Rise of the Red Harbinger (6 page)

Yes.
“No.”

“Of course not. Well here, boy, take a dagger.” Linas reached to his belt and handed Bo’az the small blade. Bo’az tucked it into his belt. Linas moved closer to Bo’az, “Now. Why is there no black line on your face? We were told that was how we would find you.” Linas stomped up to Bo’az, close enough that Bo’az could smell sweet rum on his breath. He grabbed Bo’az by the scruff on his chin, pulling it forward. He inspected the full surface of Bo’az’s face, from his left eye to his cheek, and the black stubbly mess that covered Bo’az’s jaw, as if trying to convince himself that what he saw was real. Finally, he let go of Bo’az’s jaw, slightly pushing him back. “Where is the mark, boy? Where is the god damn mark?”

Bo’az had been ruminating on what to say when he was finally asked, but still the words struggled to come out. “I…it must…it healed…I don’t, I don’t know what happened. I…I, over the past few weeks…it, it disappeared. I don’t know how, I swear! I…I’ve had that scar since I was a boy…it…it’s just gone.”
Orijin, please protect me!

Linas now glowered at him, anger and desperation filling his voice. “What in the light of Orijin are you talking about? It healed? Disappeared? Impossible. What is it you thought was on your face?”

“A scar! My father told me there was a fire when I was a boy and my face was burnt, leaving that black scar. It…it must have somehow healed.”

Linas continued as Gibreel, Rhadames, and Yasaman returned with the horses. “You have much to learn, boy. Your father was a fool to lie to you, and you were a fool to believe him. If this news were not so grave, I would truly be on the ground laughing. Now how do I know you’re even Baltaszar? All we were told was to identify you by the Mark.” Linas turned to Rhadames. “Slade, you’re better with the history of all this. Can it disappear?”

“Don’t know, Linas.” Slade walked up and inspected Bo’az’s face. “But the boy looks just like Joakwin. No question that’s Kontez’s boy.”

Linas clenched his jaw. “Simple as that? You know for sure this is the one?”

Slade glared at Linas, “Don’t question me, Nasreddine. I was chosen for this journey because I knew this boy’s father. I tell you he’s Joakwin’s son.” Slade turned to Bo’az and winked. “You have any siblings, boy?”

Bo’az understood the ploy. “No, just me.”

“Good. And what is your father’s name?”

“Joakwin Kontez.”

Slade nodded in approval. “And what of your mother?”

“She died when I was a small boy.”

“Satisfied?” Slade glanced at Linas then walked back to the horses.

Linas took Slade’s response as confirmation. “Fine. But our master never once in my lifetime mentioned that it could disappear. I know not what this means for you, but it is even more urgent that we return to him. I can only hope that he will have answers.”

Dammit. There’s no way I can justify asking to go into the forest now. Yas will be angry.
Bo’az interjected, “So then what was it on my face?”

“It’s complicated Baltaszar. For now, just know that the black mark on your face isn’t a…” He turned his head at the oncoming commotion, forgetting to finish his sentence.

Orange lights grew in the distance beyond the fence, licking the air like serpents, as the ground rumbled. The figures of over forty men on horses appeared on the road leading to the farm. “They must know I’m not at home! We have to go! They’ll kill all of you!” yelled Yasaman as she ran to a horse, not waiting for any of the men to help her.

Linas shouted orders, “Mount up! No time to waste!”

Bo’az raced away across the field.

“Stop! Where are you going, boy! If you dare run away now I will gladly bring you back battered and bruised!” threatened Linas.

“I’m going to get my horse! We’ll be faster through the forest if there’s only one rider on each! Besides, someone has to open the back gate for us to escape through!”

Linas waved them toward the farm’s rear gate, which lay a few hundred yards away from the house.

Pangs of guilt flooded Bo’az as he neared the stable. He’d spent most of his childhood with these horses, and now they’d be left behind, likely killed for having been owned by his father. “Iridian, I need you, girl!” His favorite black mare neighed at hearing her name. He saddled Iridian quickly. Bo’az opened all the stable doors, and then mounted Iridian in seconds.
I hope these horses are smart enough to run away.
Iridian was not only his favorite, she was the fastest. “Come on girl, I need you to be faster than the wind tonight,” he whispered in her ear. As he turned the horse out of the stable, he saw the men reach the farmhouse. They rode with madness in their eyes and death in their scowls.

Bo’az quickly neared the rest of his company at the high wooden gate. Rhadames had already opened it and was remounting his horse. “Ride to the forest!” Bo’az shouted. “They won’t follow us in! Not very far anyway!” Bo’az knew how much fear filled the minds and hearts of Haedonians when it came to The Never. They wouldn’t dare ride into the forest.

As Bo’az caught up with his companions, they all flowed through the gate and toward the shrubs and bushes that lay across the field to the east. All they had to do was maintain the gap between them and the mob until they reached the trees. “Ride as fast as you can! We’re almost there!” He and Linas led, with Rhadames and Yasaman behind.

Gibreel took the rear, constantly checking the riders behind them. “They’re gaining! I can’t tell if we’ll make it!” For the calmness of his voice, he might as well have said the grass was green.

Linas fired back, “Then make sure we make it!” He turned to glance at Gibreel, who nodded. Bo’az, curious, turned back at Gibreel, and spied him nocking an arrow in his bow. Gibreel fired, spearing the front rider and separating him from his horse. The other pursuers temporarily stopped in awe, unable to comprehend that one of their own had been killed. When they resumed their pursuit, they seemed to be riding harder and faster now.

Bo’az knew he was slowing down to watch, but couldn’t help himself. Two more riders at the front fell to Gibreel’s arrows, tumbling forward as their bodies entangled the horses. Bo’az could hear the snaps of limbs, even as many paces ahead as he was. He turned back around and sped up to Linas. The forest’s interior was now in sight. He could see beyond the hem of the shrubbery into the trees and underbrush.

As he turned to direct the others, Bo’az saw the chaos that had unfolded because of Gibreel. A dozen more riders and horses joined the rolling tangle behind them. The others rode on, their mouths agape with savagery. Behind it all, Bo’az saw his house slowly beginning to burn. Flames encircled the house’s perimeter and crawled up each side as a black cloud hovered above.

Gibreel snapped at him, “Turn around and ride to the forest, you god damn fool! We have to bring you back alive!”

Bo’az knew he couldn’t argue. He dug his heel into Iridian’s sides and strode toward the forest. Linas had already reached the covering of the trees, along with Rhadames and Yasaman. Gibreel kept pace with Bo’az as the two of them reached the others. “Keep going!” Bo’az ordered the rest of his company. “They’re brave enough to come in to a certain point. We have to ride deep enough into the woods that we can no longer see the clearing,” Bo’az and Gibreel turned to check on their pursuers. Only a few left. Most of them had stopped once they realized that Bo’az and the others weren’t bluffing about going deeper into the forest. Bo’az noticed about twenty other men on horses pacing back and forth beyond the trees in the fields.

Content that the men would not continue on, Bo’az and Gibreel rode on without looking back. The other three were already thirty or forty paces ahead. Bo’az allowed Gibreel to pass him and slowed his mare to a trot. He took a deep breath, his first chance to let his guard down in what seemed like ages, though even here, he knew he wouldn’t be able to completely relax. Joining these three strangers now felt strangely dangerous, although if it hadn’t been for them, that mob of men surely would have killed him. And Yasaman. And it wasn’t even him they were after. Still, some of their comments left him wondering how much they really wanted to help him…or actually Baltaszar. And that made it even more complicated.

They want Tasz because of the thing on his face. They don’t even seem to know that Baltaszar has a brother. If I change my mind and turn back now, they’ll know that something is off.

Before going into hiding with his brother, Bo’az had never been this deep into the forest before. He joked that he didn’t believe in any of the stories about The Never being haunted, but he’d never actually made it a point to find out for himself. When they were young children he, Baltaszar, and some of the other boys would compete to see who could stay in the woods the longest. Baltaszar was always the one crazy and brave enough to stay the longest. He held the record among their friends for having gone the deepest and staying the longest out of all their friends. Bo’az hoped Yasaman didn’t know about that.
The lies are just going to pile up.

Bo’az commanded Iridian to speed up so he could catch the others. He could hear the horses’ hooves clopping against the hard ground, though they echoed all around him. As he turned to look behind him, something violently crashed into Bo’az from the right, knocking him to the ground. He bounced and skidded off dirt, roots, and stone. He felt the blood pouring from the side of his head and ear, the burn already spreading through his head and face. His left arm snapped more than once under the weight of his body, knives of pain shooting back and forth between his hand and shoulder.

“How dare you try to steal my daughter you coward!”
Her father. Isaan Adin
.

Bo’az was too light-headed and dizzy to respond. Sharp knuckles pounded against the back of his head, repeatedly driving his face into the ground. Darkness invaded. He blinked his eyes. Each blunt smash from Isaan’s fist made the world fly around even more.

“I’ll kill you! How can you call yourself a man and try to steal someone’s child?” Numbness invaded Bo’az’s arm and crept through his body. Isaan, now hovering over him, hadn’t even bothered to turn him over. He punched Bo’az in the head again and again and broke Bo’az’s nose against the ground. Finally, Bo’az felt his body being rolled onto his back. His eyes glazed over and rolled about, but he unquestionably saw the surprise in Isaan’s eyes when he looked upon Bo’az’s face.

That’s…right. Fool. No. Black. Line.

The only thought Bo’az could process was the hope that Isaan wouldn’t speak his real name aloud for the others to hear. But his hopes dissipated instantly. “You are not…”

A gleam of silver sliced through Isaan’s neck in a flash. Blood sprayed across Bo’az’s face, mixing with his own. Isaan’s head slid from his body and smashed Bo’az’s chin. Even if Bo'az had been able to move on his own, Isaan’s headless and lifeless body prevented him from getting up.

Darkness clouded his vision and thoughts. He could barely see Yasaman running toward him, the sound of her yelling garbled. She disappeared for a moment. Darkness. He blinked slowly. She crashed to the ground and didn’t move. His eyes closed again, too heavy for him to fight back, and the darkness consumed him.

Chapter 3

The Painted One

From
The Book of Orijin,
Verse Twenty-seven

Humility in all that you do shall guide your path to Omneitria.

“Just do it already,
coward!” Marshall Taurean leaned against the wall of a broken-down house, bracing himself for imminent pain. He’d never pulled an arrow shaft from his own body, but having seen others do it countless times, he was sure it was better to remove it slowly. Dozens of splinters stabbed into the flesh of his shoulder. Even if he removed the shaft, there was no guarantee that it would be a clean pull. The arrows were made from a strange wood, used specifically to splinter inside the target’s body.

The sun had not fully risen yet, but the longer Marshall waited, the more likely he was to sweat and heat up. The sun had been uncharacteristically overbearing, even for summer. Most days, Marshall was able to manage the heat. But then, most days Marshall did not have blood pouring from his shoulder. The last thing he needed was to black out.

He started to feel light-headed from the pain and blood loss. He was a warrior, and warriors didn’t fear pain. If anyone else could see him, they would turn their backs to him in disgrace. But nobody else was around. They were likely all dead.

Marshall reminded himself that he was one of the best warriors of his people. His heavily tattooed head and body were evidence of that. He was courageous and wise. He knew he must remain that way whether or not anyone watched. Marshall’s hesitation had not been solely from the pain. His mind found difficulty focusing one on thing at a time, still confused, exhausted, and overwhelmed from what had transpired over the past hour.

Marshall clenched his teeth and broke off the portion of the arrow shaft stemming from the front of his body in one quick, definitive snap. He’d had worse injuries in his life, and he realized that the pain he presently felt was not the issue. Dozens of splinters remained in his shoulder, and would shift every time he moved his arm. There would be no remedy or elixir to heal this. Someone would have to cut open his shoulder and remove them piece by piece. That was assuming he survived this siege.

Marshall still could not fathom how his village had not been prepared for this attack. Most outsiders had no idea where the Taurani village lay, deep in the northern forests of Ashur. A short tower stood at each corner of the village, where lookouts kept watch throughout the night. Even if the lookouts spotted nothing strange, intruders still had to advance through the eastern or western gate of the village. Any type of attack would result in sounding the horn atop the towers, so that those sleeping could prepare. Marshall once again had been unable to sleep, and had heard no horn calling his people to arms. If this was a full-on attack, as it seemed, the gate would have been torn off, allowing for scores to enter the village at once.

The attackers had come nearly an hour ago. They had already advanced past where Marshall sat, most likely assuming they’d killed everything in their way. Marshall knew the stories and the legends, which were the reasons his people dedicated themselves to being warriors. His people descended from Taurean, one of the original three Harbingers, humans chosen by the Orijin to lead mankind and bring it back to righteousness. They had been proclaimed as Harbingers of the Orijin, the creator of man.

But men generally did not understand the ways of Orijin. Their god was not always fair to the righteous and, based on stories and scriptures of old, Orijin provided no guarantee of anything after one met death. He had not provided even the Harbingers with insight on the afterlife, except that one existed. Taurani assumed, based on the teachings of their priests, that as long as they believed in and prayed to Orijin, they would escape His wrath. There were rumors of a
Book of Orijin
in the cities of Ashur, but Taurani saw even the idea of it as blasphemy.

Men had generally come to fear death because of the unknown. Taurani, however, raised their children to have no fear of death. They took much pride in their ancestry, and revolved their existence around living up to the accomplishments and accolades of Taurean.

After Taurean, Cerys, and Magnus failed, Orijin anointed five new Harbingers many centuries later. These new Harbingers, Darian, Jahmash, Abram, Gideon, and Lionel, managed to instill in mankind the devotion to Orijin once more, but in the aftermath, they resorted to fighting amongst themselves. Jahmash grew mad, betrayed the rest, and was exiled from the rest of mankind; he hadn’t been seen or heard from in more than a thousand years. Rumors flooded the world that his return was at hand, and that everything bad that occurred in Ashur was because of Jahmash, often called “The Red Harbinger.” None claimed to have seen Jahmash, however the Taurani culture and lifestyle were meant to prepare them for his return, as the ultimate honor to Taurean and the Orijin.

Marshall hadn’t heard any distinct names in the chaos of the morning. But if this battalion indeed belonged to Jahmash, then these were the days his people had waited for centuries to come.

Marshall understood that many of his people would die today, but the amount of casualties could be controlled. The Taurani were trained to find the enemy’s weakness. Marshall would have to find it himself. His right arm was useless, as the arrow had pierced the bones in his shoulder. He tensed once more and pulled the remaining portion of the arrow from his back. He tasted blood in his mouth from having bitten down so strongly, gritted his teeth and handled the pain. He ripped his shirt in two pieces to bandage the wound and use as a sling. His arm would still move somewhat, but it was the best he could do.

This army had interloped upon them so quickly that only those who had been near the armory and watchtowers would have time to find armor and weapons. Even they could not have all fared very well.

Marshall couldn’t stop to think about that now. People were dying and he couldn’t help that. He had to worry about his own survival if he wanted to save anyone else. His village would receive no help from outside. Most likely, nobody outside the village would even know this was happening.

Close combat was his only chance. The soldiers were poor marksmen else he would be dead by now. But there were still hundreds of them, judging by the deluge of arrows that had flooded the skies. That had been the first wave. After the arrows killed or maimed anyone outside or near windows, the second wave of soldiers stormed the houses.

Marshall lived at the edge of his village, near one of the blacksmith’s workshops. Buildings, trees, houses, and everything else had been torn down in the process of killing anyone the soldiers found. Marshall simply got lucky that he couldn’t sleep during the night and was outside, behind his home when it came crashing down. His parents and two sisters, however, did not share his luck; nor did anyone in the homes around him. The soldiers never saw him because he got caught in the rubble, but he had already been struck by a stray arrow.

He had dragged himself across the common courtyard that lay behind his house and those that neighbored it. Marshall sat beneath a cluster of broken wooden planks, against the remnant of a wall, nursing his shoulder. What bothered him the most about having been shot was not that he had been injured, but that the arrow had pierced through one of the quotes in Imanol, the ancient tongue of the original Harbingers, that had been tattooed into his skin. It had been his favorite, the motto of Taurean, Cerys, and Magnus, “My life is an instrument for the good of mankind.”

It was a custom of his people to cover themselves in tattoos of quotes, symbols, and markings; it was a sign of bravery. The more one was covered, the more one was respected. Marshall’s body was covered head to toe by markings and words in Imanol. He had only lived for eighteen years, but aspired to dedicate his life to the benefit of his people.

The norm was to start at the face. Nearly every Taurani wore two stripes down their faces, starting from the hairline and ending just below the chin. Taurani normally received these black tattoos when they were five or six years old. Marshall was often called ‘The Painted One’ by friends and family. He was one of the most completely painted Taurani in the village and was revered for his bravery. He would need it now.

Marshall could hear the soldiers advancing, killing every Taurani they came upon. Sleeping villagers would have had little time to arm themselves. Even if any had managed to kill their attackers, this army swarmed their houses like flies to a corpse. Marshall’s people were outstanding fighters, skilled with sword, spear, and in hand-to-hand combat, but the numbers were greatly against them. It was not their way to surrender.

There had to have been a traitor, someone in our village to help this happen. There is no way Taurani could have been overrun this easily, even in our sleep
.

He needed to find answers. And find others. He listened to the commotion that buzzed beyond the broken down houses. Footsteps trod the dirt road and the unfamiliar language identified them as the attackers. Marshall would have to wait them out. But minutes meant more casualties to his people. He peeked out from beneath the planks that were once the floor of a house and saw the tail end of a battalion of soldiers with swords and spears passing. They paid no attention to the destruction surrounding them; sure that no one had survived their onslaught. As he readied himself for the opportunity to leave his hiding spot, he realized he was still only clad in his undergarments, a result of having left his bed in the middle of the night. He would have to find breeches somewhere. There were no clothes visible in the remains of this house.

Marshall crawled from his refuge toward the road. As he advanced, he crawled over more and more bodies. Of neighbors. Of friends.

At least my family died in the house. I could not bear to look on them.

Some of the invaders lay dead on the ground as well, but not many. The sun had risen higher and he could see plainly the vastness of the destruction. Even if enough of his people had survived, there would be no way to rebuild this place.

He would have to move slowly and stay on the ground. He was well enough to walk, and had bandaged his shoulder securely enough that the blood was no longer flowing, but he could not risk standing. He crawled through heaps of splintered wood, beds, bodies, and other rubbish. He spied tatters that resembled clothes. He slithered to them and examined the pile. A pair of tan breeches slightly too big for him. They would have to do.

Crawling behind the small pile of clothes and wooden furniture shards, Marshall wrestled on the breeches with his one good arm. He wriggled back out and the dirt road became visible ahead. Every road in the village had once been lined with various types of trees, and the one that should have been standing before him now lay lifeless on the ground like so many of his people.

Footsteps. Coming fast.

Marshall flopped on the road, paying no attention to what might be in the vicinity. The footsteps grew louder. Voices. Marshall realized his left arm rested over the exposed innards of a dead body. More discomforting was that he had to keep his eyes open and unmoving as his head faced the oncoming soldiers, despite the cloud of dust, dirt, and rocks that they were kicking up. Marshall could only pray that the soldiers were more focused on where they were going than on the ground.

The soldiers were not as organized as he originally supposed, at least not in their appearance. They maintained no consistency of armor or uniform, and bore no sigil. No flags of any sort. Their skin colors and features bore no similarities to the races of Ashur. If they did fight for Jahmash, they had to have been taken from various nations and walks of life.
But which nations?
They maintained the visages of desperate soldiers. They were here to fight, kill, and destroy. They were savage, bloodthirsty. Marshall did not need to understand their tongue to know that they fought without honor or mercy. He could see them waving severed heads as they ran past. Their boots trampled. Crushed Marshall’s right hand. Kicked his head. He exhaled the beginning of a groan, then stifled it immediately. One soldier stopped to find the source and Marshall held his breath.
Keep going. Keep going!
Marshall fixed his stare. The soldier yelled and shook the severed arm he carried, and then marched on.

They must still be destroying the other end of the village.

Marshall waited for several moments after they had all gone by, then looked around and immediately lifted his arm from the body next to him. His arm was covered in blood and fragments of bone and skin.

A fallen tree lay only a few dozen feet away. Marshall scampered to it and lay down within the thick branches. As excessive as the destruction was, it would actually be a boon, providing ample shelter for hiding. The elder Taurani always preached that the best warriors knew how to use their surroundings to an advantage. An injured or unarmed fighter could defeat an armed fighter in any battle if he knew how to employ his environment.

Resting within the dense brush of the dead tree, Marshall wiped his arm against the bark. It was disrespectful to disturb the dead. The only time it was allowed was when one was preparing the body for its last ceremonies. He felt shame in having those remains on his skin. As he smeared the blood away, Marshall thought he could hear a faint sound in the rubble on the other side of the road.