literature

City of Shadows - Part 1, Take 2

Deviation Actions

silverwinglie's avatar
Published:
600 Views

Literature Text

The door burst inward with a crash and the crack of splintering wood. Guards piled through the doorway shoulder to shoulder, hands on hilts. At the sight of them, the boy leapt up with a yelp, flying into his mother's arms. She folded him tightly in her grasp, glaring at the intruders.

“What is the meaning of this?” the father demanded, rising from his chair. The boy twisted in his mother’s grasp, turning to peer at the intruders with widened eyes as she knit her fingers tighter, digging them into the fabric of his clothing.

“By authority of the mayor,” the first of the guards began, “this woman and the boy have been charged on counts of heresy and blasphemy in association with a cult of death. Through inquest-“

“By what evidence?”

“-through inquest, they have been found guilty of the charges brought, and-“

“WHAT inquest?”

“-and it has been decreed by the laws of our land, of light, and of common decency, that they are thus to be hanged by the neck-“

The woman gasped, and the child stepped back against her as his father began to shout over the guard. “Tell me by what evidence, what inquest has there been?!”

“-by the neck,” he continued, speaking each word loud and with deliberation, “until deceased.”

“What does Blackthorn say he has on us?” The father moved to stand between the guards and his family as the others began to step forward.

“That’s none of our concern, neither yours,” the first spoke. “Stand down. This does not involve you.”

”Don’t you touch them!”

“Seize them. Detain him if need be.”

The father lunged.

He hit the guard and the others surged forward to break around him, reaching out to arrest the mother’s flight. A mailed gauntlet seized her, and she cried out, wrenching her arm free before another grabbed and held her fast. She lashed out; her captor turned his face out of her fury’s reach, and her fingernails tore and bled as they clawed along his chainmail shirt. Undaunted, she kept up the struggle, screaming like a wildcat, thrashing as the first guard struggled to take her other arm.

Separated from his mother, the boy began to flee, then froze at her cries. He stared in panicked uncertainty as his father dove into the fray, lunging between his wife and the guard who was holding her. At his assault, the guard reeled back a step or two, then came back, swinging his fist into the father’s jaw.

His father staggered and took a knee, and that swung the boy’s indecision - he rushed forward, insensible to his mother’s screams as she shrieked for his father to stand up and intervene. Stunned, the father raised a hand to his face where the skin had split against the bone, but the woman’s voice rattled him out of his stupor. He rose again, turning to see his son charging in like a hellion, letting out a cry of rage to wake the dead.

The father’s hand shot out, grabbing the boy’s collar. He dragged his son backwards, throwing him back with one hissed command: “Hide.”

In the mother’s terror, the second guard had been able to secure a grip on her. Still she thrashed, screaming in anger, and the father took a step back as the remainder of the guards turned their attention to him.

“Stand down,” one said, “the law commands-“

He took another step away, reaching towards the table. The guard saw his intent and brought a fist down, but the father blocked the strike with his forearm, driving a butcher knife into the guard’s armor.

It seemed that time in the room paused as they backed away from each other, the father holding the knife, the guard staring down at his wound.

“Leave my house,” the man commanded, a small shake to his voice.

He was answered by the sound of scimitars whisking against their leather sheaths, and the pause broke.

Rushing into the space left by the wounded guard, the next raised his sword while the other moved to flank the father as he turned, trying in vain to keep both in sight. Heart racing, he struck out, but a downward sweep of the scimitar knocked the blade from his hand. He twisted back from the upswing, dodging as the sword slashed in at an angle. Hearing the rattle of the other guard’s armor, he spun and brought his arm up, arresting the blade’s swing as it hacked through flesh and embedded itself in the bone.

The wife let out a keening groan and the boy screamed as the guard worked the blade free, while the father, eyes wide and maddened, took advantage of the momentarily trapped scimitar by swinging a fist into the attacker’s temple. The guard staggered out of range of the second blow but kept his grip on the sword, yanking the father off-balance as the blade wrenched loose.

The father stumbled, and, heedless of his injury, dove at the second guard with a cry of wrath, aiming low to take him down - but he was too slow. The guard stepped aside, catching and twisting his fingers into the man’s clothes to reel him back.

“Let’s have an end to this.”

The sword stabbed into his gut before he could react, and his eyes narrowed, fury vanishing as his brows knit in an expression of pleading and confusion. The man wavered on his feet as the room spun around him, the sound of his wife’s cries and son’s shrieks distant, but then the guard brought an armored boot up, planting it against his chest and kicking him off the blade.

He crashed heavily and bonelessly, his head striking off the wood planks. Everything snapped back to clarity, and he saw the guard turn, bloody sword in hand, towards his son who stood frozen and screaming. The man struggled, fingers scrabbling at the ground as he fought to rise with one arm, the injured one pressed against his wound in an attempt to hold his guts in. “Go- run-“ he urged, but his voice was too quiet, his son too afraid.

As the guard approached, the boy’s eyes darted between his captive mother and bleeding father, then finally to the guard. He reached out towards the boy with his empty hand, the gesture almost consoling…and the boy seemed to resign a little, before looking again to the scimitar. He shrank then, all his muscles drawing together, then sprang away from the guard in one great leap - hope soared in the father, but then he saw the boy turn to run farther into the house, and his heart sank.

In the end, it made no difference. The guard made two strides and seized the boy by the arm, and the child crumpled. The guard dragged him back up, then glanced to the two that held the mother as she wailed. They nodded back, turning towards the door and into the morning air.

The father clawed at the floorboards, dragging his knife back and trying to prop himself up on one arm as the guard with his son followed, joined by a second who took the boy’s other side, hefting him upright although he remained limp and unmoving. The injured one, pressing a hand to the joint of his shoulder, paused to look back at the man lying on the floor. He flicked his head up, calling back to the others, “Hey, should we take him too?”

“Don’t bother. He’s done.”

One of the group cast a brief, almost pitying glance at the father, but he followed along with the rest. Reality seemed to grow grey around the edges for a few moments, and he felt his body grow slack - but he could still hear his wife's sobbing in the distance.

With a groan, he willed himself back to as much awareness as he could muster and braced with his good arm, pulling his legs under himself and struggling to his knees. The world wavered dangerously, but he clamped his injured arm against his stomach and fought through it. Focus gradually returned, and he tucked one foot up and forced himself to his feet.

The room swayed around him, but, still clutching the knife, he took a few slow and deliberate steps towards the door. Bloody tracks were left on the floor from the guard who had kicked him, and he followed them. He could still hear her, and as long as he could, there was still time.

Reaching the door, he had to pause to lean against the frame. He could see them ahead - and he could see the townspeople pressing in close. Anger marked the faces of most, though he thought he glimpsed curiosity, even fear, on a few and that gave him hope.

He staggered after the procession, pulling together what strength he had left to call out, "Someone stop them! This is a mistake!"

A few heads turned his way - good -

"Please, you have to - they can't do this!"

Their eyes widened as he stumbled his way closer, and, to his horror, they turned away. A scattering of whispers rippled through the watchers.

"You have to help!" He urged, voice cracking, "Please!"

The crowd shifted away, giving him even more space than they gave the guards and his family. It was fear, he realized - they were too afraid to get involved, and it was almost, almost funny. What did they have to be afraid of, when it was his family that was at stake?

"Please," he murmured, "help us..."

The guards dragged the woman and the boy on, unimpeded. They were heading to the town square, he realized, and then it would be too late. The space between them was widening, but he lurched on, driven by a white-hot spark of terror.

"Please," he heard himself pleading over and over, his breath growing ragged. His feet were lead, and the crowd was beginning to close him off from the sight of them. The noise of the mob had begun to swell, and now he could only barely hear his wife over it. They no longer took any notice of him, and he was finally able to reach the back of the crowd.

Raising both hands up, he dropped the knife and pushed against the onlookers, battling his way through and leaving bloody handprints in his wake. Most failed to notice his passage in the press of the crowd, but those that happened to glance at his slumping form seemed to flinch and leap away from him as though fearing his touch.

He could hear her again, her clear, terrified sobs rising above the noise. So too was his son weeping, occasionally letting out small, animal cries. There were words in their voices, too frantic and desperate to make out. The spark that was his terror burst into a fire, and he bulled against the people blocking his way, shoving his weight into them and barking, "Move, MOVE damn you!"

Breaking through the front of the crowd at last, he pitched forward, throwing out his hands to break his fall. His fingers closed on the edge of the platform, digging into the wood, and he glanced up.

His son had fallen silent again, with his eyes clenched shut. He shook all over, his chest hitching with panicked sobs as one of the guards still held him up on his feet. His hands were bound and the noose in place - so too with his wife. Her eyes were turned upwards, and she seemed to be mouthing a prayer through her tears as the charges were read to the public.

He threw an arm on top of the platform, struggling to pull himself up. The guard supporting his son saw this and stepped out, crushing the limb with his boot before kicking him back. He stumbled back into the crowd, which scattered away from him, spilling him onto his back.

He heard himself cry out in pain, and the world grew dark. When it came back, he looked up, and saw his wife looking down at him.

He leapt to his feet, screaming their names.

There was a dull thunk, a yelp, then nothing but the creaking of wood and the yelling of the crowd.



He lay in the dirt, staring at them. The sun had risen to its zenith, and was now beginning to sink. The crowd had dispersed, and the blood from his wounds had dried to a crust, cracking and bleeding when he drew a particularly ragged breath. No one came near the dying man and his family. Even the guards had left by now.

A dry wind blew over the square, and the gallows creaked. His eyes flickered up, taking in the whole of the structure. There was sorrow such that he could barely stand to look at their bodies, but it was a dull and distant grieving, lacking the energy to feed and grow.

He felt that he was a part of the town square, together with the two of them - fixtures that the world had forgotten. People were passing them, and he could feel their glances, and if he closed his eyes, felt that he could hear them whispering. These people…they were not strangers, but now he and his family were cut off from them, and no one in the world cared to know him, cared to reach out…cared to help.

Not that it made a difference now.

The emptiness was beginning to fill with a sense of disgust, and he found that he couldn’t bear to stay there. Willing his exhausted limbs into motion, he forced himself to his feet, voicing a rattling groan. He swayed slightly, injured arm still pressed close to his body. His gaze lingered on his wife and son for awhile as he caught his breath.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered, but the excuse died on his lips. “I’m…sorry.”

He hesitated, then turned and began to shuffle away from the square. He would die, but he couldn’t bear to die in this place, surrounded by these people. These animals that were only concerned for their own well-being…

Though he hated to leave the two of them, the thought intruded that they would not mind, and that he had to go.

As he stumbled out of the square and to the town's gates, lurching with each step, he was propelled onward by a blossoming hatred that first startled him, then seemed to draw closely around his broken body in comfort, bolstering him and making each staggering step just a bit easier. Each footfall was punctuated by the single thought; cannot die here...cannot die here...

Those that did not avoid him now stopped and gaped. His lips drew tight against his teeth in pain and anger, a small hiss of breath escaping. Go on and stare then...that's all you ever do. Sorrow, degradation, and wrath warred and mingled in his mind, but he pushed them down, ignoring the townspeople as best as he could and focusing on just taking one step after the next.

It seemed hours before he reached the town gates, but the sun was still working its way down in the sky. The gates were not yet closed as they were every night, and he paused for a few moments to rest against them.

As the others had, the guards stared at him with that look - expressions of pity and fear, worn over the look of disgust. He dropped his head and turned away, continuing his walk into the desert.

The footsteps became mechanical, the world fading around him as he limped on. Now, his arm and his gut had come to life with a bright and burning pain, and he was grateful that if he didn't die of his injuries first, the desert night would take him.

Stumbling and sometimes moving slowly on all fours, he made his way to the cliffs that overlooked the town. If he would die, he wanted to look towards the town square once more.

He hardly noticed it when he wasn't walking anymore, but dragging himself along. He grimaced, pulling himself with one arm, struggling to move a body that was now rapidly becoming deadweight. He could smell fresh blood again, and knew he'd worsened his injuries even further. It didn't matter to him, though, and he finally slumped to the sand, rolling onto his back and gazing at the now-darkening sky.

From here, he couldn't see the gallows, but when he closed his eyes, he imagined that he heard them creaking and groaning. The wind was beginning to rise, as it did almost every night in this damned place, whispering around the cliffs in preparation of building to a howl. But above it still he imagined the creaking, and he smiled as a tear ran down his face.

His voice rose with the wind, an unsteady thing at first, then growing into a wordless, weeping lament. It lifted, then faded, lingering in the air for a moment, pain given form. Then he shuddered once, and thought-

"If only..."

-as the world faded away.

Something had heard him in his mourning and his anger.

As he began to drift away it scuttled close, embracing the dying body and scrabbling at the last shreds of vitality that clung to it. When he breathed his last, it pressed to him, and his final thoughts grew disjointed, until the voice intruded when life was all but lost-

"Would you avenge them, if you could?"

The thing was patient, holding him arrested in this last moment, but the response, though groggy and as from far away, did not take long-

"I would."

"And would you sacrifice Fate, and soul, and even your name to do so?"

"I would."

"Will you abandon all hope and swear yourself to Oblivion, if the Void should aid you in this?"

"I will!"

The thing became visible, a dark smoke shrouding him, then it drew together with a sound like a hiss, coalescing into a heavier, darker form. It shrunk upon itself, compressing almost into a solid core, then all at once it swept down, rushing upon his forehead, the core passing effortlessly through as the smoke burst upwards from a brand the core had left. The circular mark yawned black, then overspilled with blood, and the man's eyes shot open as he sat up, looking around - but no sign of the thing remained.

He looked down at himself, sensing what had happened but not believing. His skin had paled to a deathly pallor, and as he took stock of himself, he realized that not a trace of his injuries remained - not even a lingering ache.

"Now then," a voice spoke, "we ought to be on our way."
Edited version of the Dirge story intro
© 2013 - 2024 silverwinglie
Comments4
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
tobi-addams's avatar
More! I want to read more!