Author: Tristraam
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I
The leaves rustle portentously, their moist skin glistening in the twilight. From the underbrush come the tiniest of scratchings, more suggestions of noise rather than actual sounds themselves. A tiny snout appears, low to the earth, darting left and right as it probes the ground. The mouse emerges from the forest of horsetail and fern, scurrying forward, nose twitching, clever hands upturning leaf and twig in search of its next meal.
Nearby, unnoticed by the busy rodent, a shape slides intimately across the mossy forest floor. Slowly, silently it approaches its prey. The mouse, struggling with a particularly heavy oak leaf, is oblivious to the approaching form.
Tiny gem-like eyes shining in the moon-light, the predator slips from the brush. Its head rises like an executioner's axe as it prepares to strike. Too late the mouse, sensing danger, turns to run, its fur bristling with alarm. An arc of black lightning blurs through the night. With a startled squeak, jaws grip round its fragile neck, fangs sink deep to inject their deadly poison. The rodent's legs twitch lazily for a moment or two, then fall motionless.
Leisurely, the shadow begins to feed.
II
Hurss'k floats gradually out of the dream, her consciousness rising in quiet alliance with the senescent light of sun. The transition from sleep to awakening is almost imperceptible: A slight tail movement, a subtle widening of pupils.
Her scales ripple as she shakes the last bit of drowsiness from her body, her mind struggling to separate the surrealism of her visions from the tangibility of her waking self. They were happening more and more often, these feral dreams, their frequency increasing as her time came closer. "What do they mean?" she contemplates to herself, absently stoking her abdomen, "snake, chameleon, gecko, crocodile. Each one the same. Hunt, kill, feed. Is my mind telling me something, or am I simply going mad?"
The pregnant moon glitters in her eyes as she raises her head. Her tongue flicks out delicately, tasting the night. A cacophony of scent runs riot through her. Her delicate hearing is assaulted by a hundred different sounds, unfamiliar to her world-innocent mind. Yet here she is, a thousand leagues from the ruins of her home, hiding beneath the shape of an unfamiliar tree, on the cusp of an unknown desert, desperately searching for a city who's name has no other meaning for her than "hope". The hope of finding more of her kind. The hope that she is not alone in a world of warm-bloods. The hope that the once proud race of Iksar would not end with her.
III
For several weeks she had travelled, alone and without direction, searching in vain for others of her own kind. All she had found were an endless chain of camps, abandoned, deserted or destroyed. No trace of civilisation seemed to remain, and she began to despair.
Through forest, mountain and plain she stumbled, from one end of the continent to the other. She reached the sea and, staring out across its dark and formless expanse, she wept. Not in fear, but in sadness and in hate; Raw and piceous anathema of the injustice wrought against her race. She had arrived at the end of the world and found it barren of the race who had once been its masters. After eons of existence, the Iksar were no more.
Her hate boiled over into rage, and she fell to ground, pounding her fists into the sand, grinding them until the scales split and crack open. Hurss'k dipped her torn and bleeding hands into the sea, finding comfort in the stinging agony of the brine seeping into her wounds.
Through the searing pain she hissed curse after curse; one for each of the non-Iksar races. She hissed and screamed until her throat was raw and her head was swimming in a haze of misery. She staggered back from the sea, collapsing into a dishevelled heap on the abrasive sand. The greedy cries of a bird fill her ears. Hurss'k turned on her side. A gull looked up at her, its dirty feet clutching the rotting remains of a fish as its beak probed and picked bits of flesh. She fell asleep.
Water sloshed against her legs, dragging her back into consciousness. Her head awash with vertigo, she opened her eyes. Slowly the world came back into focus. The seagull was gone, the bare husk of the fish all that remained. She extended her eyes further down the beach, where a large rock rose up from the sand. Perched atop it were several gulls, their eyes fixed hungrily on her. "Not yet, you flying vermin. I am not dead yet."
She slowly rose to her feet, a wave of dizziness threatening to reunite her with the sand. Eyes closed, breathing slowly, she waited for it to pass. Reaching down, she grasped a small piece of slate-stone. Cocking her arm back, Hurss'k took aim at the birds, still staring at her from their perch on the rock. Her arm came forward, and then stopped, suddenly, as something caught her eye. The rock. Symbols carved into it. Sebilisian symbols.
Dropping the stone from her hand, she raced forward, ignoring the angry castigations of the gulls as they fled. Standing before the monolith, breath held tight, she read:
Cabalis has fallen. Seek you no refuge there, children of Fear.
The great God is silent, our prayers for guidance unanswered.
We are Iksar. Fate has stricken us before, yet we are still here.
Again, we must do what is necessary to survive.
The followers of Hate, Pestilence and War are gathering.
In their desperation, those who were our enemies now welcome us.
For the first time, the true children of Fear are welcome at the table.
Taking this opportunity, we set aside our ancient hatred and move to join them.
Join us, brothers and sisters, in our time of need.
Seek your family in Freeport.
The first time she read the text, Hurss'k's jaws clench in anger. The second time through, they loosened into shock. Halfway through the third read, a wicked grin shone on her face. The clues were subtle, but they were there. The scribe was no fool. Others besides the Iksar had knowledge of the Sebilisian language. The call to arms must be hidden. Desperation, opportunity, time of need. The hatred was to be hidden, not set aside. Let the warm-bloods think we are their allies. Gain their trust. Then, when the time is right, cause the extinction that all races have been wishing on the Iksar since the beginning. A blood sacrifice of such magnitude was sure to appease Cazic-Thule, and bring his true children back into favour.
Still smiling, she turned away from the rock to walk purposefully inland, thinking, "I will need to find some wood."
IV
Moonlight envelops her in a cool embrace, a distant lover guiding her path across the desert. She had been surprised as to how easy her shift to nocturnal habits had been. Some ancestral trait, perhaps, long forgotten in the trappings of the modern world.
She pauses a moment, rubbing the hardened swell of her belly. Her cloak billows as the wind shifts direction. The time of nesting was approaching. A week, two at most. The thought of her child hatching in a city of warm-bloods fills her with disgust. Her tongue flicks out and she shudders. Already she could smell them, and the city was hours away. Imagine the stench within the walls of a city ripe with these mammals. A stench her hatchling would grow up with and wear like a filthy shirt for the rest of its life. Narrowing her eyes, she tastes the air again.
A stench that was far too close to be a day's walk away.
Lowering her body, Hurss'k slips quietly to the top of the next rise. Thirty meters away, sheltered at the bottom of another dune, the dim flicker of a fire can be seen. Dark shapes move about the camp, their rough voices carrying over the sand.
"Raiders, " she hisses quietly, "[arrow] this desert wind." The detour around them would add another day to her journey, but she could not risk a confrontation. Not with what she carried.
She backs slowly down the slope when suddenly she is driven face-first into the sand. Something presses hard against her neck, pinning her in place.
"Wot's we got here then, eh? Another a' Lucan's spies?" comes a gloating voice above her. "I fink the Gaffer'll want t'speak wif you, flower. He's got a way wif people, he does. Feels they can tell 'im anyfin. Most times 'for they lose more'n one or two fingers."
"[arrow] this wind," she mutters. A rush of air behind her. A sharp pain to the back of her head. Darkness.
V
Woosh!
She awakens with a gasp, coughing out the salty water they have thrown on her. Blinking the sea from her eyes, she looks up at her captors. Her hand rubs the angry lump on her skull as she glances around. Six males, three females, all human. Their ragged camp is cluttered with assorted garbage. Obviously not the most successful band of brigands.
"Welcome to my palace, lovely," booms a male voice. Another human emerges from the largest of their tents. "As you can see, times have been a bit rough, of late. Lucan D'Lere's centurions have been making our lives miserable these passed few weeks. Now he sends scouts and spies to track us down, hoping to wipe us from the desert, as he would a stain on his trousers," he pauses a moment, peering down at her with a wicked grin, "I think he will find that we are not so easily removed."
She stares at them silently, weighing each of them with her eyes. A look of puzzlement appears on the Gaffer's face. He turns his head. "Does it speak, Brogan?" he asks the man closest to him.
"Err.. well.. ter tell the truth, I didn't fink to check," replies the bandit, shifting slightly. "It hissed a bit," he adds hopefully.
The Gaffer sighs, "Lucan must truly be desperate if he is sending mere animals to hunt us."
Hurssk's scales ripple in anger, but she remains silent.
Crouching down, he leans towards the Iksar, "I think we need to send him another message."
"Still," he continues, standing up, "Times have been tough, and it'd be a pity to waste such a fine, fleshy bit o' meat. I think just sending your head rolling through their gates should be enough." Turning to the others, he bellows, "Who's in the mood for a lizard steak?"
A hungry cheer erupts from the bandits. "I hear's they tastes like chicken," cackles one of the females.
Muscles grow rigid. An obsidian rage envelops her head like shroud. Hurssk's hands clench. "Arrogant warm-bloodsss," she hisses, "My people were building empiressss when yoursss were ssstill living in cavesss."
And with that, she surrenders to the dreams. Hunt, kill, feed. The mantra of her feral vision echoes through her mind as she closes the door on her consciousness, stepping into a mist of brutal violence.
The Gaffer's eyes widen in surprise. Bursting into action, she spins round and, with a mighty swish of her tail, launches a massive wave of sand into the faces of her captors.
Blinded, they cough and sputter, desperately trying to clear the grit from their eyes. A clawed foot comes blurring through the cloud of dust surrounding them, driving into the chest of one of the men, crushing his ribs and sending him sprawling backwards. A fist closely follows, catching one of the women in her soft throat. With a startled, "Urk!" she falls, hands clawing at her neck as she tries in vain to find breath.
A tail rakes through the air, catching three of the bandits across their grimy faces. They scream in pain, falling to the sand, angry welts appearing where they were stricken. Hurssk's form erupts from the haze, her knee finding the jaw of one man, his head flipping back with a wet snap as she pounces on another, hands curving into claws. Pinning the marauder to the ground, she strikes, sinking her teeth deep into his exposed neck. Her head jerks back, sending a crimson spray across the sand. The man lays there, his mouth moving wordlessly as life gushes from the gaping hole in his throat.
Gore-drenched face glistening in the twilight, Hurss'k emits a ravenous scream. Ferine eyes sparkling, she leans forward, jaws open. Her claws dig deeper into the man's shoulders as she prepares to feed.
With vicious force, a heavy club strikes her from behind, toppling her from the dead man's chest. Clutching her back, she rises up to her knees. The remaining cutthroats, now recovered from their blindness, encircle her, weapons ready.
"You just killed three of my men, you filthy reptile," the Gaffer seethes. "Brogan! Cut her slimy throat."
"Oh I'm goin' ter enjoy this, yessir." Brogan grunts, rubbing the welt on his cheek, "I'll be wearing your hide tomorr - Urgh." a slight whistle in the air and the bandit is cut short. He moves his hand to his chest, then raises it to his face. His gaze moves from the red liquid dripping through his fingers to the arrowhead poking through his chest. With a harsh exhale, he collapses forward.
VI
"Lucan's Centurions!" one of the females screams, turning to flee. She manages one step before falling dead next to her comrade, another shaft embedded in her neck.
The air comes alive with a chorus of arrows, their deadly song humming through the bandit camp. Losing what courage they may have had, the raiders turn and flee in all directions. With a thunderous shriek, three horses come pounding over the top of the dunes, plunging after the fleeing marauders.
The Gaffer, his face a mixture of rage and resignation, advances on Hurss'k, "You lead them here. Well, you may have killed us all, but I for one won't be going to Hell alone." He raises his sword, ready to cut down the cause of his ruin.
A movement behind her foe catches Hurss'k's eye. There is a sudden rush of air, and the Gaffer shrieks in pain, reaching down to the arrow now buried in his leg. With a grunt of effort he snaps the end from the missile. Growling, he turns to face its owner.
An armour-clad soldier strides resolutely down the slope, brandishing a sword and mace. "Surrender, criminal!" he commands, his voice rising above the desert wind.
"I don't take orders from Lucan's lap-dogs, Freeporter," the Gaffer snarls, raising his blade.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Hurss'k springs forward. Dropping low, she pivots on the balls of her feet, bringing her tail around to meet the marauder-king's ankles. Uttering a startled cry, he topples backwards, his weapon dropping from his grasp. Hurss'k slides forward, feet first, across the sand, her legs encircling the stunned man's head. With a sharp hiss, she tightens her muscles around his neck. Eyes bulging with panic, face swelling with blood, the Gaffer twists and turns, body flailing like a salmon, fists pounding against her thighs. Hurss'k increases the pressure, ignoring his desperate struggles. Gradually his movements slow, the last residue of life trickling away. His legs twitch lazily for a moment or two, then fall motionless.
With a guttural hiss, Hurss'k jerks her legs, snapping the dead man's neck, a final exclamation point to her rage. She opens her thighs, kicks the Gaffer's corpse away, and sits up slowly. She takes a deep breath and releases the air slowly, expelling the last of her blood-lust from her mind. She turns her head to face the approaching warrior, eyes narrowing in apprehension.
VII
Another soldier rides up, hopping off his mount and trotting over to the leader, "We appear to have gotten all of them, Sergeant," he reports, sheathing his sword.
Nodding to the horseman, he turns to Hurss'k. "With concerning, I welcome you," the sergeant greets her in butchered Sebilisian, bowing his head.
Hurssk's eyes widen in surprise. A small hiss escapes her.
The soldier, sensing her shock, scratches his cheek in embarrassment. "I've done it again, haven't I?," he sighs, in human-speech. "First that group of gnomes, now this, " he adds in a mutter, shaking his head.
He bows deeply before her, "I apologise for any offence I have caused you."
Hurss'k smiles despite herself, "You have caussssed no offenssse. I was merely shocked that a warm-bl.." she corrects herself quickly, "that a human could ssspeak Sssebilisssian."
"Not well, I'm afraid. Lord Lucan has ordered all the city guard to be instructed in the speech and customs of our allies. A wise decision with all the refugees arriving, but sadly, I've never had a gift for languages. I have a hard enough time with this one." He smiles, reaching his hand out to her.
Ssstill, you honour me with your effort," Hurssk says, grasping the human's outstretched hand as he helps her to her feet. "I am called Hurss'k. It wasss indeed lucky for me that you found thisss camp, Ssssergeant..."
"Slate, ma'am. Luck had nothing to do with it. The Slate family have been patrolling Freeport's borders for generations," he tilts his head and smiles at her, "And it was your impressive scream that lead us to them. These bandits have been a thorn in our side for months. It is we who should be thanking you for guiding us to them."
Hurss'k bows humbly, beaming a smile of her own, "You flatter me, Sssergeant."
"Not at all ma'am. I caught only a glimpse of your skills but, by Cazic-Thule, you are a fierce fighter."
By Cazic-Thule? "You are a dissssciple of Fear?" she hisses, unbelieving.
"I am," he nods, "Though not a true Child of Fear like yourself, I follow his doctrines. 'Through Fear comes control. Through control, power.'"
"And that power, the power of Fear, shall conquer a world." she finishes the familiar prayer, head bowed.
Slate nods solemnly, "I would love to hear the story of your travels, Hurss'k.If you'll come with us, we'll escort you back to the city, and I promise to shower you with all the flattery you can handle," he winks.
"Tempted assss I am, I cannot I am afraid," she says, shaking her head, "This conflict has acssselerated my condition. My nesssting time has come."
"Nesting?" he repeats. Realisation dawns on his face, "You did all this," he gestures to the surrounding carnage, eyes wide, "unarmed. And you are with child?"
"My mate wassss a Sssswifttail, unmatched in weaponlessss combat. He taught me well," she pauses and grins, "And never underesssstimate a mother who is protecting her kin.".
Shaking his head in amazement, he replies, "I will never do so again. Still..." he continues, "I do not feel right leaving you here alone. I am charged with the protection of all Freeport citizens."
"This place will ssserve well for my nessst," she hisses, turning to survey the camp. "There is shelter, a fire and, thanksss to you, plenty of food." She kicks the corpse of a bandit.
Slate's face greys slightly as he realises the implication of her statement. His throat muscles tighten as he nods to her, "Very well."
"Do not worry, Sssergeant. I would never eat a friend. And these criminals deserve no better." she continues, "If you could, please inform my people that I am out here. They will wish to sssend a male here for the paternal bonding."
He pauses a moment, "I will do what I can, but your request is more difficult than you would imagine. I am afraid that very few Iksar have reached the city yet. The vast majority are still more than a week distant, awaiting transport from the Refuge. The handful that have arrived... well.." he looks down, shifting his feet, "I don't think they trust us. Humans, I mean. Not that I blame them. The history between the Iksar and other races is... unfortunate, and has stained the minds of many. But," his head comes up, his voice bereft of confidence, "I will do what I can." He turns, taking up the reigns of his horse.
"More than a week", she repeats silently, staring at the sand, "And fearful distrust may delay the others." She looks up at the sergeant as he turns his mount to leave. "The time of bonding is short, and an unbonded child is only half a life, weak and fragile." No unbonded hatchlings had ever survived to adolesence.
She stares after him, the repercussions of what she is considering pounding through her head. "I will not allow ancient hatreds to endanger my child," she says, coming to a decision.
"Sssergeant!"
VIII
The horsemen ride off, leaving Hurss'k to prepare her nest. She turns and walks to the corpse of the Gaffer. Crouching down to him, she whispers in his ear, "The animal is hungry."
Gently, she strokes his arm. Then, grasping it in her claws, she twists it roughly until she hears a sharp crack. Pressing her foot into the Gaffer's chest, she wrenches the arm back. There is a muted snapping of tendons as she twists and yanks it towards her. With a wet tearing sound, the limb comes free, the last of the bandit leader's blood pouring onto the desert floor.
Clutching her prize, she sits down by the fire. Rubbing her swollen belly, absently watching her shadow dance against the tent behind her, she whispers, "We are safe, my child. A Soldier of Fear watches over us."
Leisurely, the shadow begins to feed.
IX
Crouched by the shore, just out of ear-shot from the camp, Slate stares out at the black expanse of the sea. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?" he wonders aloud to himself. He reaches up and removes his helmet, the moon reflecting in its domed shape as he sets it by his feet. Running a hand through his hair, he sighs, "A Child of Fear," he says in wonder.
After a few minutes he stands, grasping his helmet and tucking it under his arm. Hoping desperately that Hurss'k has finished her meal, he turns and walks towards the camp.
--end--
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