Fractured Hopes

Chapter 1, Meyers Shepard: A grizzled older soldier stuck his head into Meyers’s tent. The sound of the man clearing his throat before speaking set Meyers’s nerves on end. “My lord, it is time to go. The men are ready.” Meyers glanced over the spartan accommodations provided by the tent. Cold camping had to be the worst. A slight hoarfrost had developed on the covering above where his sleeping mat lay. The weather grew colder each night. As if this hellish land could grow wetter and more miserable. “Broman… Tell me again how far to the next target?” “Less than an hour ride to target, m’lord. We will arrive before first light if we leave now. The sooner we leave, the sooner we will be finished with it, don’t you think?” Meyers’s didn’t want to think about anything except somewhere warmer. His regent, half-sister, and future bride sent him and these men out on an impossible task: to find, kill, and return with proof of the demon that attacked the peasants on the frontier. Long ago, Meyers concluded he was sent from the citadel to allow Hope a free hand in her experiments and thirst for power. It had been weeks since his younger half-sister and mother left him near the wall. There had been no contact with the city or news from the citadel since. “How many at the target building?” “The structure holds six, lord. Ready to be cleaned out.” Broman held back the flap of the tent, prompting Meyers to follow him. Six souls were about to die, all for a crazy woman that became drunk with power in a search for a demon that didn’t exist in the first place. The men scoured the mountains for some creature that could be taken back and passed off as the monster that killed so many citizens inside the wall, to no avail. Meyers plodded in the snowy mud to his horse. The twenty other men looked as miserable as he felt. They all knew they hunted death in hostile foreign territory. Once they crossed over the wall, they left the safety of civilization. Only monsters dwelled outside the wall. Every school-aged child knew that. This knowledge drove them on in their search. Those that lived outside the wall were less than human. What Meyers and his men discovered was anything but monsters. What was once constant drizzle turned to light snow. Meyers and his team had fought their way deep into the mountain passes. The few camp followers started breaking down the tents behind them. The few women of pleasure had turned back long ago. Now only the foolhardiest followed the men… mostly wives and children of the fighters guarded the camp, while the men hunted the valleys for their next victims. Not enough to mount much of a defense if the mountain men ever attacked while the warriors were away. He doubted these mountains held more than a few hundred families. Who would want to live in a place the very gods had forsaken from the warmth of the sun? Mounting his ride, he searched the eyes of those closest to him. In his heart, he knew he should say some inspirational words to bolster the men’s spirits before battle, but the sound never left his throat. Meyers grew tired of the death and destruction he wrought on others in the name of his regent. The bagged eyes of the surrounding men told him the same tale. Too little sleep from worrying whether what they did remained just or simply crazy, like Hope. If there wasn’t a change soon, these handpicked men might murder him in his sleep and leave his corpse for the scavengers. A change was needed, anything to boost morale before it became too late. For Meyers’s sake at least. His sat astride his horse, his procured furs bundling him against the cold wind. Even the horse moved with lethargy in the cold. Perhaps demon hunting would be more productive in the warmth of lower altitudes, on a beach with vine and ale readily available. No one told Meyers he must search in the coldest place available. It seemed to him the chances of finding demons in the warmth near the cliffs would be just as likely. These mountains could stay the realm of the mountain men who hid deep in the valleys. It was time for the men of Perdition to move to warmer, more hospitable climes. After this last attack, at the evening meal, he would announce the change in plans. Just because Hope told him to achieve the impossible did not mean they had to be miserable doing it. The thought of warm beer and warmer bodies pressed close to his lifted his spirits, if only temporary. With a wave of his hand, they started the march. The mounted men moved through the woods. The snow-damped earth muffled the sound of the hoofs. They trudged like Sinead’s angels of retribution, returned from the sea to claim the souls of the unworthy. A slow-moving, unstoppable force seeking the death of the unworthy. They stopped on a low rise above a tiny clearing. Below, the scent of smoke reached him. He spotted proof of an early morning fire wafting up from a cabin’s chimney against the clouded sky. Even in the dark, the building stood out on the white background. “It looks like they are waking. This might be more of a fight,” the man to Meyers’s right mumbled. “Might be better to burn them out and cut them down from afar,” another faceless voice muttered. Meyers asked again, “How many in there?” “Six souls, lord.” Borman coughed, clearing his throat once again. Such a disgusting habit. Meyers couldn’t fathom how the men felt about the murder they carried out. He truly cared little for their feelings, as long as they followed orders. The slaughter in Hope’s name had taken its toll on him and his desire to gain power at any cost. This little war to placate his soon to be sister-bride was as senseless as they came. These people were not demons, they simply traveled beyond the wall searching for land and safety beyond the reach of Perdition’s unbridled cruelty. The more death he dealt in Perdition’s name, the more Meyers wanted the same escape. The inhabitants of the surrounding farms fought valiantly to defend themselves. There was no honor in this fight. The farmers outmatched, their crude weapons and limited armor allowed Meyers and his men to kill them from a greater distance with little danger to their own bodies. His first time in battle, Meyers learned there was no honor in warfare. It came down to simply killing the other guy before he killed you. The easier the victory, the better. “Light the roof on fire. Let us see what scrambles out. I want to end this with all haste.” Meyers spit the words out as more of a curse to the world and its cruelty around him. There were little these mountain people could do against him and his superior force. Weeks ago, Meyers convinced himself they chased a ghost constructed in Hope’s deranged mind. The ghost of his half-brother Hayline. Flame stuck to the oil-soaked wadding and just as quickly launched into the snowy morning air. The dampening effect of the falling snow did nothing to hide the whooshing sound when the flaming arrows took flight. The thin covering of snow didn’t slow the flames once fire and oil combined with old thatch. White smoke billowed from the hovel as the flames quickly spread over the roofing. With great fatigue, the words dripped from Meyers’s mouth, “Let’s be done with this.” He slapped the flat of his blade against his horse’s haunch, launching him into a gallop. The sound of his men behind him covered his own hoof beats. This moment before the death started caused his heart to race. It wasn’t the impending death of others or the thrill of the fight about to happen. No, it was the threat to his own life, no matter how small, that would have caused a normal man to hesitate and any heart to race. They charged down the rise into the unknown. A low fog covered the valley. His sword was ready to cut down any who stood in his way. All in the name of… Meyers didn’t know why he continued any of this slaughter. Besides, Hope had sent him over the wall to find demons. Senselessly killing others— His thoughts were cut short. Much to his surprise, his horse no longer charged between his legs. The thrill of the charge became replaced with the terror of unrestrained flight. His feet pulled out of the stirrups as he left the saddle, but his left hand was entangled with the reins. When he flew over the horse’s head, his body spun in an awkward somersault. The frozen ground raced to meet his flailing body. Contorting to save himself, he twisted into a roll and landed on his back. His body was again forced into a violent spin to the left by his dangerous connection to the horse. The searing pain, pop, and grinding noise from his left shoulder told him the worst. Animal screams of terror and pain broke the morning silence. Flights of arrows flashed overhead from the tree line. The hovel was a trap the men from Perdition had sprung, catching them all with their pants down. The iron heads of arrows found vulnerable flesh past the c****s in the armor. The bulk of Meyers’s horse crashed into the ground, barely missing the bastard prince of Perdition. Bones cracked when the animal hit. There remained little for Meyers to do now but survive. He rolled close to the dead horse. He had no choice, with his hand still tethered to the lump of flesh. His long blade had been lost in the fall, so he pulled a dagger and slashed at the leather strap wrapped around his wrist. His arm free, it dangled limply at his side, ignoring the commands to move. He rolled over the dead mount, scrambling for any cover available. Tears filled his eyes from the pain of moving, but he bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. That was when he came face to face with Broman’s lifeless eyes staring back at him from under the helm strapped to his head. An arrow had found its mark at the gap between the shoulder plate and helm. Blood pooled after spewing from the neck wound. The muddy snow, now red. His vision blurred, his pulse raged in his ears, a sharp pain grew in his head, and he fought to control his emotions, specifically the fear of his impending death. Meyers needed to gain some advantage, but he saw little hope in the situation. In the open, there was no cover. He was too far from the hovel to make a run for it. Besides, the building was on fire. Arrows continued to rain down on their hopeless position. They flew in great arcs, not straight lines, the archers concealed in the tree line. If he stayed, the projectiles would eventually find a mark from numbers or dumb luck, and he would die in a pool of his own gore like Broman and the rest. He did the only thing he could think of. He crawled on his stomach, desperately searching for cover away from the death raining down from the sky. Several men survived and returned fire, their attacks fruitless with no bodies to target. They might as well return fire with harsh words, the good it did the situation. Several feet behind his dead horse, he found a line of white cord, still stretched tight. The trip line was barely visible against the disturbed snow. He crawled over more of the same, the cordage more than effective to bring down the charging horses. A small part of Meyers’s mind understood what happened to his men, and he smiled at the effective trap that would be his demise. At least a skilled tactician was the cause of his death, not an untrained farm boy with a pitchfork stabbing him in the back. Screams came from the dark forest to his right. For a moment, the rain of arrows slowed. Meyers took a chance and half-stood, presenting his full body as a target to run the way they had come. He waited for death to find him, but no arrow pierced his skin. The broken sounds of combat and people screaming in death rose from the forest. In that instant, Meyers cared nothing about what was happening to the warriors in the woods. He only knew they were distracted enough to allow him to make a break for safety. Two of his men ran behind him. Meyers was the first into battle—he saw no reason for him not to be the first in retreat. A low growl and a high-pitched scream filled his ears from behind. Something had found the slowest man. Meyers knew he didn’t need to be the fastest to survive this race of death, he only needed to outrun the slowest man. The first rays of the sun peeked through the fog and clouds. Another shriek, this time one of pain, reached his ears. Something stalked him, and by the tone of the screams, the beast continued in great pain and close on his heels. There was no time to look behind him to find out. His footrace with destiny wasn’t something he took lightly. He loved his life too much to give up now. The ragged breath of the last of his men fell behind just as Meyers reached the trees where they had just confidently charged from. Against his better judgment, he stopped long enough to scan the field of death he had just escaped. There was no sign of life, neither from his men nor those that slaughtered them. The shooting pain in his arm throbbed all the more, as the adrenaline of the fight started to wear off. There was no time to fix his shoulder. He seriously doubted he could fix his wound alone, but as it was, he would die if attacked. His only chance left became the camp and any help he might still find there. A half-hour by horse, Broman said. Meyers guessed if the encampment still stood, it must be at least two hours away on foot. With a last glance for movement on the blood-covered field of snow, he pushed off from the tree when he found none. The morning steam covered the death of his men. Now he wandered alone in the wilderness of the mountains. The monsters he and his men searched for finally came from hiding long enough to wipe them all out. He only wished he’d spotted what killed them all. With few choices, he stumbled through the woods back to the encampment. There was always a chance the camp had not been destroyed, however slight. His left arm hung limply. He knew what needed to be done to fix it, but the only time he’d seen this injury healed was as a boy learning combat. It wasn’t his shoulder but a man his father made him watch. Pain fogged his mind. Memories wandered when he should have focused on the path in front of him. As an acknowledged bastard son, he received some of the recognition and training of a prince. That is until the legitimate heir, Hayline, was born. Once his younger brother reached the age to train, Meyers’s tutelage took a back seat. He was certain, if not for his mother’s powers, he would have been kicked from the citadel once the principal’s wife Joanna started shitting out children left and right. With each child born, Meyers saw his chances of obtaining the throne fall further from his reach. He never shed a tear when his father’s wife died giving birth to his youngest half-sister, Chastity. With her birth, that left four siblings between him and the power he once sought. There was a time he would have gladly murdered them all to reach the throne. After the last few weeks in the wilderness, those feelings of ambition passed. Now he only wanted release from the pain and to never be cold again. His head throbbed, and the blood from a fresh head wound dripped into his eyes. He had no time to stop the bleeding. The fear of death drove him on. Through the trees, he spotted his worst fears. His tent lay on the ground, half packed. The followers wouldn’t dare leave his gear in such a mess. Without another step, he knew they were dead. The camp was a total loss. With a dagger in hand, he slipped back into the trees. He would need to work his way around the camp and make his way alone out of the mountains. Slinking around the brush, he spotted patches of red snow. Many more than would be found if only the followers had been slaughtered. Something had happened in these woods, but Meyers was missing crucial pieces of information. He might never know the full story. The sound of breaking brush caused his heart to stop in fear. His initial thought was the men that caused the death of so many had found him. He turned to face this new threat, only to find one of the mules the followers used to carry gear had escaped the slaughter. He fought back a mad chuckle at his own cowardice. The sound of the pack animal had nearly caused him to wet himself. It took some work, but he finally reached the docile creature. He knew what needed to be done. He tied his limp arm to the reins and pulled with all his might. His shoulder made a sickening grinding sound as the ball popped back into the socket. He struggled to hold back the tears and failed. However, the pain eased once he stopped the pressure. With no saddle, he needed a fallen tree to climb atop the bare back of the mule. Once he lay on the back of the animal, he pointed the beast toward the safety of lower altitudes and the warmth that came with them.