Hubris - 5. Death on the Daminion Highway

The wagon moved at a snail’s pace, crawling along the highway past snow-covered fields and gnarled trees. Four soldiers rode alongside the wagon, two leading the procession with the other two following at the rear. The torch-symbol of Elysia was unmistakable beneath the gloom of the gray sky. Pallid, sickly faces gazed hopelessly through the rusty bars grafted into the wagon, bodies huddled against the cold. It was impossible to count how many prisoners there were from this vantage point.

Watching from behind a thin shelter of trees, Barghast let out a low growl. His shoulders vibrated. The Theocracy has made another enemy, Crowe thought.

The practitioner held out a hand, gesturing for him to be quiet. The growl ceased, but those amber coins remained fixed on their prey. His tail arched high above his back; the end jerked back and forth. The sorcerer sensed he would only be able to keep his companion at bay for so long. Despite the tenuous bond that had begun to form back at the cabin, Crowe remained wary of Barghast. He was a predator after all and predators lived for the need to spill blood. Crowe’s attention returned to the prisoners locked inside the wagon like animals, their arms and legs shackled together. The Seraphim’s words rose in the back of his mind…both a reminder and a call to action. You are the herald, the mouth through which Monad will speak. The flaming sword that breaks chains and delivers swift, bloody justice. You are the beacon that will lead Monad’s people out of exile. So it has been decreed.

It was here already, faster than he’d anticipated. My people are in the back of that wagon, being herded towards slavery or death, or something worse than death. This is what I’ve been called to do, I must act. Once the wagon was within throwing distance, Crowe aimed his staff at it. “Now!” he hissed.

He needn’t have said anything. Barghast let out a bestial snarl, bounding out from behind the trees. He made a short passage through the tangle of weeds, a machine of muscle and bone and fur and vitality working in tandem with the instinct to kill without mercy. Pushing his will into his staff, Crowe followed at a sprint, his blood singing in his ears.

Barghast skirted to a stop in the middle of the road, rising to his full height. The sorcerer almost felt sorry for the Theocracy soldiers who had yet to discover the death fate had in store for them.

The wagon was almost upon them by the time the riders discovered they were no longer alone. “Yah!” and the sharp snap of reigns against flanks split the frigid air and “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Horse hooves scraping against half-frozen dirt, bringing the wagon to a halt just feet from colliding with Crowe and Barghast.

This time the lycan did not wait for Crowe’s instructions. He lunged towards the closest horse, yanking its rider off the saddle in a single fluid motion. Before the soldier could hit the ground, Barghast was on top of him, muzzle clamping down on the flesh between his shoulder and neck with the audible crunch of bone.

For a moment Crowe could only watch, grateful that the broad expanse of Barghast’s back hid what was happening from view. Hearing it was bad enough. With a tearing, sopping sound, the lycan’s head fell back, pointed up at the sky. A howl tore from his throat, turning the practitioner’s blood to ice. Scraps of flesh clung to his mouth, blood sluicing down his chin like a red river. The other riders had recovered from the shock of being ambushed and were now aiming their rifles at the Okanavian, the most immediate threat. Silver bullets hissed through the air, slamming into the earth around Barghast, another hitting him in the back of the shoulder, the wound already steaming. No you don’t! A ball of blue light exploded from the end of his staff. It arched up towards the sky before plummeting back towards the ground, gaining speed and force as it descended towards its target. It slammed into the second soldier before she could take another shot at Barghast, knocking her from her mount.

Crowe and Barghast made short work of the final two scouts, dispatching them quickly. They worked together, dragging the bodies into the field where they would be out of sight of the road. Or tried to. Crowe pulled uselessly at the legs of a corpse, wondering how in the name of Monad he’d managed to get Petras’ body down the stairs. Barghast came back to him, slinging the body over his shoulders as if it were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. His muzzle was bunched up in discomfort, the wound at his back still smoking from where the bullet was lodged into his shoulder, but when he turned to look back at the practitioner his muzzle yawned open, showing him the pink of his tongue. Sheets of already dried blood spotted his gray fur.

At least he’s easy to please, the sorcerer thought. “Barghast,” he said, stopping the Okanavian with a single word. Crowe touched his shoulder gingerly, peering down at the wound. With the discovery of the Okanavian’s name a newfound if tenuous familiarity had formed between them. At least we can no longer say that we are complete strangers to one another. “We should get this bullet out of you.”

He unslung his bag from his shoulders and pilfered through it until he found what he was looking for: a small pair of tweezers. Before he could finish his search, Barghast's digits closed around his wrists, communicating through touch what he could not with words. His tongue lapped at the side of Crowe’s face before he turned to look back at the cabin. It can wait, the look said. We have more important matters to attend to at the moment.

They started back towards the wagon. The prisoners could be seen, faces pressed fervently against the bars of their prison, feverish eyes brightened by a final glimmer of hope. The reek of their unwashed flesh grew stronger the closer Crowe and Barghast drew towards the wagon. Barghast remained by the side of the road, his muzzle scrunched in disgust. You didn't smell that great when I found you either, Crowe thought.

Desperate hands reached for him through the bars. “Hurry!” a woman cried through a tangled curtain of black hair; the pale pallor of her cheeks were darkened by streaks of filth. “Let us out!”

A man knelt beside her, long spidery fingers gripping the bars with desperation. Beneath the patches and tangles of his ruddy beard, his cheeks were hollowed by starvation. “There's another patrol a day or so behind us. It doesn't give us much time to get away!”

Crowe blasted the lock off the door with a flare from his staff. He pulled the door open. “Come on out, all of you,” he said.

The prisoners rose sluggishly to their feet, shuffling off the wagon. They moved with great effort, chains scraping along the floor of the wagon. Up close it was impossible to ignore the mistreatment the prisoners had suffered at the hands of their captors. They’d been beaten and scarred. Crowe noticed missing fingers and poorly dressed wounds due to frostbite. A long thin trail of dried blood marked the torn skirt of a woman. She cringed from Crowe when he turned his gaze on her, eyeing Barghast who had begun to pilfer through the belongings of the dead soldiers. A cold knife twisted in the practitioner's gut. Petras always told me the world was a cruel place, the Theocracy even crueler, but being told and witnessing it for yourself are two completely different things, he thought.

The woman who had begged to be let out, fell at his knees, her movements eerily matching that of the Barghast's that strange night in the cave. Her tears fell on Crowe's boots. “Monad has blessed us with a second chance!” the woman screamed at the sky; her shoulders shook with emotions she couldn't contain. “He may be locked in an eternal sleep in the Void, but still he watches over us in his dreams!” She reached for the rest practitioner with trembling fingers.

Before he could step back, a strong arm ushered Crowe away from the woman. Barghast planted himself between the sorcerer and the woman. A snarl parted his lips. The woman crawled back with a fearful gasp, joining the rest of the prisoners by the wagon. They cowered at the sight of Barghast, clinging to each other in desperation.

“Barghast!” Crowe shouted. Before he knew what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed the lycan. It was enough to get the Okanavian's attention. Barghast's snarl into a frown, his eyes softening when he looked down at Crowe. Crowe steeled himself. “Don't give me that look!” He pointed a finger at a spot several paces away. “Get over there!”

The lycan surprised him once more by obeying, albeit with a chastised look on his face. Crowe strolled towards the prisoners; they had yet to venture out from their huddled stance. He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning.”Never mind him. He can be a bit…overprotective. We were attacked by the Theocracy the same as you a few days ago. You're safe. We’re not going to hurt you. What happened to you?”

The ruddy bearded man stepped forward to answer. “We come from the village of Boar’s Head.”

Crowe nodded. “I know of it. It's a few days' travel by horseback from my hometown.”

“A Theocracy scouting party raided our village. They killed most of our people…friends, family, people we’ve known our whole lives. They burned them at the stake. My father, my mother, my sister.” The man’s lips trembled with a grief he could not contain.

“I’m sorry,” the practitioner said, knowing his words were meaningless. “How did they defeat you? You’re practitioners just like me…”

The man's lips peeled back from clenched teeth, on the verge of letting loose a scream. At the last second he regained his composure, sucking in a deep breath. “You haven't heard? The Theocracy, they've developed a new drug that suppresses our abilities. I guess thanks to the experiments they’ve been running on our people at The Black Diamond, they found a way to exploit our Monad-given abilities. They were equipped with these special grenades that secreted the drug in gas form. It was a massacre.”

“I’ve heard of The Black Diamond but I don't know much about it”

“It’s a sanitarium west of Ontariun. It's where they’ve been sending practitioners for experimentation. If not there, then it's to work on Drajen’s blasted railroad. Either way both routes are a death sentence in the end. I heard the soldiers talking one night. I think they were sending us to the Jalacial Flatlands to work on the railroad.” The man’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. “It's a good thing you and your lycan friend came along when you did.”

A groan stalled the conversation. The scout who Crowe had knocked off her horse with a ball of purple light lifted her head, smoke rising from a hole burnt in her armor. “Well, well, well,” the ruddy-faced man said in a tone Crowe didn't like much. “You didn't kill them all after all.” He stepped towards the fallen woman.

Crowe intercepted his path. “What do you intend to do to her?”

“I’m going to take what's mine: vengeance,” the man said. “What I’m going to take from her doesn't nearly cover what she took from me.” Something malevolent and insane glinted in the man's eyes. “Are you going to get in my way or am I going to have to deal with you as well?”

Sensing this was a man he did not want to cross, Crowe backed towards Barghast. The scout, trying to crawl into the dead weeds at the side of the road, hissed prayers to Elysia through clenched teeth. “In the name of the Mother, help me.” Her face was stricken with an animal's need to survive. The body keeps moving even when it knows the end is close, the practitioner thought morbidly. It simply can't help itself.

Her doom walked up behind her, a knife in hand - he must have pulled it off one of the dead bodies. A voice in the back of the sorcerer's mind screamed for him to look away, but Crowe’s eyes remained glued to the scene. The man’s shadow fell across the woman. Slowly her head turned. Her eyes widened when she saw him. A helpless whimper pulled at her lips. “Elysia, I take strength from you, knowing that you are with me. Knowing that you will never leave me…”

“Your whore, Elysia, isn't here,” the ruddy-faced man said with a cruel smile. “She's not with you. She doesn't watch over you and she sure as in the Void isn't listening to you.” He grabbed by the back of her hair and yanked her head back, hunched over her so that his back hid the woman from view; Crowe was grateful for this. Hearing the scout's blood curdling screams, raised in terror, was bad enough.

The woman's screams were cut short by the blade of the dagger. Her body spasmed, legs kicking as the man stepped back. Crowe turned away, feeling queasy to his stomach. If he had anything in his belly to throw up, it would have joined the bodies on the highway.

When the terrible business was over and the scout had been silenced, Crowe returned to the wagon. The ruddy-faced man grinned as if he hadn’t just threatened the practitioner a few moments ago. “I never introduced myself. My name is Elias.” He held out a dirt-streaked hand.

The sorcerer glared at him coldly. “I’m not going to shake hands with a cold-blooded killer.”

Elias' smile did not falter but widened. “I saw you and your lycan friend in action. You're just as much of a killer as I am, so don't get all high and mighty with me.”

I don't kill in cold blood. That woman was badly injured, how far would she have made it before exhaustion finished what I started? The words caught in Crowe’s throat. What was the point in wasting his breath?

“We are at war,” Elias continued unabated. “We are in battle with an institution that has enslaved us for centuries; that executes our people without trial. We have no time for mercy. You may not see it now, but if you travel on this road long enough you will.” Apparently done with the conversation, Elias returned to what remained of his village. The prisoners huddled together, as if afraid of being heard. Crowe was more than happy to be done with the conversation.

“Cr-ow-e,” said a familiar, deep voice.

The practitioner turned to look at the lycan. Crowe felt his spirit lift at the sight of a face that was quickly becoming familiar to him. The Okanavian held up a piece of parchment: a map with several ink marks. The practitioner snatched a hasty look over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching; Elias and his people were still bent intently in their own private session. Crowe rewarded him with a quick pat on the shoulder before tucking the map in the pocket of his robes. We’ll need that later, he thought. The pat on the shoulder earned him a toothy grin from Barghast and a reciprocated pat on the shoulder that sent the practitioner stumbling back a few steps. Before his rump could hit the ground, the lycan caught him, gently setting him back down on his feet.

“Uh…thanks.” The practitioner felt the blood rise to his cheeks.

“Twin o’rre,” was all Barghast said.

One of these days I’m going to find out what that means, Crowe thought.

Reluctantly he ventured back to Elias. “What will you do now?”

Elias looked over Crowe’s shoulder, shielding his eyes with a hand. “We’re going South to Caemyth.”

“What’s in Caemyth?”

“Governor Benedict Matthiesen. He’s been the only one brave enough to oppose Pope Drajen and the Theocracy. He offers sanctuary to practitioners…those who are brave and fortunate enough to escape. It’s a long journey. It will take us weeks to get there.”

“It sounds like a dangerous journey.”

Elias’ mouth twisted in a grimace. “These are dangerous times. But I’d say, given the state of things, it’s worth the journey. Rumor has it Caemyth offers food, clothing, housing. Pope Drajen doesn’t have the courage to breach the walls. They say the walls are so high, they’re like mountains. Come with us. You and your lycan friend certainly seem capable of handling yourselves. I’d certainly feel better having you around.”

It was the practitioner’s turn to grimace. He looked up at the sky, searching for Metropolis among the smoky clouds. He couldn't see it, but he could feel its presence like a spinning coin at the back of his mind. Always watching. Always guiding. “I wish I could. Unfortunately we’re headed in the opposite direction.”

Elias’ smile crumpled as if the practitioner had struck him across the face. “North? That’s where we just came from. You’d be heading deeper into enemy territory. Why would you head that way?”

Crowe could not think of a way to explain. “We’re searching for a small town called Timberford.”

Elias shook his head glumly. “Wish I could be of more help but I’ve never heard of it.”

Eager to change the subject, Crowe looked at the wagon, at the riderless horses who had no heading of their own. “You should take the horses, the wagons, and the weapons.”

“What about you?” Elias asked.

“You’ll need them more than I will.” The practitioner hoped this was the truth.

The sound of a shell being freed from the chamber of a rifle drew their attention. Barghast rose from a crouched position, slinging the weapon over his shoulder. Crowe bit his lip to keep his jaw from dropping. “Well,” he said with a forced smile, “you can keep the rest. I guess we’re keeping one.”