Matt Forbeck - Marked for Death

“Not until I hear mom’s name!” she called as the others padded off toward the smoke.

The trio kept to the hollows as much as possible, creeping along the crests of the hills only when necessary. Soon they made it to the final crest. Burch lay on his belly and peeked over the top then beckoned the others to follow.

A dozen or more tents stood scattered about the bottom of the hollow, all loosely gathered around a central campfire from which a large plume of smoke curled up to disappear into the darkening Mournland sky. Other than a few lanterns glowing in a tent here and there, it was the only source of light in the entire camp. Warforged lumbered about the place on their business, ducking in and out of tents as they went.

“They seem riled up,” Kandler whispered.

“I don’t see Sir Deothen or the others,” said Sallah.

“There,” said Burch, pointing to the largest of the tents. Its front flap faced the trio and opened onto the circle around the fire.

“How do you know?” asked the knight.

“Trail goes there,” the shifter said. “Plus, it’s the busiest.”

Sallah stared at Burch in disbelief. “You can follow the trail through all that traffic by watching from here.”

Burch grinned. “I saw a knight when the flap opened.”

The knight slapped the shifter affectionately on the back. “I’ll never underestimate you again,” she said. She turned her attention back to the camp. “I don’t suppose you know the best way to get in there?”

“We don’t have to,” said Kandler.

“And why not?” The lady knight glared at the justicar.

Kandler pointed down at the tent. “They’re bringing them out.”

The front of the flap opened wide, and a warforged emerged. The three knights followed him, each with his own warforged escort. The knights’ hands were bound, and their legs were hobbled with rope. Their faces were cut and bruised. One of Brendis’ eyes was swollen shut, and Levritt walked with a limp. Another warforged wearing a white tabard followed them out.

The warforged who had led the procession from the tent cupped his metal-plated hands around his lipless mouth and called out to everyone in the camp. “Gather round! The breathers refused to talk. They are no longer useful, so it’s time to shut them down!”

“Shut them down?” said Sallah. “What does that mean?” Kandler answered. “They’re going to execute them.”

The warforged gathered in the center of the camp as the three guards brought their charges out and forced them to kneel in front of the fire. Deothen resisted, but two of the warforged stepped forth and kicked him in the back of his legs. The elder knight fell on his face but did not cry out. The two warforged who had kicked him hauled him back up on his knees and held him there.

The last warforged who had followed the knights out of the tent did not take part in the abuse. He wore a white tabard over his metal carapace. The cloth was stained and grimy with dark, three-fingered handprints. “Superior,” he said to the one who had called all the others around, “is this truly necessary?”

The warforged leader laughed. The sounds echoed in his metal-lined chest and cheeks. “Breathers aren’t welcome in the Mournland, Xalt. That’s what Bastard says, and he gets it straight from the Lord of Blades.”

“These men can harm us no longer,” Xalt said. “We have pulled their fangs.”

Superior slapped Xalt on the back. The blow landed with a metallic ring. “The Mournland belongs to us now,” he said.

“These breathers invaded our territory. We must teach them a lesson.”

“What lesson is good to the dead?”

Superior shook his head. “You always twist my words, greaser. The lesson is for the other breathers. We need to send them a message, one that says, ‘Keep out!’ in letters drawn in their stinking blood.”

“Who would get that message here?” Xalt asked. “It would be better to shove them into the mists bordering our land. If they make it through, then they can tell the tale of their terror to their kind.”

“That’s just it,” Superior said, slamming a fist into its hand. “Breathers don’t listen. The only thing they understand is death. Why do you think they made us?”

“We weren’t all made to be soldiers, Superior,” said Xalt. He gestured at his own soiled tabard.

“Artificers made to fix soldiers are still soldiers, greaser. Now close your mouth and let me get on with this.”

Xalt shrugged and stepped to one side. Deothen cursed. Pinning his hopes on the artificer had been a long shot, but it had seemed like his only choice. He looked to Levritt on his left and Brendis on his right. Their eyes were filled with mortal terror.

“Have faith, my sons,” Deothen told the other knights. “The Silver Flame will keep us, in life or death.”

“Death, I think.” Superior chortled as he stood before the three knights.

“My fellow createds,” the warforged leader said, turning and spreading his arms wide to encompass the entire camp, “while we work to establish a homeland for ourselves, we are constantly assailed on all fronts by these foul, stinking breathers. Their repellent hunger for land, for food, for air-for things to consume-places them always in opposition to us. We know their nature. They made us in their image. They built us to fight in their war. And now they must pay the price.” Superior stopped for a moment to look down at the kneeling knights. As he did, he drew his sword. “Your deaths will send a message to your kind. The Mournland is no place for breathers.”

Deothen could contain himself no longer. “You cannot do this!” he shouted at the warforged leader.

In a scornful voice, Superior said, “You cannot stop me.”

Deothen bowed his head and uttered a final prayer to the Silver Flame to accept his soul into the purity of its presence. He closed his eyes when he heard the warforged step forward and raise his sword.

There was a sickening chopping sound. It took Deothen a moment to realize it hadn’t happened to him. He opened his eyes to see Levritt fall over next to him. The young knight’s head rolled in the opposite direction.

Deothen glared up at Superior, who stood laughing over the fast-cooling corpse. He prepared to curse the warforged as he’d never done before, but before the words could escape his lips, a shout went up from the other side of the camp.

Deothen looked past the warforged leader to see Sallah sprinting down the side of the valley, her blazing sword flashing before her. A smile spread across the knight’s face, and Superior stopped laughing.

A bolt stabbed through from the center of the warforged leader’s chest. Superior looked down at it in astonishment, then fell over atop Levritt’s corpse.

Deothen heard someone laugh. He turned his head to see Brendis cackling next to him, half-mad with hope or relief. Deothen turned his attention back to Sallah. He spied Burch high up on the ridge, peppering the warforged with bolts as they turned to meet the lady knight’s attack. Some of the missiles bounced off the creatures’ armored skin, but others found homes in their most vital parts. Two others lay dead, and three wounded had fallen.

Sallah’s fury surprised the warforged. Many of them hadn’t drawn their weapons when she reached them, and they fell without a word before her wrath.

When Sallah finally reached foes ready for her, the ring of clashing blades sounded to Deothen like a clarion call to battle. He struggled to reach his feet, but a warforged guard behind shoved him back to the ground.

When Deothen looked back up, Kandler was storming his own way down the hill. The sight brought a smile to the knight’s battered face. He watched the justicar battle his way through to Sallah in the thick of the brawl.