits a map of the region.

“Marshal Faustus is dead.” Cornelius manages after a few moments.

“A tragedy.” One Marshal offers before another adds: “A great loss.”

But Cornelius knows the Marshal’s better than they think. He knows they are smiling to themselves. They have always hated Nero for his achievements, and for that he hates them. Nero had been the best of them. The strongest, the most capable, the most…violent. He had led every single battle that had brought them victory and those victories had in turn permitted the empire to expand well beyond anything that had ever been achieved before, by any Bendul ruler. That means he knows what will come next, and that he must rail against it. One single defeat against the tiny kingdom of Morhan is nothing compared to their myriad of victories, he tells himself. But he doesn’t believe his own words. He knows they are not true. He should have recalled Nero. If only Cornelius had listened to that old druid, the one that told him he could achieve almost limitless power, so long as Nero never fell to a woman. The Emperor had warned the hulk of a Marshal and had even begged him to don a face plated helmet, but alas his greatest strength had still fallen.

Cornelius had seen the signs he’d been warned about, but he’d paid them no mind. He actually thought he could escape the pre-destined future he’d been warned would come. So for his hubris he has now lost his champion, the herald of his Empire. He wonders what he should do next, but he already knows the answer to that, and he refuses. He won’t take his own life. He will die at war, much like he has lived in it.

Curse that druid, he says, as that old wrinkled and mud splattered face appears in his vision. The druids face cackles, like he knew this was how it would always end, in the moments before he’d been put to death.

“Prepare the army to march.” Emperor Valen orders.

“Where highness?” One of the Marshal’s asks.

“To the Abyss.” Cornelius replies baring his teeth with rage filled eyes. If he can’t take the region without Nero then he will forge a thousand more like Nero, using the madness of that cursed place. And if he fails then at least the continent will drown in blood and bodies.

Actionless

Condemnation doesn’t mean a thing
Its just a word for the eternal victim
Masking hints of failed ascension
A race of people too busy fighting
While the elected bicker like children
The act of doing has been stolen

Restraint is just the new surrender
Claiming you are not the pretender
As you wash your hands of blood
How about you act for once?
Instead you bid for re-election
Failing to answer any question

Hands of blood stained all red
Would we notice if you were dead?
Plotting just to grow your wealth
We all know you have no stealth
Saying words you don’t believe
Just hurry up and leave

Retaliation is your cure
Why not just send the poor?
Blind to your own sickness
Would you like us to fix this?
Building up your walls of hate
Everyone is just a failed state

Red tape is your shield
You wield at as you feel
Stealing just to keep your place
Blood flowing up from the graves
Watching we are just as bad
Maybe we should all give up now

Total War

Carve at the face of the false Gods
Cry for vengeance and their blood
March for the home that they love
Make ash everything they adore
A knife in the gut
An end to the uproar

Strip from the forsaken their call
Burn down all that they made new
Still another shot of deja vu
They twist words to their view
A noose round their necks
Stop this mindlessness

Watch as the palaces burn to ash
Roar victory now they’re out cast
Rebuild what they did destroy
No more deceiving to enjoy
A gun to their heads
We need to bring an end to this