Decaying Souls - Chapter 1--Opera Diaboli

And many wars will be waged, many lives forfeit over the fate of mortal souls.

Chosen of Heaven; Second Tome Of Prophecy, Third Leaf.

 

Surrounded by pine-clad hills, there was a sleepy little town that bore the apt but uninspiring name of Pinewood.

 

The town had no battlements and no mighty stone walls, but a small force of lookouts on the hills, under whose watchful eyes lay the roads that wound between the hills. In the years before, many brigands met their end before the guardsmens’ bows and arrows.

But one night, a new, terrible threat haunted the dreams of mortal kind, and it silently descended on the city like a poisonous spider.

 

****.      ******.      ******

A banal noise, pounding on the door, made him startle. Perhaps it was the savage way it went on incessantly, even after he had uttered his weary "Go away!" lines, and as he cursed fervently, interrupting the pleasant drowsy mood... In truth, it wasn't the knocker's persistence that made him curse, but the ghastly cold that invaded his flesh down to his bones. It felt like midnight wind ripping through a graveyard, followed by an electric tension and ringing ears in short order.

 

He had no intention of opening his eyes, let alone seeing to his mysterious visitor, but the banging wouldn't stop. It was soon followed by a violent rattling on the wooden door, so aggressive that he believed someone had tried to break in.

 Despite his efforts, he couldn't brush aside the oncoming horror following those thoughts.

 

 Cold, unfeeling stone met his dreary gaze, gray walls and a faded brown plank ceiling. Even in the ethereal ivory glow that fell through the small opening of his window, he could see everything clearly. 

 He was in his adjoining room, which could be reached by a ladder to the right of the main entrance.

His room, which looked somehow ghastly in the silvery pale rays..

 

A few moments passed as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes, when the pounding suddenly ceased, giving way to tense silence and an eerie cry.

 A dying voice, almost as if it was fighting a collapsing lung or a destroyed windpipe. It conjured up images of a dying person ran through the chest, mouthing the only comprehensible word among the jumble of noises help.

 

 Before he realized the gravity of his situation, four much stronger blows echoed through the building, each with a gut-wrenching crunch sound at the end. As suddenly as it had come... The sounds disappeared into nothingness.

 

Mjoln had at least hoped that it was all a horrible dream, but as he listened further, he realized that the sounds hadn't really stopped, only quieted some. 

From the window on his right came another, but all the more frightening noise.

Heavy, blunt thumps and thuds. Many steps taken by heavy bodies in a hurry.  

 He could only think of an invasion, but by whom, and above all why?

He broke out in a cold sweat, still hoping against hope. It couldn't be, they shouldn't be attacked. It made no sense, why attack a small town that had little more livelihood to offer than the villages around it?

 

  Chill breezes occasionally hinted at the approach of autumn, but even at night most people didn't need thicker or heavier clothing. Yet he felt the need to put on his sire's traveling cloak before going out. 

 

 The square-jawed, graying man wore the black coat when out in the city and surrounding villages. And he wore it that fateful night, when he had rescued Mjoln from a hungry bear some years ago. It suited his father well, and back then made him seem more like one of those heroes one could imagine when hearing the old fables, rather than the simple trader he was. 

 

Mjoln got out of bed, the well-trod planks under him barely made a sound, even as he strode to the entrance of his room and pulled the horse hide out of the way.

 

He scratched his chin, his first beard, which was just beginning to grow, occasionally itching.

The main room below him was empty and as spectral as his in the glaring moonlight that poured in from two windows. The fireplace, with its wide, rounded stone outlet, cast a long shadow over the front door, obscuring from view anyone near it.

Before he could turn away and descend the short ladder, a black blur appeared in the center of the room...

An elongated shadow, no doubt cast by someone standing at one of the windows.

  Fear jerked his body and he immediately realized that shadow wasn't one of the city guards, because they always carried torches at night, besides they had no reason to bother him. It had a humanoid form, at least he knew it wasn't a large animal from the surrounding wilderness. Growing up on the eastern edge of Pinewood, he had often seen the silhouettes of animals passing by the windows, and he had occasionally seen the shadows of town guards, accompanied by the orange aura cast by torches.

 

The shadow continued to expand as he held his breath, hoping that his savagely pounding heartbeat made no sound.

 After a few seconds, the figure disappeared and he immediately realized that he had to move.

 He hurried down the ladder as quietly as possible and crept crouched to the nearer end of the fireplace. Quietly, he grabbed the cloak, quickly wrapped himself in it, and put on a pair of leather boots that he usually wore on his walks through the forest. 

 

Now that he was so close to the entrance, the wiry figure flinched at the realization. Countless eerie sounds echoed in the night, undoubtedly coming from further away in the city.

And seconds later, out of all the chaotic and distant sounds, emerged the toll of the alarm bell. It rang once, shortly after again, and a third time, but the third sound was lost in the wild thunder of collapsing stones and timbers breaking.

 

The noise of rushing intensified in the distance and came to life just outside the door. 

Numerous briefly visible shadows trailed across the floor in the main room, though he thought most of them had no reason to investigate the building, he silently prayed for a quick end to the madness.

 

Huddled again, he crept to the wall with the two windows and slipped under them.

Opposite the last window was his parents' room, and somewhere in his da's chest he'd find the short sword, he kept assuring himself. 

 

He realized that there would be no victory if he stayed and fought, but he wasn't willing to just roll over and die for them.

 

***

 

At last, after long seconds of trepidation that kept him leaning against the cold wall, like an iron grip around his windpipe and two arms pressing him against the wall... At last, a brief relief came, and he ventured out of his shelter, towards his sire's bedroom.

Knowing full well he'd be easily seen from the window if anyone peeked in, he glanced over his shoulder with each step, almost afraid of his own elongated shadow.

When he reached the door, he prayed it wouldn't make too loud a noise when he pushed it open. Each strained metallic screech of the protesting hinges, quiet as they were, sent new shivers down his spine.

Once he had opened the door enough to slip into the relative darkness, he did so and slowly closed the entrance. 

He felt out the rough fur underneath and slowly made his way to his right. If he could find the bed, it would be child's play to find the chest even in the blind dark.

 

As his outstretched left hand explored the carpet and the blackness in front of him, he found first the cold hardwood lid of the square storage box, then the end board of the bed with his right hand.

 

Between short and silent breaths, both his hands searched the surface to find the bolt.

Normally he wouldn't dare to rummage through his father's belongings, but now he thought it justified this once. 

Long terrible seconds of searching later, his right index finger caught the indentation, and the metal bolt nestled inside.

He tugged at the heavy lid and slowly opened the chest. In contrast to his previously cautious approach, he thrust his hands into the chest and searched for the heavy steel weapon. He wouldn't have minded being cut by it, as long as he could get the weapon...

Soon, among pouches and coin-filled purses and various other smaller containers, his right hand recognized the cruciform end of the sword, its hilt wrapped in strips of leather and its blade resting in a belted leather scabbard.

 

He cursed at something that rolled over and made a dull sound as he pulled out the sword and stood up to tie the belt around himself under his cloak. 

After securing the weapon, he bent over and followed the end board of the bed back to the door. He braced himself again on his left hand and followed the rough bearskin underneath the remaining short distance.

The door opened slowly at his push, and he peered around it.

After making sure he was alone, he slipped into the main room and went directly to the safe shade of the fireplace. From there, he hoped to sneak outside unnoticed and slip away if at all possible. 

 

 The front door wouldn't budge, though he pulled the latch open. He pushed on it harder each time until it finally gave way on his fifth try, though he felt as if he had pushed something large and heavy with it. The cooler air touched his sweat-covered forehead, while his eyes took in the eerie, moonlit, rough-hewn stone path that was only three steps from the entrance. Further back, some pine trees blocked his view of the hill beyond. Orange glowing shapes danced at the edge of his vision, and when he turned to his right, he was met with a shocking sight that dispelled the last doubts that their town had been overrun.

 

The first buildings closest to his house, a hundred feet away on either side of the street, were emitting huge clouds of smoke from their windows, and tongues of orange and green fire were licking the cool night air from the rooftops. Given the lighting, he had expected to see the lookout tower with the alarm bell near the town square, but all that remained of it was the lower part of the circular wall, surrounded by a pile of stones and broken beams. The man sized brass bell was lying on its side, on top of the pile.

Even more disturbing were the blackish, human-sized shadows scattered along the street, and the tall humanoid figures still standing and moving among the burning houses, carrying torches and throwing them at the still intact structures.

 

Some of the shades went from door to door carrying some kind of bladed weapons. Those who fled from the flames would meet their doom at the hands of these attackers, the others would simply burn to death.

 

Mjoln had hoped to see the town guards rally and drive back the intruders, but somewhere inside he knew that many of the shadowy figures lying dead on the ground must have been the guards.

 

Before he became too absorbed in the sights, he quickly crept around the house, opposite the direction of the city. He scanned the moonlit cluster of trees nearby for movement, but apparently the invaders were all in town by now. Somewhat relieved, he glanced back at the door, and blood froze in his veins. The wife of their nearest neighbor, Bartha, had been nailed to the door by her hands, from each of them protruded a dagger handle and part of the blade. Her sightless, glassy eyes reflected the moonlight and stared blankly ahead, while her slightly wrinkled face was frozen mid-scream, blood painting long streaks along her mouth and nose.

 

"What kind of monster would do such a thing?!" came the outburst, although at that moment he immediately regretted it. What if someone had heard him, what if an enemy was already preparing to strike him down?  The images of bloody weapons, brutish figures in tattered, gore covered armor, shook his body and his mind.