Shem crept through the tall grass encircling the army encampment. The light from campfires danced across the field, casting shadows before him. He kept low under the starlit sky, his eyes were the only break in the black clothing he wore from head to toe. He could just make out the drunken rambling and shouting of soldiers on the eve of battle. They beat their chests and joked bawdily. They felt assured of their victory, so much so they had to repeat their convictions aloud.
He watched as a lone soldier stumbled away from camp. Shem stalked him, keeping his distance so as to not be seen. Years of training in The Order had made this second nature to him. He glided silently through the grass, keeping a safe distance but totally outside of the soldier’s notice. He was about Shem’s height and build, his uniform was worn and neglected, meaning he took no pride in his enlistment. He’d probably been compelled into fighting and would not be missed. The soldier swayed drunkenly as he fumbled at the tie on his trousers, his shadow swung back and forth across the trees and danced in the flickering firelight. Shem grabbed a stone and tossed it with a practiced arm, placing the soldier between himself and the thud and tumble in the bushes.
“Who’s tha’?” the soldier slurred, and rocked as he drunkenly looking away from Shem, “‘is that you J-” Shem’s knife interrupted the question when he sheathed it in the soldier’s brain through the base of his skull. Quickly Shem shoved the soldier down and stripped him of his clothes, careful to keep the fresh blood from staining the uniform too heavily. He doubted anyone would notice, the uniform was even filthier than Shem had first realized in the dim light. It was stained with countless, bodily fluids from any number of sources. He pushed the thoughts from his head as he pulled the clothes on over his own. He dragged the corpse into some bushes and piled a few loose branches on it. It was unlikely he’d be found before morning, and by then he’d be long gone. He pulled down his hood and tucked it into the shirt behind himself and quickly inspected his disguise.
When he was satisfied he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His mind emptied and his thoughts fled with practiced ease, hours spent meditating had made this second nature to him. Drunk. He thought the simple word to himself and he began to sway on his feet, felt his face flush, and posture slacken. Wandering back to where the soldier had come from would be too dangerous, someone might recognize his uniform, and become suspicious about the whereabouts of their friend. If he wandered into the revelry from a different angle, people would simply assume he was a lost soldier from another part of the camp. He began to stumble into the field, blazing a meandering trail back towards a different part of the camp than his dead soldier had originated.
He scanned the camp before him, and counted three different banners flying over groups of campfires. He flicked open a pouch in his left sleeve and dropped three beans from it to the ground, tying it shut again with practiced ease. He continued his oblique trek towards the camp, edging nearer the firelight, until someone called out at him.
“Hey! You lost?” Shem could make out the stifled chuckles from his friends.
“Huh?” Shem called back, making a show of looking for the source of the voice in an exaggerated appearance of night blindness. “That you Jem?” He slurred the words and swung his head around, stumbling backwards. Laughter now from the campfire. He spotted another new flag, one he hadn’t seen before, and dropped another bean.
“Come here!” one of the men at the fire was running towards him, and grabbing his arm gently, leading him to the fire. “Sit and drink!” Shem nodded as if this was the most reasonable plan in the world.
“Name’s Shem,” he hiccuped at the group.
“Nice to meet ya, Shem.” his host replied. He was clearly an officer, albeit a low ranking one. His uniform was well cared for and decorated. He even looked cleaner and better kempt than his companions. He sat slightly apart from the group as though he had already been promoted, at least in his head. “I’m Jek, and these dirtbags are Slacks and Trast.” The latter two soldiers were more like his victim in the field, dirty and disheveled. Street urchins compelled into military service. Perhaps they enjoyed it, but they took no pride in their campaign. Shem nodded at each name, his whole body rocked with the motion like sloppy bows.
They chuckled, “What unit you from?”
Shem shrugged, “I’m just here for the booze.” They laughed even louder, slapping their knees. Shem looked around at the group grinning stupidly. “You know there’s a war on?”
“No shit!” uproarious laughter, Jek slapped him on the back. “You work that out all on yer own?”
Shem gave him a proud smile. “We gonna win, ain't we?”
“Here, here!” Slacks held up his mug, the rest of the party echoed the cheer.
“I mean-” Shem gulped down his drink, “they’ll see us riding up on the city tomorrow and, they’ll shit their pants!”
“Ha!” Trast chuckled, “they won’t see us coming at all! Not with their city burning down from the inside!” The three grunted wordlessly, and beat their chests.
“I’m glad they didn’t make me go on that suicide mission” Trast volunteered when the burst of revelry had died down. “You remember when we marched on Shin’Don?” Nobody responded, Trast had taken a solemn and sobering look, the rest of the group sat quietly, letting him tell the story. Shin’Don, This was news to Shem, communication with his brethren their were limited with all the patrols on the roads between. “My pal, Jeon was in the infiltration team…” Trast gulped from his cup. “He barely escaped with his life. They set the fires like they was supposed to but they got nabbed on their way back to the sewers.” He stared quietly into the fire for a long moment, and nobody said a word.
“They was tied up in some underground cellar. Dank and dirty, uncivilized like. He says at first they just hung from the ceilings, whipping them and asking questions. Then those freaks in all black clothes showed up. Stuff they done was unnatural.” He took a shuddering breath, “Kept for weeks, strapped on their backs with water dripping on the foreheads. They couldn’t drink it, and it kept them from sleeping. They shoved bamboo under their fingernails.” Trast looked up at the group. “Other, even worse, unspeakable things. He ain't been the same since.”
The silence stretched into minutes. The roar and laughter from other campfires drifted over to them, but Shem could clearly hear the crackle and pop of of their own fire. He knew if this Jeon had escaped at all, it was because The Order leadership in Shin’Don had wanted him to. They probably wanted him to spread his fearful tales throughout the army.
Shem abruptly stood, all eyes turned to him quizzically, and he swayed on his feet momentarily. “I-” he shook his head, making it look like he was clearing his head as he tried to come up with an excuse to continue his patrol, “I just remembered, my commander said he had a special assignment for me tomorrow-“
They laughed, “That’s tomorrow you blockhead! Sit! Drink! It’s not like you’re on the infiltration team. They only send The Warrior Priest to do those now.” he leaned towards the fire again, a mischievous glint in his eye. “They say he’s died a thousand times, and been fightin’ this war since it started five hundred years ago!” Shem’s breath caught in his throat. He whispered a silent and ancient prayer of protection under his breath. If the Crimson Blade was among this army his reconnaissance mission had just become more urgent.
Shem shook his head and laughed. “Well, I at least need to take a leak.” he announced to nobody in particular and then stumbled away from the camp walking further than necessary in a wandering path so they wouldn’t be concerned when he didn’t return. He made a show of standing in the field a minute, facing away from the fire, and pretending to piss on the ground while he considered what he’d learned. This might not be any army from the west, this might be The Army. He needed to finish his reconnaissance and confirm his suspicions.
Shem continued on a circuit around the camp, dropping beans every time he saw a new banner, casually fending off advances from other drunken revelers. Halfway around the circle he stopped and his blood ran cold. He hadn’t really believed it when Jek said it, but now he saw with his own eyes. The white flag with the red dagger and an emblazoned golden “M”. The flag of The Warrior Priest. Shem hastened his patrol, but decided not to venture into the camp again. It was said when in the presence of the warrior priest an enemies disguise would fall off, or he would simply trip and fall onto his own knife. Freak accidents seemed to favor the priest. Shem didn’t believe in superstitions, but he didn’t feel like putting his convictions to the test. He needed to return to the temple as soon as possible.
When he’d finished his circle of the camp he quickly doffed his disguise and dove into the bushes fleeing from the army as quickly as he could while remaining reasonably hidden. When he’d passed the outer circle of patrols he opened his left sleeve and counted the beans remaining, there were only three left, meaning forty-seven houses in this army. Each house brought between two and three thousand men. This meant three to one odds for Shem’s people. Those were despairingly steep odds.
He sprinted silently towards the city walls on bare feet. His pulse thudded in his ears, he needed to alert the elders, they must begin the evacuation tonight, now! There was a small grove up against the walls on the south side of the city where an unused sewage tunnel let out, it was his favorite covert path in and out of the city. His heart was racing, and this close to the city he abandoned all stealth in favor of haste. He openly sprinted through the bushes, and could just see the small pile of rocks indicating the exit when his foot caught on a branch and he fell face first.
He must have hit his head on a rock and lost consciousness because the next thing he knew he was on his back and the tip of a sword was pressing down on his throat. He looked up at the blurry figure before him. He squinted and blinked his eyes, trying to bring the shifting colors into focus and when they did he realized he was beneath an old man in strange robes. They shifted colors even in the dark, continuously shimmering and swimming before him, they seemed to draw Shem’s eyes to the old man’s hip where he found a sheathed red dagger with a single gold wrought letter on the side.
“Hi,” the man above him said congenially. “I’m McVurdy, priest of The Lord of Chaos, Maelstrom. You might know me better as The Warrior Priest, The Lord Catalyst, The Crimson Blade, and a few others I can’t think of. ...and you are?”
“Shem” he choked out.
“Shem,” The old man stopped and considered Shem for a moment. “Shem, I’m afraid you’re going to die today. Right now, actually. I just don’t have time or the patience for prisoners, and if I tie you up out here, you look like the kind of guy who’d find your way out with ease. It’s nothing personal, just bad timing really, and I don’t trust you.”
Shem stared up at the priest, speechless. He should stand his ground and insult him, he should beg for his life. He should fight back, but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t respond.
“I’m glad you understand. Good bye now.”
There was pain and then the world went black.
