She ran through the underbrush, thorns scraping her tanned legs, ripping her dress asunder. Wild panic surged through her veins, her heart beat like furious thunder. She had never run this fast, and the forest seemed a blur as she sped through it. She nearly ran into a fir and had to dodge it quickly, falling to the ground in the process, rolling down the steep incline. She hurt her ankle and a soft whimper escaped her lips, before she burst out from the bushes landing unceremoniously on her behind, her hair blocking her vision.
No, no, no! I must get on my feet, I must escape, I must flee
She removed her hair with a quick movement, and looked around. She discovered that she was no longer alone. She had stumbled upon a group of individuals she had seen before, among Marcus’s goons; it was some of the mercenaries from Arbad. She stared fearfully at each and every one of the hirelings, trying to remember faces, personalities, anything. Knowing her enemies had long since become a way of survival for her, and she always tried to take note of personality and demeanour. A girl of her low stature and less than perfect upbringing simply had to. Her eyes were quickly drawn to the wooden construct in the rear of the small group.
That thing! I remember that thing! It is the strange wooden machine, the fiendish contraption employed by the mercenaries. Marcus was always interested in that one; he threw the bones, divining for answers. He even prayed to the vermillion clay idols of Utha-Lagath, the chaos conclave, and that cost him, so he clearly considered the chunk of wood important. In the end he had his answers and he had seemed so confused, besides the mercenary captain would not sell it, said he was no slaver, to which the master said the captain was ludicrous. It was a construct, nothing else.
Solstara moved her eyes, fearing she might have stared overly long at the exotic piece of machinery. Her eyes fell upon the alien looking female which was led uphill by a man in a leather coat.
The she-devil is here too, that vulgar porcelain doll, a witch and a temptress Marcus had called her. She would become useful for him he said, so she may be a threat to me. Perhaps she is one of his contacts? And that other man, the scarred soul as Marcus had called him… Marcus always claimed that he smelled like the burning wastes of hell, though he had never approached him… But I don’t smell anything, so he must have referred to something else. It must be some other attribute then.
Then Solstara’s frightened eyes finally rested upon those two at the front of the squad; one was a grim, black haired warrior, the other was their leader, a heavily armoured blonde man. Both were cautiously studying her.
It is that hideously ugly warrior, gawking of course… staring at my cleavage… Oh, my bodice has been tattered in the flight through the forest. He may be hideous, but him I can use. And the other one… Their leader, with his greasy blonde curled hair and constant laughing. My master said the mercenaries were vital to his plans, unwitting fools, pawns, and marionettes, but also dangerous. He had studied them, even before hiring them, and he had followed the mercenary captain for days and days. But many of them seem to be missing… The tall archer, the smooth talking, womanizing spearman, the blue eyed swordsman, and the others, ones I do not remember… They are not here. They are probably dead then, killed in the ambush.
Of course these people had not seen Marcus as much as Marcus had seen them, hidden behind the velvet curtains of his carriage as he had been or skulking through the alleys and taverns of Arbad. While the soldiers had marched alongside the carriage, Marcus had indulged in the pleasures of the flesh or been reading one of his rare books. But yes, he had also spent a lot of time spying on his hirelings, learning their names, collecting pieces of their clothing or even strands of their hair. He was strange that way. Most nobles would not have cared at all, but Marcus was obsessed with knowledge. Leverage he called it, a notion she could well understand. But he had darker sides too, sides she could never relate to, sides which frightened her and filled her with horror and revulsion, shame and nausea.
Realizing that she had been silent for a long time, as well as being exhausted, sweating, cold and afraid, Solstara did the only thing she could. The young girl began to cry, her voice shivering, tears pooling in her eyes.
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Dietrich eyed the foliage carefully when suddenly a semi nude woman burst from the underbrush, her bodice had been ripped apart, and of her skirt only blood soaked strips of cloth remained. Her body had been scratched by thorns and falling, but by something else too. The woman was a mess, but still beautiful despite her condition. She was the youngest of the employer’s prize girls, a brown haired, slightly tanned beauty who had received the butt end of many a mercenary’s vulgar joke. For long moments she just sat there and all was quiet. She eyed them fearfully, more akin to a wild animal than the pouting, lustre pleasure toy of yesterday. She, as well as her fellow concubines, had been the erotic fantasy of many a mercenary, but any such thoughts, should they have existed among Sternflucht’s survivors, were gone now. For a moment she looked like she would run, but then she burst out in tears, sobbing helplessly.
Hans Dietrich stroke his blood stained hand through his greasy, blonde hair. “I hate it when they do that” he uttered, before he approached her and put his fur cloak on her shoulders. Hans was no angel, but for a mercenary he was unusually gentle. Noticing a smirk on Sharee’s face he kicked some leaves in her direction. “Yeah, yeah!” he said and crouched beside the girl, which was in her late teens. “Girl, I need to know. Why are you running? Has something happened to the others ahead? Are they alright?” he said with poorly veiled urgency in his voice.
As Sternflucht sat by the girl, waiting for her tears to stop, a great, black bird flew over their heads. Domunsoka watched the dark harbinger of the storm, mesmerized by its flight. It did not move its wings, but floated instead on the howling wind with a near divine grace. Then it let out a single cry, a piercing sound, as if filled with horrible grief. It was as if it was mourning them, lamenting their future passage from this world.
Some seconds passed, while the girl sobbed and the bird disappeared from sight. Without warning the storm arrived and the wind grew in intensity. A mixture of rain and snow began lashing against their faces, visibility dropping dramatically.
“Darn! That was quick! At least we are safe from the fire” the sergeant shouted, his voice muffled somewhat by the sound of the howling wind and the violent splashing of slush. It was uncanny how the storm had arrived, and Domunsoka could not help but feel a little uncertain. Was this what the humans called fear?
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Marcus, fallen hero of Keddath, studied the remains of Yeddion, once a blonde, beautiful pleasure slave. Now she was but a horribly disfigured corpse, her chest cracked open, her lower abdomen ravaged by the dark summoning, and her face locked in surprise and horror. The slender man caressed his shaved scalp, tears ran down his cheek, and his head hung low. His deep set brown eyes studied the broken body of the woman, horrified yet fascinated by the way it had cracked her chest open, displaying her internal organs, her skin held taut by the ribs.
It had not been enough. The summoned fiend now lay slain beside her and Marcus himself had barely survived. Marcus looked at his chest, noticed how the slush whipped against his blood soaked brown robe. Breathing had become difficult and Marcus had to focus. He gathered essence about him, borrowing minutes of precious life. Turedon stood beside him, the tattooed giant of a man covered with small cuts, his breath heavy with exertion and pain. Had it not been for the gigantic barbarian, Marcus would have been dead now; his broken body would have rested beside the dead concubine.
Yeddion’s demise had been in vain, the summoned creature stood no chance, the precious Kal’Rhyn vessel had been shattered and the horror had disappeared. Marcus had used all his power, harnessed every ounce of the strength he had, but it had not been enough. The horror had crushed his defences as if they were but fragile shells of porcelain. As for the Giezzuerath Nether Beast summoned through its craving for human females; it had been an easy prey. The horror had torn it to pieces; it’s sadistic, windy whispering mocking Marcus. Then in the end something else had distracted it. Marcus had felt it too; someone had drawn upon essence nearby. Fortunately for Marcus and Turedon, that hapless soul had secured their survival.
Gently laying his arms around the brown robed noble, Turedon lifted his master. Then the huge man began running up the path, unfazed by the fierce storm. Turedon ran as if possessed, the unbeaten champion of the Ugeroth Tribes was terrified. The mercenary main force was only ten minutes ahead...
