Story
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Retreat and Recovery
His horse was waiting for him, snorting and stamping in frustration as the sounds of battle rang out around them. Loyal pawns fighting against the traitors to his family's name. He did not know if his family even lived. He did not care. Mounting the black beast, he drove his ankles into the mount's flanks. A surge, and it drove forth, the stable door crashing from its hinges as horse and rider burst from the depths, straight into the battle. Pounding hooves downed all who tried to stop the fleeing pair, those that the swinging ax did not deal with. Their retreat from the castle was swift, taking little time to hit the dusty roads that led across their land, his land. The horse knew these paths by heart, taking him straight across them. Fleeing the coup that had destroyed his family, by the hand of inferior scum. It rankled him so.
His hands shook on the reins, and his attempts to hold his head up high were slowly beginning to fail. He could feel the weakness seeping into his veins. It started to take hold, as his blood seeped through the fabric, soaking it with his lifeblood. His head drooped as the horse pounded down the road, taking its master across the familiar tracks, past the homes of his subjects he so oft liked to parade by, remind them who ruled. Now all were shut in their houses, doors locked and lights snuffed. Even his people had turned on him. The treachery burned him. They were his, he OWNED them. They should be glad to give their lives for him. He was their god. He ruled them. They owed him everything. He was their life, their overlord, their...
Thud
His body fell, slumped on the wayside as he bled out in a ditch. His eyes drooped closed, and he felt it, felt the life drain from him. He coughed, a sickening, rattling sound. One that produced blood to speckle the ground. His hand, weak and pale, stretched forward as he tried to pull himself up. The trembling limb failed to even clutch the dirt, sliding back to his side. He rolled slowly onto his back with a faint gasp, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. He was dying. He could feel it. He had been betrayed, and one stupid, unworthy, pathetic little man had stolen everything from him. He felt his bloodstained teeth bare into a grimace of fury, one last time he would fight before this death took him. As his eyes slipped closed for the last time, he heard the voices, soft in his ear.
They told him to come home.
"Come on, boy, you've slept long enough."
His eyes slowly fluttered open as the voice trickled into his ear. A face began to form in his blurry vision, wizened, hair white and long. Staring at her through the haze, a grimace of confusion of his face, he tried to shield his eyes from the flame she carried. His mouth opened, and lips moved, but nothing came out, not even a croak. A blink, long and slow, showed his confusion. Where was he? Was he dead? Had death taken his voice, so that he may not speak in his own defense? It seemed something the God they spoke of would do. Perhaps this was who he faced now.
A hand came down, and the voice spoke again, giving him direction.
"Come on, get up, boy. You're not dead yet, so stop laying around like you are."
His own palm, smooth and pale, grasped the proffered limb, pulling himself up to sit on the side of the bed. He could see now, it was a bed, a cot covered in a thin blanket and a pillow. Bloodstains covered the cloth, his hands grazing them in confusion. Brief confusion, for he soon remembered what had happened. The memory came rushing back to him. The knife. The attack. Betrayal. His throat, slit. His tongue worked frantically as he tried to speak again, but not a sound came out. Not a grunt, not a croak, nothing. Even his breath was quieter, lower in his chest. Touching his fingertips to the long wound on his throat, he winced. He probed at it, to discover the length and breadth of his injury. It nearly spread from ear to ear. It was deep, the wound. He could not understand how he yet lived, so much blood had been spilled.
Looking up, he saw her. She watched him, a smile on her face. He could espy her clearly now, an old woman. Her hair was long, braided, crows' feathers worked into the intricate braids. Her face was lined with the ravages of age, but her eyes were young and bright, as though she was younger than even he. A smile rested in thin lips, and he frowned. What witchery had she worked on him? His gaze accusatory, he stared at her, anger in his gaze. Her smile merely twitched in amusement.
"You stare with such hate, boy. I have saved you from a cruel fate. Your fellow countrymen would have torn you apart. I have healed you, brought you back, with only the cost of your voice. And yet you accuse me with those cold eyes." She let out a laugh, her voice rich, far too full for such an old woman.
He stared at her still, then tried to speak again, only to touch his throat in frustration. Silence. Deathly silence. His head jerked up as she laughed again, his lips formed into a cold sneer.
"Boy, you cannot speak. Sound is no longer your domain. You have your life, do not fuss." Her eyes danced mockingly as she stared back at him. When she seemed content that he had settled, she turned to retrieve something. He recognized his weapon in her hand as she turned, the bloody blade of the ax glinting in the dim lighting. His hand outstretched, he retrieved the weapon, stroking the blade softly. As he did, her hand came out again, lending him the strength to stand. He used the limb to pull himself upright, staring at her all the while. He did not know her, he did not recognize her. Yet she clearly knew him, had saved him. A thing he did not understand. Reaching up to brush his long hair from his eyes, he watched her movements. She bustled around the small room, gathering his things for him. His shirt, his breeches. As she handed him each article, he pulled them onto his form, wincing in the process.
"Don't fuss, boy. Your wounds will heal." She scolded him, her voice firm. "You aren't much of a warrior if you can't endure a simple bit of pain." He tried to snarl once more, but she didn't even seem to notice. Chuckling at the man standing before her, she indicated to the door. "Your horse is outside, Lord of the land. I've given you your life. I won't give you anything else." His hackles rose as she laughed at him, mockingly, but yet he didn't raise his weapon to her. Instead, he sheathed the ax, and turned to leave the building. As his hand rested upon the door, he heard her tut. He paused, and his head turned back slightly. In her hand, the long, gold chain rested. Dangling from the end was a heavy pendant, a family crest set in gemstone, ringed in thick golden patterns, delicate yet strong, shining dimly.
"One last relic." She said, as he took it from her palm. "One last memory of what your family was. For they are no more." As his steps took him out the door, he heard her sigh softly. He didn't turn back. It was no longer of any importance to stay here. His family was ended, his rule, finished. He wanted nothing more to do with these treacherous people. His future would lay elsewhere.
-
The Devil's Horseman
"Did you hear about the Devil's Horseman? He struck again, last night! My sister said he hit her village. He's getting closer!"
"Shh, not so loud! Do you want to bring him down on us?"
"He's already coming down on us, he's headed right for this village!"
"Shut up, you're going to bring his wrath down on us!"
"Well, he's not coming for a friendly drink, idiot! We have to do something!"
"Like what?!"
"I don't know, but we can't just sit and do nothing!"
"All we can do is pray."
Across the inn from the bickering men, a slow smile crawled across a man's face, face hidden under his long black hair. Rumor traveled faster than the dark horse he rode on, and exaggeration was always his friend. Though he no longer had his lands or his titles, the man had fear, and that was what he thrived on. Laughing silently as their frantic conversation lead to a scuffle, he felt amusement run through him. They always feared what they did not know.
It was fear that brought Kutya pleasure, fear that made him strong. There would always be darkness in this world, and he used it to make himself a home, bringing terror down on those who hid by the fires, using torches to keep his kind at bay.
Drawn from his thoughts, Kutya's ears perked, as another conversation nearby drew him in. He tilted his head slightly, inclining it to listen to the words of the nearby men.
"Those idiots. Don't they know that the Horseman isn't the worst thing out there?"
"They're local, they haven't heard. It won't be long though, soon she'll reach here."
"Those poor sods. They'll have their hands full when she arrives. All those pretty lasses, gone to the castle of blood."
"Aye. The Bathory won't be long, not at all."
His head canted to one side, and he felt the smile slide from his face. Bathory. He knew the name, of course. A noble family like his own, they had a reputation not unlike his own. He remembered being young, hearing about the fair Elizabeth Bathory. He'd met her, once, though they had been children. His smile returned for a moment at the thought. She'd been beautiful, enchanting. Was she the Bathory they spoke of? His lips curling into a frown once more, he stood. His ax glinted in its sheath, his hand on the haft as he pulled it free. His cloak pooled around his shoulders, draping down his back as he drew it free from his shoulders. A young woman glanced over, then screamed, eyes wide with fright.
<<"The Devil's Horseman! He's here for us! We are all dead! We are all de-">>
Her heavy, thick words were broken by a grunt, before she collapsed to the ground with his dagger in her heart. Silence reigned over the inn, and his eyes scanned the crowd, watching the frightened faces. No one moved now, too terrified to attack the dark legend in their midst. Hefting his ax, he strode forwards, towards his target. The men who had spoken of the Bathory. They were braver than the rest, for they did not tremble or shy away as he approached. Instead, one looked up into his piercing eyes, and spoke, as though he was greeting a new friend.
"If you are going to kill us, then do so, please. We know terror well enough, you do not scare us."
His nostrils flared aggressively, and the fingers on the handle of his ax twitched, as though he fought the impulse to bring it down on the man's head. Instead, he prodded the paper before his target, with words he knew well scrolled across it. A report for the king, on the nobles of the land. He would recognize the wax crest anywhere. His glare intensified as the man frowned.
"You want this? I can't give it to you. This is for the king's eyes only."
He did not deal well with the denial, clearly, as his axeblade found the man's face and split it in two. Blood splurted from the wound, drenching the man's companion in his friend's blood. The body slowly slumped to the floor, and the room exploded into noise and movement. Screams and cries of terror burst from the silenced people, as they stampeded out the doorway, kicking and shoving each other as they did so. He did not hesitate, his hand gripping the report, following the screaming crowd out into the yard of the inn. As they fled, he mounted his horse and gripped the reins, shoving the bloodied document into his saddlebag. He knew where he would head to next. The House of Bathory.
Time to find a new home.
-
The Hound of Bathory
A flame flickered around the man as he knelt. His hair shielded his eye, but he could still see her, through the curtain that fell around his sight. She paced, her eyes fixated on something aside from him, clenched in her palm. He knew the item well, he'd worn it for many years now. The chain of his pendant hung from her palm, glinting in the low light. His head bowed before her, he merely watched, to gauge her reaction to his former title. He did not have to wait long. Soon, she turned to face him, her gaze cool and measured.
"Your family is dead, your castle in ruins. Your legacy is over. And here you come before me, the broken son of a proud line, stricken to silence and taken from power. What do you seek from me? A return to that power you so crave? Certainly you have had it with your exploits." A twitch of his head was his response to this, her knowledge not startling him, but still provoking a reaction. She curled her lip in response, and laughed. "Did you think I would not know the Devil's Horseman when he came calling? Did you come to bring death on me, like you have those poor peasant girls?" She caught his chin suddenly, jerking his head upright to face her. "Did you think I would respect you, dog?" Her eyes, he felt them burn into his core, his being poured through and scrutinized by her force of will. In the short moments since he had arrived at her gates, she had asserted herself as dominant, in charge. A wave of power he had not even thought to resist.
"You are a dog, are you not? A hound. My hound."
"Do you think you come here to be my ally, fallen son? To be my equal? No. You kneel before me now, and you shall always kneel before me. I take your choice from you.
{A giant fuckin WIP. I work in fragments.)
