"Keranos" - 1364 words
The sun painted a hot pink sky as it poked its head over the mountain range to the east. Marcus wiped the sleep from his eyes and touched the grip of his blade. This time, it didn’t do much to calm his nerves.
Corwin put his scope away and scurried down the slope to make his report. “Defenseless,” said the Halfling. There was excitement oozing from his voice. “Completely defenseless. Should be easy pickings.” He tittered.
“Not a single weapon?” Davis said skeptically. He was the leader for this operation, and shared Marcus’s keen attention to detail. Marcus admired that; they could have been friends, if not for Davis’s unabashed heartlessness.
“Excepting farming tools – and shoddy ones, at that,” Corwin said dismissively, plucking the crossbow from his back and preparing a handful of bolts. “They won’t stand a chance.”
Davis nodded. “Flarg,” he said, “Tactical assessment?”
Flarg was a part orc and part human. The common term for such creatures was ‘half orc,’ and Marcus supposed that was usually accurate enough, but Flarg seemed more like a three-quarter orc to him. His skin was dark gray, and he was always dressed like he was going to war, even when he slept. His eyes were solid yellow, and he was eerily quiet all the time, unless directly addressed. Marcus found him unnerving, perhaps even more so than he found Davis.
“No need for stealth,” Flarg announced. “Direct approach. Most will run. Any that get in our way, we kill.”
“Kill?” Marcus couldn’t help but blurt out. “Do we really need to kill them? We’re just here to loot. I didn’t sign up to be a murderer!”
“Oh, what’s this, then?” said Davis. “Did you lose your nerve, Family Man? You’re more than welcome to sit this one out if you’re not comfortable. Pity about your boy, of course. I don’t envy you for having to tell him you can’t afford the medicine that’ll save his life because you couldn’t muster the stomach to do a real man’s work.” There were snickers from the rest of the crew.
Marcus had no retort. Another difference between the two men that Marcus disliked was that Davis had a much sharper tongue and a quicker wit. His crew’s eyes burned into him, and he grew more and more aware of his heart pounding in his chest. “N-no,” he finally mustered. “I’m still in.”
“Good!” Davis slapped his thigh and stood up, drawing two blood-stained scimitars. “Then let’s get this show on the road.”
The ten men marched around the slope that they’d been using for concealment and took to the dirt road that led into the heart of Almsville. Davis had picked this community specifically because it was so small and remote; it was barely twenty houses, a handful of farms, and a tiny general store. When they came within a quarter mile, people began to spot them and flee – though they weren’t fleeing town immediately; they seemed to be alerting each other. They seemed to be coalescing near the entrance to town, which Marcus didn’t think had been anticipated.
Davis and Flarg showed no hesitation, though, and so Marcus soldiered on, longsword in hand.
The marauders stopped within a stone’s throw of the villagers. All were men; the women were no doubt hiding somewhere, or perhaps had fled town discretely. Thank the gods for small favors. A squat man in what appeared to be weathered nobles’ clothes stood at the front of the group of villagers.
“What do you want?” he asked – not in defiance, but in defeat. A wave of relief washed over Marcus.
“Oh, piss,” said Davis. “You’re gonna cooperate?! A shame. I was lookin’ forward to crushing some skulls. I suppose the loot will have to do. I’ll make this simple: We’re gonna go through each and every one of your houses, and whatever we want, we take. Since you’re being so accommodating, we’re like to leave most of your women alone, but if you’ve got a pretty wife or daughter then you might want to run on home and say goodbye to her. When we’re done, we leave, and you get to keep you worthless lives and your houses. We got a deal?”
“No,” said a new voice – a voice so powerful, and sudden that Marcus nearly dropped his blade. He peered ahead to discern its source; it was someone in the crowd of villagers, but who?
A boy emerged from the crowd. Well, not quite a boy, but not a man, either. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen, scrawny as they come, and wearing some armor or other that was quite obviously too big for him.
“No?” Davis repeated, laughing; the rest of the marauders, save for Marcus, echoed the sound. “And what do you propose then, Boy? Perhaps we’ll kill the whole sorry lot of you, take ALL your wives and daughters, and burn this sodding pisspot to the ground. Is that more agreeable to you?”
The mayor took a step forward, panic plain on his face. “Please, sirs, pay no mind to Ronald, he’s out of his mind. If you just—“
A crack of thunder boomed nearby – to close for comfort. Everyone flinched, save for the boy, who approached past the mayor. “This is your one and only chance to leave here, and never return. This village is under the protection of Keranos, the God of Storms reborn, and be advised – Keranos is a terrible and vengeful god. He would like nothing more than to smite those who would cross him.”
Davis looked at the boy sideways. “I can’t tell if you’re a liar, or you’re bloody crazy. If the former, some advice, boy – you’ve got the proper attitude to get people to believe you, but you forgot to have something to back it up. Corwin, put a bolt in his throat.”
The halfling took aim with his crossbow and fired; the bolt stopped its trajectory inches from the boy and began to float in circles around him. He fired again, and again, and again; the result was the same.
“So be it,” said the boy solemnly. The wind swirling around the boy changed, and the bolts were hurled back at the Halfling, plugging both of his nostrils and lodging themselves in his throat.
The sky darkened abruptly. A torrential downpour paired with gale force winds, and suddenly Marcus could scarcely see in front of him. Multiple lightning bolts struck nearby, and just like that, half his crew was dead, including Davis.
Three of the remaining men dropped their weapons and ran away. Only Marcus, who was paralyzed with fear, and Flarg remained. The towering half-orc snarled and raised his two handed battle axe. There was a pregnant pause as the two figures stared unwaveringly at each other.
Then Flarg charged, bellowing a fearsome battlecry, through the storm, heedless of the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions.
Before he could reach the boy, a tornado spontaneously formed and lifted the half-orc off the ground, and the battlecry quickly transformed into a cry of terror. He was hurled a hundred feet in the air, and then the tornado disappeared. Flarg fell straight to the ground, landing head first, breaking his neck instantly.
Marcus dropped his weapon and stared open-mouthed at the boy. The rain stopped and the clouds disappeared just as quickly as they’d come. The sun shined once more.
“You do not belong here,” said the boy, not unkindly, and then Marcus realized that his lips were not moving – he was speaking directly into Marcus’s mind. “Go home to your young one. I am not yet at full strength, but I will do what I can to help him.”
Marcus did not have to be told twice. He ran, and ran, and ran, until the town of Almsville was a distant memory.
When Marcus returned home, he was stunned to find that his son was well on his way to recovery, where a week ago he had been at death’s door. Marcus himself lived to a ripe old age, and enjoyed many happy years with his family before peacefully passing away in his sleep one night.
In all that time, for his entire life, he never dared set foot anywhere near Almsville, ever again.
