“Just what does it take to have gods look down with such ferocity that they feel the need to interject with this mortal realm. What unspeakable acts needs to be taken in order to find yourself cursed?”
Yuri Crier, Magic And Monsters Volume II, 179KR
My horse proves to be strong, and hours pass as we travel hard past the Biterian Plains, seeking to make solid ground as fast as possible beneath the blazing heat of the sun. I remain focused throughout the ride, imagining the things I will do to these people if I manage to find them. Maybe I will use their bodies on which to conduct further experiments. Or maybe I will simply lay waste to each and every one of them.
Our horses begin to tire as the sun shrinks, bringing with it a welcome reprieve from the harsh heat and dryness of the Biterian Plains. In the distance just beyond the hills, smoke trails into the sky, and my heart beats a little faster.
“Over there!” Dante calls, having spotted the smoke for himself. “Be ready, men. We do not know what awaits us.”
The closer we draw to Uster, the more the stench of burning cedar greets us. A fog sits on the horizon, but it is not one brought about by nature. This is made by man.
“Secure the perimeter,” Dante commands. “Draw your swords.”
When we enter Uster, we are met by an eery quietness uncharacteristic for a trading port. Houses smoulder with embers from the attack, and bodies lie strewn on the ground. Those that have survived scramble to aid others in need. There are many injured, many dead, but there is one thing I find curious.
“Where are the guards?” I ask.
Dante rides besides me and examines the ruins of the village. “I do not know.”
A dampness in the air following a downpour of rain has lent its aid to quell the flames, though smoke still rises from the thatched roofs, threatening to reignite at any moment. Some are collapsed in on themselves, others are left with gaping holes. Those with stone walls suffered minimal damage compared to those that were erected with wood. If my family had been able to afford stone walls, would they have survived all those years ago?
“You there, where are the guards?” I beckon to a portly man who carries an injured woman in his arms.
“You tell me. We were defenceless. We didn’t stand a chance against such savages. They were nowhere to be seen, they left us.”
With a flick of my wrist, I rid the woman of her pain, and her grimaced cries stop.
“You – you have magic,” the man states, his eyes widening. It must be the first time he has witnessed it.
“Her pain will ease but her wounds will still need tending to if she is to survive this day,” I tell him. “I suggest you move quickly.” I could transfer her wounds, even heal them, but it is not worth tapping into the reserves of my magic.
“Thank you,” he says, then continues on.
“One more thing,” I say, stopping him in his tracks. “Where is the guard post?”
He nods past us down the street. “Their post is down by the harbour. If you see any of them, tell them the gods will curse them on this day for their lack of action.”
“I assure you if they have allowed this to happen, they will wish it was the gods that cast down judgement when I have brought my wrath upon them.”
I dig my heels into the sides of my horse and we set off down the street at a canter, the broken village dragging up remnants of my past like a fractured window. When I arrive at the guard post, there is a row of unarmed guards lined up on the ground, their faces frozen in fear as they were executed together. I count seven, meaning there are far more unaccounted for.
Bringing my horse to a stop, I dismount and drop to the ground. The guards’ blood has washed down the street, leaving a crimson stream that trickles to the wooden jetty and into the ocean.
“Help me,” a hoarse voice gasps, startling me.
As I look around for the source, I spot a female guard sitting against the doorway to the guard tower. Her long blond hair is matted with blood, her hands clasped around a gushing wound in her stomach.
It is only out of need of information that I move towards her. When I kneel beside her, I am struck by her eyes. They are like crystal, a sharp blue. Not unlike someone I used to know.
I bite down on the memories of my past, forcing my thoughts to one side. I cannot allow them to distract me. “Tell me what happened,” I say.
“The guards,” she splutters, blood spraying from her mouth. “They were infiltrated.”
I frown. “By the Barbaraqs?” Barbaraqs aren’t exactly known for discrete battle tactics.
“Not the Barbaraqs,” she croaks. “Wyverns.”
I fight to hide my shock as I try to make sense of this.
“They lined everyone up,” she continues. “Those of us who would not do as they said.” Her sunken eyes drift to the pile of bodies that lie just behind me. Her eyes well with tears and she sobs, coughing up more blood in the process. “They let them in, they let the Barbaraqs dock their ships. And then they let them free on Uster to do as they wish.” The woman bows her head back and squeezes her eyes as she grimaces from her pain. “Why? Why would they do this, why would the Wyverns let these savages into Levanthria? There is nothing good that can come of this.”
“Why indeed,” I mutter under my breath. “Let me see your injuries.”
The woman raises her hands from her abdomen. I have a strong stomach, but even I have to suppress a wretch as the extent of her injuries are revealed to me. Her innards sit on full display, strings of fat and muscle all that prevent them from splaying everywhere.
“Please, help me,” she begs, her skin a ghostly pallor.
“Do you know where they went?”
“I heard one of the Wyverns say they were heading north to make camp, that they were to wait there until they got the command from Breyton.”
Why in the gods’ names would Breyton bring these savages back to Levanthria’s shores?
Focusing my magic, I place my hand on the woman’s to soothe her pain.
“Th – thank you,” she says, her eyes softening. She closes her eyes and releases one last breath, free from pain, free from this torturous world.
I stand, taking in what is left of Uster. It will take years to rebuild what has been destroyed by the Barbaraqs, by the Wyverns. Small, narrow boats line the port, the front of them carved into the heads of what look like dragons. The masts are singular in the centre of the boats with lines of oars protruding from the sides. The boats look more basic than our fleet, but judging by the shape, these ships are built for speed, not for endurance. Wasting no time with a rough gauge on where they have made camp, I rush to my horse and gallop back up the hill towards the entrance to Uster. When I return to my group, Dante is tending to the injured and directing the other men.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I rush past him.
“North, where they make camp. We cannot allow this attack to go unpunished,” I call back, my focus on the land ahead of me.
As I look over my shoulder, I see Dante rushing to his own steed, the other guards doing the same. I don’t care how long we need to ride for. We will find them, and I will do what I must.