Chapter 47 – A Knight of Death
The god’s voice was a constant, corrosive whisper in the back of Harm’s skull; he’d had enough. He was in charge; no one else. He could no longer distinguish between his own thoughts and fury or the god’s prodding and manipulation. He would take action; no one else would control him.
“Luubu,” Harm bellowed as he walked from his hut. She turned wide-eyed, seeing the man who strode forward. With his shoulders squared, his armour appeared as he did.
“Grab the best. We are going to lay waste to anyone who comes to the hills.”
Luubu looked shocked, taken aback by his sudden shift. “I’ll gather them now,” she stammered, never one to be short of words.
“What are you doing?” Dafu asked, perplexed by his sudden shift.
“I’m taking the fight to them. If they think they can come up here, they are mistaken,” Harm growled.
Dafu had seen that face before; it was the face of the demon that resided inside Harm, his eyes burning with fire. The red pupils appeared to glow.
“Luubu. Make sure they know we are fighting; this isn’t a scouting mission,” he called after her, his voice cold.
“Are you sure you want to do this? Won’t killing in the hills draw others? That’s even if they find the trail,” Dafu questioned.
“I’m sick of us being restricted by the actions from the valley. If Satil has brought mercenaries, then we will show them that they picked the wrong side to fight for.”
The group moved swiftly, born of fear and purpose, as they followed Harm, who jogged through the forest. It didn’t take long to find the scouts. They were painstakingly and carefully brushing leaves and wiping down rocks. The blood spread was too even, too precise, deliberate; not from a leaking skin, but a deity.
His stomach twisted in anger. He didn’t speak to the scouts as he continued by, looks of confusion following him and the party that pounded behind him. The god had deliberately left a trail leading to the clan’s front door. Each spot was a testament to the god’s treachery, a mockery of his leadership. He burned with desire, hatred, and pure passion. His heart didn’t pound; it beat calmly, his breathing controlled and steady.
The path wound through the forest for a fair distance before the descent to the valley. The descent was treacherous at the best of times; only with guidance had Harm found it the first time, and as they neared, Harm could see the dark patches of dried blood which now lit the way.
“We wait here,” Harm growled, coming to a halt, before the steep decline began. “This will be our point of ambush.” This was the perfect place for an ambush; the narrow trail from the climb opened for a short distance before the trees again forced any being to single file to wind through brush and ancient gnarled trees.
The party split across the path, Harm giving silent commands as he needed, although the goblins were static, bar the one advanced scout. None appeared to wish to move, and the air held the trepidation of combat; the scent of fear from the goblins lingered in the air at the unknown.
The night crept slowly, bleeding away, its shadows deepening, and the cold seeped into Harm’s bones. He didn’t notice; his blood still ran like lava through his veins. As time passed, doubt crept in, gnawing at him, making him question his stance. No, this is my way! He thought with resolve. This may be a fool’s errand, but it was his choice, no other. Eventually, even his resolve started to waver, and he was about to signal the retreat when a mental whisper from a forward scout pierced his thoughts.
There’s light on the trail. A lantern. I hear a noise.
Harm sent a message to the whole group, making them aware and preparing them for what was to come.
The scout reported. Seven men. Heavy mail, professional arms. Not town guard. Mercenaries. This was worrying, and Harm’s blood ran cold. These were not simple thugs; they were hardened killers, better equipped and likely more skilled than any the goblins had faced before, perhaps except Luubu, whose skill was savage yet beautiful.
Aim for the weak points; that’s where you strike. Armpits, elbow joints. Harm sent.
The clank of metal, the rattle of gear and the laboured breathing of a challenging climb for fully armed men. Their voices whispered in the night, but not in silence; like their movement, they showed no concern for what lay ahead. It was either naivety or a sense of security in their abilities that gave them the confidence. They believed they were the hunters, not the prey.
The group broke from the trailhead onto the open ground before the forest path. The marks of blood were still visible in the moonlight that directed their journey.
“We rest here,” a voice said. Low and murmured. These were confident professionals, not a ragtag town guard. Harm’s palms sweated as they sat in wait for them. A small fire was lit, and bedrolls unfurled. They would be resting here for some time. Rations and waterskins were removed as they ate in relative quiet. Harm listened, frozen, as their conversation drifted to him.
“...Hillnot’s in two days... Satil wants this dealt with before we move on them...”
“...good pay for a walk in the woods. This demon is probably some drunk’s nightmare...”
“...we just need to take back proof for the bonus reward. The rest is easy...”
They are planning to hit Hillnot. Harm thought. What had the dwarves ever done to Satil, for him to order such an attack?
The men were relaxed, settling to sleep; only two had remained awake, the duty watch.
A nagging urge ate at Harm’s stomach; the god cried for blood. Its voice broke his thoughts.
Now! Kill now! Death sang.
Harm was uncertain, his party of nine against seven heavily armed foes. They were professional, even in their camp; it was efficiently set up, and they had a watch.
The odds should have been in their favour; that was the point of ambushes. The upper hand, the unknown entity striking from the shadows. Morally, it may have been weak, but strategically, it was their only strength.
Should we fall back? Harm, thought, concern ebbing in his mind. No, we have greater numbers; this is my decision, and no one controls me.
Would eight be enough? Would they prevail? The unknown grew as they waited. Harm could feel the nerves, which pulsed through the group, almost suffocating him, mixing with his emotions and making it harder to focus.
Then it happened as though a volcano exploded; bloodlust surged through his veins. The anger of what he had suffered, what his family had suffered, and even what the goblins, his new family, had suffered. Fury raged, burning him all-consuming. His pulse remained steady, with slow, deliberate beats, and his breathing was calm, but he didn’t know how, as a fever of hatred washed through him. Harm the father, Harm the lover, Harm the leader had gone, rage took over.
No signal was given. He moved so quickly that the forest cried out in surprise, with a roar that could only have belonged to a demon. He erupted from the silent trees, appearing out of the darkness like a shroud of death.
Florence was a blur, her silver blade gleaming in the moonlight. Blood sprayed from the throats of the two standing watch, unable to react before he was upon them. Florence sliced through them with ease. Their deaths didn’t even register; their eyes were wide in shock at the demonic beast that had appeared before them.
As bodies stirred, pandemonium erupted.
They scrambled for weapons, confusion reigning over them. This wasn’t normal. A single beast attacked a party of seven armed men. Terror took over, screams of panic. The beast had caught them unawares. The giant demon with the glowing red eyes was upon them. Its speed was impossible as it hacked and slashed, thrust and stabbed, no words, no cries, just efficient death. Harm was the incarnation of Death himself, his blade an extension of his arm. A mercenary who had managed to scramble to his feet swung wildly, panicked by terror. Florence struck without mercy, without a care, as she buried deeply into a chink in his armour. A crossbow twanged as Harm spun, using the man as a shield. The man grunted as the bolt pierced his back. The mercenary guilty of shooting at him hadn’t even risen, propped on his elbow, crossbow in hand. Florence finished him in moments.
This was no fight; it couldn’t have been. It was a slaughter. No other word could describe it. They stood no chance against the demon, powered by a divine hatred. An anger that burned his very soul.
The last man dropped his sword, his eyes wide with sheer, uncomprehending terror. As he attempted to turn and run, he screamed, which was cut out as Florence pierced the back of his skull, her bloody, coated blade punching from the man’s mouth. A gurgle was the only sound remaining as his life ended.
Then it came, like a blanket of snow. Silence, the forest stilled; no animals moved, no wind blew. It was still like a calm summer day.
His eyes started to fade from their fiery red as his pulse slowed. Not that it could slow much more, his breathing was the same, calm and steady. He should have been panting, maybe even gasping, but he wasn’t as he stood looking down at his prey. All seven men were dead, skewered or slashed. Some were half-risen. Others still lay or sat where they had been. Only two managed to get to their feet. It was horrific; mangled bodies littered all around him. Blood soaked the ground and Harm alike. The metallic stench of copper burned his nostrils with its acrid smell, mixed with faeces and urine. Numbness held Harm still, his body frozen, Florence still held, dripping her target’s blood from her tip, she purred in his hand, fed for the first time in a long time.
Slowly, the goblins emerged from the trees, their faces a mixture of primal fear of their leader and awe at the demon beast’s efficiency. Their weapons were clean; none had spilt blood. They were purely bystanders, not involved in the massacre, but there to bear witness at the birth of a legend. A demonic beast of godly power, a mountain of death and carnage.
A small hand reached out to Harm’s arm. It felt warm and gentle as Luubu looked up at him. Her usual aggression had been replaced by deep contemplation. This man she had come to know was no longer a man; he was something else, built from power and rage. She looked at the dead lying at their feet.
“The speed... the power... How?” she said in a hushed tone of reverence as she turned to face him. “An ogre raging on a battlefield could do no better.”
Then it happened, childlike and full of glee; it started at the rear of his mind and worked its way forward, growing louder with each moment. It giggled and cackled, the sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
Was that so hard? It cooed, erupting into laughter once more.
Not a soul spoke as the area was cleared, the goblins moving the mercenaries’ bodies into the forest, stripping their equipment and leaving them for whatever found them. Harm hadn’t moved, standing like a sentinel. His eyes transfixed in the distance, on something no other could see.
“Harm, we should go,” Luubu said.
Harm spoke for the first time since the slaughter. “Get the scouts to clear the trail down,” he said, turning and walking back to the clan. What had happened, he didn’t know. A power unlike any other had taken him, something otherworldly, he sensed it now, still burning in his core, a fire waiting to be stoked, like a spider in its web. It lay frozen and silent until needed, waiting to pounce on an unfortunate prey. He shuddered, a cold chill running up his spine. What had he become, or was he becoming? Yes, he was a skilled fighter, but never with such ease, such deliberate and defined precision had he slaughtered so many.
These men had been no slouches; they weren’t drunken town guards, but professionals, and he had ended them with ease. Not a scratch on him, not even a scuff on his armour. He still carried Florence, her blade a crimson sheen, the blood of his victims stained along her length.
Luubu followed close behind him; she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Wonder filled her. Their chief appeared as a god.
