Through the Fog, Part 1.A Story by KarmusRevenge.The footsteps are inaudible. Falling gracefully in quick succession, their owner moves with a clear intent and purpose. His hazy form travels through the oppressive fog as if he were a ghost, a whisper of a shadow. The forest senses his need and attempts to steer him true. The perimeter was well protected. Traps and sentries along all major avenues, the dense forest was left to the skill of their mercenaries. They would soon learn the folly of their ways.
Crickets. Their endless chirp provides the perfect backdrop to the summer night. Seemingly from all sides, the insect chorus serenades the weary into a state of apathetic drowsiness. Those not careful soon find themselves dozing off to sleep wrapped in humidity and the deepening fog. Embedded ever so subtly in the cricket's call, however, is something much less natural. The Shadow has only ears for these communique. “North. Three. Over.” So...three in the northwest quadrant. That leaves four for us. The Ghost stops abruptly near the outline of a massive oak. Dropping to one knee, he rakes his hand through the dirt at the tree's base. His lips move ever so slightly seemingly dancing on the breeze of a whisper. The hand moves to his mouth. Lips to the back of his thumb in a gentle kiss, he lowers his head. To the untrained ear it is impossible to detect. The slight quiver in frequency, the fluctuation in pitch, it was all they needed. “South. Four....Begin.”
All noise in the forest seems to skip for a moment. The kneeling form explodes into a maelstrom of activity. A blur, a dark line in the slightly blusher fog, the druid is efficiency personified. Surprisingly, however, still naught but the slightly dimmer chirp of the crickets can be heard. The night is different now though. It begins filling with a potential, like an ever growing store of energy waiting for the right catalyst to trigger its release. Those paying just enough attention can sense it. The hairs on their arms begin to rise, preparing themselves for impact. This innate defense mechanism goes unnoticed by most of the guard however. Sitting on their stools, heads sliding precipitously close to the edge where gravity will overcome their feeble attempts to stay up right, the hired guns are just like sitting ducks.
The Shadow reaches his first quarry. Poor b*****d. The figure on the ground but mere feet from the towering ghost looks more like a child than a soulless mercenary through the deceptive fog. Curled in a neat little ball under a ratty old blanket, the sleeping soldier's breathing sits teetered on the edge of a snore.
It was discussed beforehand by the assassins. Kill or subdue? The surrender of a life was never something to be taken lightly. In a universe full of the inert, life was always to be preferred. But these men had made their choices. By joining a cause such as the Kaderan, whether due to ideology or the coin, they had decided their own fates. No mercy could be shown because there is none to be expected. History has proven this.
D****t. This sorry excuse for a coinheart can't be much more than eighteen. A furious battle wages in the shadow's head. No mercy is to be expected, he knows that. But still, the sentry is just a boy. This child shall not pay with his life for the impetuousness of adolescence. Sorry brothers. His mind made up, the ghost begins the process he had performed previously. Kneeling, he scoops up a handful of the earth and presses it to his lips as he bows his head. Movement. A rustle. A constant stream of sound, of leaves lightly scrapping the rocks and their brethren, becomes audible. In the suffocating fog the movement sounds like a waterfall over the background of the crickets. The mercenary wakens with a start. Too late. The involuntary jerk his startled mind issues is suppressed. Wrapped now in a cocoon of vine and sapling, he is trapped in a prison molded to fit his every bend and curve.
A scream begins to form. Deep down within the aveoli, at the furthest extremity of his lungs, the scream collects. Building to the potential of a crescendo, the air attempts to make its intent known as it races toward his vocal chords. The druid feels it coming. With a thought the scream is stolen. Just before the breath reaches its goal, the growth around the mercenary's chest constricts just enough. The air rushes past its intended target as he bellows an impotent grunt.
The Shadow covers the ground to the prostrate figure in two strides. Lifting his index figure to his lips the towering ghost makes it clear that silence is expected. Kneeling to whisper in the child's ear the druid warns, “Silence and you will live. There are others about who might not be so forgiving. You will be released when it is over.” The words ring oddly in the soldier's ears. Turning his head to see his attacker, there is nothing but a shrinking inkblot in the fog. The vines relax ever so slightly around his screaming lungs, granting entrance to the humid night's air. © 2010 KarmusAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
446 Views
7 Reviews Shelved in 1 Library
Added on June 21, 2010Last Updated on June 21, 2010 Tags: fantasy, half-elves, mercenaries, wizards, action, druids, forest AuthorKarmusNJAboutI'm a recent graduate who is working in the medical field and I attempt to delve into writing whenever I get the chance as a creative outlet. more..Writing
|