They crouched in the long grass that dominated the ground between the trees and the fortress, waiting for nightfall. The Spoiled had little difficulty seeing in the dark which gave them an advantage over the Islanders, although Sirus doubted it would count for much in the confines of the breach. Morradin’s command came as the first stars began to twinkle in the sky. NOW!
Sirus rose and led his Spoiled forward at a run, covering the distance to the breach in less than a minute. He expected an immediate hail of rifle fire from the defenders on the walls but the charge was completely unopposed, the whole affair proceeding in an eerie silence broken only by the rasp of the grass as they ran. Saving their ammunition, Morradin mused as Sirus reached the breach. It’ll be any second now, boy. Best brace yourself.
Sirus increased his speed, sprinting through the jagged fissure as fast as his monstrous body would allow, expecting a volley to come crashing down from above at any second. Instead, he cleared the breach in a few seconds and found himself standing amidst a scene of slaughter. The Islanders lay everywhere, at least three hundred strewn about a broad inner courtyard, each one with their neck laid open.
Knew what they were in for, Morradin judged. Didn’t want to add to our numbers. It seems they’re learning.
Sirus crouched next to the body of a woman. She was young and tall, with the supple muscles and scars typical of Island warriors. Dark congealed blood covered her throat and the blade of the knife lying in her limp hand.
This happened hours ago, Morradin decided. Search the place. Find him.
They scoured the stronghold from top to bottom, finding only more bodies. Any of the men could be him, Sirus pointed out to Morradin. None of the other Islanders in our ranks ever saw his face.
No. Morradin was emphatic. He’s not here. Maybe he never was. Slipped away and left us to waste time and ammunition on this fortress of corpses.
Eventually one of the Spoiled reported finding something in the bowels of the fortress. Sirus made his way down a series of wooden steps to a large, cellar-like chamber where one of his troops stood next to a narrow hole in the dirt floor. A tunnel, Sirus reported, crouching to inspect the find. Recently dug.
Follow it, Morradin commanded and Sirus leapt into the opening, finding he had to crawl on all fours to make his way along the passage. The tunnel’s hasty construction was evident in the loose dirt that fell on him continually as he struggled along, expecting the roof to collapse at any second. It took the better part of an hour’s crawling before he came to the tunnel’s end. Sirus halted, eyeing the dim moonlight streaming down from a roughly hewn hole in the roof, drawing an impatient query from Morradin. What’s the delay, boy?
They didn’t collapse the exit, Sirus replied.
Perhaps they didn’t have time. Or perhaps there’s an entire war-party waiting above to hack your head off the instant you pop up. We won’t know until you do, will we?
Butcher indeed, Sirus muttered inwardly, squirming to take a firmer hold of his rifle and wiping the soil from the breech. A dozen Spoiled had followed him into the tunnel and he ordered them to clean their own weapons before crawling forward and rising to a crouch. The opening was four feet or so above his head, a leap beyond his former body, but well within the capabilities of this one.
He leapt as high as he could, clearing the hole and landing on his feet, rifle ready and eyes tracking the surrounding trees for enemies. Nothing. Spread out, he told his troops as they leapt to join him.
Sirus waited a moment to gauge his surroundings, seeing a mostly unremarkable patch of jungle, then his ears detected the sound of rushing water some way off to the left. He led his Spoiled towards the sound at a steady run, spurred on by Morradin’s mounting impatience. After a hundred paces the trees thinned to reveal a large pool. The pool’s surface lapped gently against the encroaching rocks, fed by a curtain of water that glittered in the moonlight as it fell from the edge of a high cliff. There were several large rocks rising from the water, each one featuring an ornamental stone of some kind. The few converted Islanders in their ranks had provided some insight into their spiritual beliefs, and Sirus knew these were shrines to the ancient spirits who were said to have first inhabited the Barrier Isles before the coming of man. His gaze soon went to the largest rock, a flat boulder upon which a small man sat, surrounded by bodies, all Island warriors of typically impressive stature. Like their brethren back at the fortress, they had all clearly died by their own hand, throats slashed open and their mingled blood seeping over the rock and into the pool in a billowing red cloud.
The Shaman King, if I’m not mistaken, Morradin mused as Sirus shared the image of the small man and his dead guards. I thought he’d be taller, didn’t you?
The small man barely glanced over his shoulder at Sirus before returning his gaze to the shrine, head bowed and lips moving in some unheard prayer or invocation. He was certainly a contrast to the other Islanders, his limbs spindly and his back bent, though he possessed their usual fair colouring.
A new thought pushed its way into Sirus’s head, far stronger and more implacable than Morradin’s: Not needed. The White added a hard jab of urgency to his command that made Sirus shudder as he raised his rifle. He trained the sight on the centre of the small man’s back where the bullet would be sure to shatter his spine before going on to pierce his heart. An easy shot at this range.
He had begun to squeeze the trigger when the entire surface of the pool exploded upwards. The water rose into a solid wall of white and red before blasting outward with sufficient force to send Sirus and the other Spoiled sprawling. He scrambled to his feet quickly, finding himself within a swirling maelstrom of raised water. Near by, he saw one of his Spoiled lifted off his feet and dragged into the enveloping wall of vapour. Through the confusion Sirus could see the vague shape of the body being dashed against one of the rocks in the pool before being cast away into the storm. Something hard slammed into Sirus from behind, throwing him flat once again. He looked up to see two more of his troops being borne high then slammed together, once, then twice, then once more before being flung aside. The bodies landed close to Sirus and he saw the force of the last impact had been enough to enmesh their part-shattered rib-cages, two pairs of lifeless slitted eyes staring at him in blank astonishment.
It appears the stories were true, Morradin observed dryly. He is a Blood-blessed after all.
Sirus could feel the other Spoiled dying around him as the Shaman King’s invisible hand crushed them one by one. Their last agonies were a curious sensation, absent of fear but full of pain and confusion. He was also surprised to discover a small kernel of fear rising in his own breast, finding a perverse delight in the knowledge that at least he would die with some vestige of humanity remaining.