*******
The mercenary company had taken a battering. It had signed on for the forces of the silver-ore-rich city of Luallis who had waged a long campaign to secede from Mellania. Mellania naturally, was unhappy at the prospect of another city establishing its independence, particularly one with such rich resources. War was inevitable.
Luallis swelled the numbers of its militia with mercenaries. One such mercenary company had got the worst of a bloody skirmish against Mellanian regulars.
Originally numbering three hundred, a hundred of the toughest and wiliest had hacked their way through the ambush, and made a mad desperate dash down a steep gulley.
Twenty or so hadn't made it, as horses tumbled, broke legs, rolled over their riders, or simply flung them clear. The survivors, licking their wounds, and disillusioned with the false promises of swift victory, and each man earning his weight in silver, fled eastward toward Petralis.
Another thirty succumbed to their wounds, or decided to strike out on their own. A few days later, exhausted and saddle-sore, the remaining fifty set up camp in a sheltered hollow.
Bloody and bedraggled, some curled up on the ground and sought healing sleep. Others saw to their wounds, whilst a few chewed on strips of dried meat or started cooking fires.
Hearing an approaching horse, those still awake reached for weapons.
“Hello, the camp,” Pagan called out as he approached on foot, holding the gelding's reins. The thin spirals of smoke visible above the trees, and the smell of cooking, had prompted him to take a detour to warn the inhabitants of the camp of the unearthly dangers haunting the area.
His heart sank as he got a closer look at the figures sprawled around the camp. Lean, wolf-like men with cold eyes set in scarred hard faces. Many had crude dirty bandages tied around clearly recent wounds. Dented breastplates, greaves, and helms lay flung about amongst other detritus.
Pagan judged them as mercenaries who had recently been in a fight they hadn't fared too well in. Word had filtered down to Petralis of the war raging in Luallis. Downwind of the camp, the stench of human waste and unwashed bodies washed over him. He suspected he had made a mistake in going out of his way.
“It is not safe here,” he said, his eyes carefully scanning the clearing. “There are demons from the pit about. Many people have been taken or killed.”
“Demons, what do you mean demons, and who are you?” one of the mercenaries asked. The man who spoke looked very much like his fellows, but was appreciably cleaner. Clean shaven with closely cropped salt and pepper hair, an open-faced bronze helm, a burnished bronze breastplate, and two scabbarded short swords lay on the ground next to him.
“Who I am isn't important,” Pagan said. “Soul drinkers have ravaged Petralis and the surrounding countryside. Most people have fled their homes.”
“Horse dung,” came another voice. “The only demon I can see is this pigging heathen.”
A big man climbed to his feet, sword in hand. The heavily pock-marked face and closely-set pig-small eyes seemed familiar to Pagan. “Let's see if you are any good with a sword in your hand, heathen. Those fancy tricks you surprised us with in the tavern won't do you any good here. We are going to carve your heart out, you black devil...isn't that right Rikash?”
Another burly man got to his feet, gripping a short-hafted axe. “Aye, Kanus, he had some fun at our expense back there, but he ain't going to be laughing now.”
Pagan took a half-step back, holding his hands out. “There is no need for this...”
“Oh, there is,” Pig Eyes snarled, advancing in a fighting crouch, broadsword held in a two-handed grip. “Or are you a coward?”
Pagan reached over his right shoulder and curled his fist around the hilt of the Storm Blade. The grip had initially seemed too small, but it now moulded itself to fit his hand. A brief smile flitted across his face at this unusual property.
The Storm Blade slid from the scabbard, and Pagan stood ready.
“That's a pretty blade,” Kanus mocked “What are you going to do with it, tickle me?”
Some of the other mercenaries watching the scene with expectant eyes, laughed. “Aye Kanus,” came another voice. “Pretty little sword like that would be handy for picking your teeth with!”
Hearing a whisper of sound behind him, Pagan threw himself to his right as a hurled dagger flew by his head. Landing on the ground, his right hand flashed to his baldric and a shuken spun through the air. The mercenary who had hurled the dagger clasped his neck. His eyes widened – a mixture of shock and pain. Blood gouted, running down his hand. He took a couple of faltering steps then toppled to the ground.
“May demons feed on your soul, Brakash,” spat the man who had first addressed Pagan. “Now, the rest of you goat-faced, sheep shaggers, this is Kanus and Rikash's fight. The next whoreson who raises a weapon will answer to me. I want to see how the black man uses a sword.”
Pagan gripped the Storm Blade and rolled smoothly to his feet.
“Hear that, heathen? Our captain wants to see us carve your heart out,” Kanus hissed.
Rikash leapt at Pagan, a wide grin on his face, his axe slashing at the smaller man's head. Pagan dropped to one knee, his sword licking out. It seemed to barely caress the mercenary. The lower half of Rikash’s baked-leather breastplate fell way, then his entrails spilled out. The stricken man screamed and dropped to his knees, hands on his belly, vainly trying to hold in the gory, oily mess.
Screaming incoherently, Kanus hacked his sword at the kneeling Pagan's head. Pagan blocked the cut, blue sparks spinning through the air as the blades came together. Snarling, the mercenary and one-time bully of boys brought his sword down again. He grunted in surprise as the blade bit into the soft earth.
Glancing to his left, he saw his tormentor standing relaxed, his sword held loosely, point trailing the ground.
His anger grew. The black man was mocking him. Taking a firm two-handed grip on his sword, he charged at Pagan again. He had little skill, looking to overwhelm the smaller man with sheer brute strength.
Pagan moved smoothly, easily blocking and parrying the frenzied hacks. It was only a matter of time before the enraged man left himself open. The Storm Blade lanced out like a serpent's tongue, fleshing itself high on the mercenary's right shoulder.
Kanus yelped in pain, his sword falling from nerveless fingers. Blood ran down his hand as he grasped the wound on his shoulder. He glared at Pagan with hate filled eyes. “Well, you black devil! Do it! Finish it! Or haven't you the guts?”
A sudden melancholy hit Pagan. He could hear the pitiful moans of the other mercenary who lay dying with his guts spread about him. There was no honour or satisfaction in killing men such as these.
Kicking Kanus's sword out of reach, he walked up to the man identified as the mercenary captain. “I think we are done here. Get your troop away from here with haste, Captain. You don't want to face the Bahktak or Suanggi.”
The man's eyes tightened. “I go where I please, and do what I want. Careful now...you remain alive only because I wish it. I've heard tales of a race of black people who live at the far end of the world, but you are the first of your kind I've seen. I consider myself an educated man, and rarities broaden the mind. It takes a brave man to calmly walk into a camp of armed men, and I was curious to see how well you use a sword. You are good, but you are soft. I would have gutted that stupid whoreson…as you did the first. Only a fool spares his enemies.”
The words were spoken quietly, without rancour. Pagan inclined his head, turned on his heel and walked up to his horse. Grabbing the reins, he vaulted into the saddle. The mercenary leader spoke again. “What are you called, black man?”
“They call me Pagan.”
The mercenary smiled thinly. “Pagan, eh? That is fitting...so tell me more about these demons of yours”
“They are called the Gualich. An ancient evil banished from the world long ago. They and their servants feed on human souls.”
> “Well, I shall think on your warning...and if you ever get tired of the quiet life and need to make quick coin, look me up. Ask for Prakash-Ken at the Hunchbacked Prince tavern in Carpalis.”
Pagan nodded, then wheeled his mount, and rode from the clearing.
Prakash-Ken sat up and watched the departing man. The camp was silent as the men took in the black man's words and the brief but bloody fight. The mercenary leader glanced around at the expectant faces of his men. “Any of you goat shaggers ever seen a demon, or heard of the Gualich?”
“No Cap'n” came a chorus of answers, while others shook their heads or looked at him blankly.
“No, I didn't think so,” he muttered. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he pointed at the bodies lying in the centre of the camp with flies buzzing over them. “Some of you drag those pigging things away. They offend me.”
As a couple of men obeyed his instructions, Prakash-Ken climbed to his feet and moved to a large pot. The cooking fire had gone out, but the contents of the pot were still warm. Grabbing a large wooden spoon, he ladled some of the contents into a tin bowl, then returned to his seat.
After he finished eating, the mercenary captain washed out his mess-tin and cleaned his spoon with water from his canteen, before stowing them in his pack. Belching softly, he dabbed his mouth with a small cloth, then sat back and regarded the rag-tag bunch around him. He had started this enterprise with over three hundred men, now they numbered only fifty, and some of those wouldn't fight again.
The whole thing had been doomed from the start. The incompetence of the officers of Luallis’s militia had astounded him. Puffed up with self-importance, and emboldened by the fine words of their politicians, they refused to heed his advice. Now in his fortieth year, he had been fighting battles and wars since he was a mere stripling of seventeen. Few men in his trade got to live that long. That he had, was testament to his ruthlessness, intelligence and grasp of tactics.
The strutting peacocks of the Luallis's small army had sneered, and derided him as a mere sword-for-hire. They poured scorn on his advice, and led their men into disastrous, unnecessary confrontations against larger forces.
Their quest for independence failed, and the leaders of the rebellion – politicians and generals, ended up suspended in steel cages outside the city walls. Stark-naked and exposed to the elements, they died slow lingering deaths of deprivation and starvation.
But he was still alive. The silver he had been paid, invested with a trusted merchant back in Carpalis. He was a wealthy man, with various holdings across Mellania. He had a substantial estate on Paros. Maybe it was time to retire there, eat and drink to his heart's content, and submit to the tender ministrations of his half-dozen concubines.
But he had always been a restless man, and the years hadn't dulled his thirst for adventure and excitement. The black man's words had given him an idea. The talk of demons hadn't swayed him. A well-read man, he had never heard of the Gualich, nor seen a demon in all his long years.
If demons did exist, they had to take physical form to walk the earth. And any creature that had physical form could be cut by cold steel. Petralis was ripe for plunder with most of the inhabitants fled. He would lead his men there, let them sate themselves, then he would take ship to Paros for a well-earned rest.
Hounds in the Night
The formless mist that was Beleth stirred and swelled, and his coal-red eyes shone that little bit brighter with awful light. He was growing stronger and the need to step through the portal once again was hard to resist. Seething with anger and impatience, he longed to assume corporeal form in the human world and sweep aside the insignificant worms who dared oppose them.
But, he tempered his impatience. The loss of some Bahktak was expected, but not the death of two Suanggi. If some of the human worms were capable enough to slay the harvesters, it was clear he had underestimated them. Though he longed for the exquisite sensation of slowly extracting their souls from their fragile bodies, he had no desire to rush into the unknown.
He would give two of his brothers the honour of being the first Gualich to set foot on the human world since their expulsion all those aeons ago. Yes, he would send Surgat and Jakut. They would coordinate the Bahktak and Suanggi, sweep away the irritants, and pave the way. But first, they needed a surge of sustenance.
*******
Night was falling when Herald, the first of the Suanggi to step through the portal, locked eyes with the Kirinos-Halbro the Usurper – the king whose greed and lust for empire had helped unleash the evil of the Gualich. Their slitted ochre-coloured eyes glowed as their linked minds searched for concentrations of soul-fire indicating large numbers of humans grouped together.